Dear Edward(65)

“I myself belong to a botanical club that meets twice a month. We help each other with our research, share information, and eat very fine cookies.”

Edward says, “Shay thinks I can get into any college I want, as long as I write about the crash in my essay. Do you think that’s true?”

The principal turns to face him. “She said that, did she?”

He nods.

Principal Arundhi smooths his mustache. “And you object to that idea?”

“Of course. It’s not fair. It would mean that I got into college, regardless of my grades or how hard I worked, just because something bad happened to me.”

“Some might call that affirmative action.” The man smiles. “If it offends you, Edward, then I suggest that you study harder and improve your marks—I’ve heard about the erratic nature of your homework.”

“I don’t want to join a team.”

The older man regards him. “Then you should not do so. Please don’t think I care about your résumé, or the depth of your college application, when I speak of things like this. I am thinking, more or less, of my ferns.”

Edward wonders if his lack of sleep has now landed him in a spot where he’s not processing information correctly. “Your ferns?”

“Well, any living thing. A fern either grows or it dies. I would like”—he stops for a moment, considering—“I would like to do anything I can to ensure that you keep growing.”

Edward feels the kindness of the man across the room and at the same time thinks that his team, his community, is in the folder in the garage. It is the 191 people who died on the flight. It’s the men and women whose faces stare from the photographs, who ask questions of him that he can’t answer. Why did you survive, and not me?

“Sir, can I be done for the day?”

The principal continues to study him, his face sad. It is a kind of deep sadness that Edward recognizes, and he feels a shard of his own sadness rise to the surface.

“When in doubt, read books,” Principal Arundhi says. He speaks quickly, as if worried this might be his last opportunity to share his thoughts. “Educate yourself. Education has always saved me, Edward. Learn about the mysteries.”

The boy looks at him, and believes him. Believes that education saved him, believes that he had once been a person who needed to be saved. “Thank you, sir,” he says, and turns to leave.

On the way home, Edward can identify different blades of grass within the clumps. Stratus clouds blanket the sky, and he can identify where one cloud ends and another begins. In his fatigue, he’s seeing the boundaries that separate one thing from another. The gnarled tree on their corner is made of so many pieces: roots, branches, micro-branches, the distinct wrinkles on the bark. Edward thinks of the outer fa?ade—the bark—of his school, with so many internal parts making up the organism. Chairs, lockers, children young enough to cry when someone insults them. Teachers, janitors, all the noise, the moving herd of growing humans. The students who hate Edward, who feel worse off than him, even though his whole life fell out of the sky. Edward finds that he’s not mad at their hatred. Maybe it is worse to have a father in jail, to live in a town that’s mostly white when your skin is brown, to find homework difficult even when you try your best. How would he know?

There are no cars in the driveway. Lacey is at the hospital, John at work. Shay will be in her bedroom, reading or doing her homework. Edward decides to go to the garage now, even though it’s daytime. He’ll ignore the duffel bags; those are a mystery to be solved with Shay. I can lie on the floor, he thinks. No one will see me. He has a desire to be near the photographs. But he’s hungry, so he goes inside to get a snack first. He and Lacey both gasp when he thunders into the kitchen.

“Goodness!” she says.

“Your car’s not here.” Edward says this in a tone of accusation, while taking in the picture of his aunt sitting at the table in her work clothes—nice slacks and one of his mother’s cardigans—and holding one of John’s beers. Lacey never drinks beer.

“I got dropped off by a colleague. There was a retirement party for someone at work, and I drank a few glasses of champagne.”

“Oh.” Edward stands still, not sure what to do.

“Join me,” Lacey says.

He gets an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and then takes his normal seat across from her. He bites the apple and chews, more for the activity than the taste. They sit in silence for a moment, and it occurs to Edward that this is the time of day when he used to come home and find his aunt waiting for him on the couch, with their soap opera cued to play. Neither of them has watched General Hospital for a long time. It had felt like a mutual hibernation, those hours spent side by side watching the most predictable of dramas. Edward wonders if his aunt ever misses that hour in the day; he sometimes does.

“Did you sleep better last night?”

“Yes,” he lies.

“Good, good.” Lacey’s voice is slower than usual, and her posture less straight. She says, “Did I ever tell you that when I hold babies in the nursery, I sometimes think about you as a baby? You were a memorable baby, because you cried so much. Did your parents tell you about your colicky phase?”

Edward presses the apple to his mouth and nods.

“One day, I remember, your mom left Jordan with your dad and came out here. She hoped that the car ride, or the change of scenery, would soothe you. It didn’t, though.” Lacey gives a half smile. “Jane lay on the couch and slept, while I walked you in laps around the house. You screamed the whole time. I didn’t mind, though. You seemed okay, even though you were crying. Like you’d been set on some kind of anger mode and you needed to yell yourself out of it. It was your mom who needed help, and I hardly ever got a chance to help her. She was always trying to help me.”