Dear Edward(76)

“It must be a virus. Six ferns have died in the last three days. Six. I’ve removed the affected plants.” The principal gestures to a blank stretch on the windowsill. One of the hanging pots is gone as well. “I’m hoping that will end the transmission. I see no signs of illness on the others.” He looks at Edward blankly. “All I can do is take care of the ones that remain.”

“Can I help?”

“Yes.”

Principal Arundhi looks like he’s not going to say more, as if specifics aren’t necessary, only the promise of help. Edward says, “How?”

“I’d like you to take the kangaroo paw home. I don’t know where the virus started. My home, as well as this office, might be infected. Please take him home with you just until I get everyone back in good health.”

Edward looks at the old fern in the corner, ensconced in its bright-yellow pot. It is Principal Arundhi’s oldest and favorite plant. “But what if I kill it?”

“I trust you, Edward,” the principal says. “I trust you completely.”

When Edward gets home, he sets up a station in the basement. He places the yellow pot on a card table directly beneath the window that gets the best light. Beside the fern is a bag of plant food and a spray bottle filled with room-temperature water. Edward checks the soil and mists the leaves.

Shay is hopping up and down on the other side of the basement. “I’m still trying to calm down,” she says, when he gives her a look. “Seven million dollars.”

“I know,” he says.

“I googled and it looks like you can deposit a check that’s two years old, as long as the money is still in the originating bank account. Will you please stop obsessing over that bush?”

“Fern,” he says. “And, no, I won’t.”

“You could buy about twelve houses in this town with that money,” she says. “Or maybe an entire island somewhere! What are you going to do?”

Edward has the check in his back pocket. He didn’t know where to put it, so keeping it on his person seemed safest. He touches the pocket now reflexively. He imagines himself surfing next to Jax, whom he pictures looking like a longhaired movie star. They pass the check back and forth in the middle of the waves.

“I can’t deal with it now.”

“I know. You can’t deal with anything until you finish the letters.” Shay sounds exasperated, and out of breath from the jumping.

“That’s right.” Edward presses the soil with his finger. He wonders if the plant knows it’s in a new location and is confused. He wonders if it misses Principal Arundhi.

Shay stays for dinner that night, and when they slide into their seats in front of plates of pork chops, broccoli, and mashed potatoes, Edward says, “I guess I should tell you guys that I’m eating vegan now.”

Lacey wrinkles her nose, as if he’s said a word she’s never heard before. “Vegan?”

Shay says, “I’ll eat his pork chop and his mashed potatoes, if you made them with milk. Don’t worry, nothing will go to waste.”

“Why the change?” John says.

Edward tells the truth. “I’m doing it for my brother.” He pauses, and it occurs to him that his aunt and uncle probably hadn’t been up to date on his brother’s eating habits. He says, “Jordan became vegan a few weeks before he died.”

Both his aunt and uncle flinch, and he knows it’s because he used the word died. He has always said the crash when referencing the loss of his family. They all have. History is divided into before the crash and after the crash.

“You don’t need to cook any differently,” he says. “I’ll eat whatever vegetable you’re eating and make myself a sandwich.”

John says, “I’m sure we could stand to eat more vegetables around here.”

“I don’t want you to change anything.” Edward hears the stridency in his voice, but can’t help it. He’s annoyed that he had to tell them at all, and he’s annoyed that they’re having a response. This choice, this idea, belongs to him and Jordan, and no one else.

“That’s nice that you’re doing that for your brother,” Lacey says, but she sounds unsure.

Stop worrying, and stop taking sleeping pills, and pay attention to your marriage, Edward wants to say but does not.

At midnight in the garage, Shay divides a small handful of unread letters between them. Edward opens the one on the top of his pile.

Dear Eddie,

My name is Mahira. My uncle owns the deli you went to all the time with your family. I don’t know if you know about me? Jordan said he didn’t tell anyone, but maybe you didn’t count as anyone. So, maybe I need to tell you that we were together, that he was my first boyfriend. I can’t speak for your brother’s feelings, of course, only my own. I loved Jordan.

The minute he told me that your family was moving to the West Coast, I decided I would go to college in Los Angeles. I didn’t tell him that, in case it didn’t happen, but I knew we weren’t really saying goodbye. I want to study physics, and there are some excellent programs out there. I’d pictured that entire future. I’d pictured meeting you, his brother. I’d imagined you and me becoming friends while standing on a beach.

I’m eighteen now, and I told my uncle that I needed to take a year off before college. So I’m working in the deli while my uncle visits family in Pakistan. Why am I telling you any of this? I think because I want to tell Jordan. I wish I had told him my—our—future before he got on the plane. I thought I had time. It’s strange to be young and run out of time, isn’t it? I also wanted to write in order to tell you that your name always made Jordan smile. If I were you, I would want to be told that.