Falling into Place(21)

I see the sincerity in her eyes, the faith that we can be heroes, so I agree.



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


Nevers and Forevers


Julia drives to the hospital with her eye on the gas gauge. The pointer is dipping uncomfortably close to E, and she doesn’t have her credit card with her. Her wallet is still on her bed. She forgot to grab it when she left for the hospital yesterday afternoon, and she hadn’t wanted to go home for it. Her father had left her a voicemail telling her exactly what he thought of her spending the night at the hospital, and she doesn’t want him to know that she skipped school too.

Julia’s relationship with her father is an estranged and rather bitter one. She blames him for his affair and the subsequent divorce, and besides, he is always disappointed in something. On the rare occasions when Julia looks back on her childhood, she only sees her shortcomings, because that was all anyone seemed to focus on. There was never a best, only better, and her greatest fear was always disappointing people.

Liz is afraid of silence, but Julia has long grown used to it. It’s thicker in her house than in Liz’s house—she avoids her father most nights, and he does nothing to change that. Julia is not entirely sure she wants him to. She has too many secrets, and so long as he doesn’t pay attention, she can continue using his bank account.

Julia drives and tries not to think about that. She glances at her rearview mirror. Hanging from it is a pair of bouncy balls, hot glued together and tied with yarn, and Julia reaches for them.


They had gone skiing at a crappy little resort that was all that could be expected of anything within two hours of Meridian. The ski hill had looked stunted from the bottom but could have been Everest from the top, and try as she might, Julia simply hadn’t been able to gather the will to lean forward and fall. Liz glanced at her face and, for once, kept quiet. They rode back down on the ski lift and left, and Liz waited until they had pulled out of the parking lot to start laughing.

“Grow a pair,” she said as Julia coaxed her Ford Falcon onto the interstate.

Julia loved her car, which she had fondly nicknamed Mattie (short for Matilda) and everyone else had, less fondly, nicknamed Piece of Crap. She loved the way it smelled, like an old book with a hint of cigar smoke. She loved that it had a story, albeit one that the car dealer had refused to tell her. She hadn’t minded—she made up a history of her own, one that included a rich Southern philanthropist and a short-lived love affair and an abandoned orange cat.

“First of my three wishes,” Julia said drily. “Find me a lamp.”

“Jem Hayden,” Liz said immediately. “You can rub him—”

“Liz!”

“—of course he’d let you borrow his balls. Although,” Liz said, pausing, “he might not be straight. I dunno, Jules. Doesn’t he strike you as gay? A little bit? Has he tried to undress you yet?”

“Oh, my g—”

“He hasn’t? He’s gay. Jules, I can barely look at you without wanting to skip to third base.”

The truth was that he had tried, and Julia had stopped him because she just wasn’t sure. Everyone was pushing for her and Jem to hook up, because he was nice and smart and popular, and they would make an adorable couple. She couldn’t see it. He was boring and always talked to her chest.

“God, Liz. Shut up.”

The next week, Julia had found two bouncy balls waiting on her passenger seat, along with a note that said I GOT YOU A PAIR.

Julia smiled.

Sometimes it was difficult to like Liz Emerson. But it was very easy to love her.


Fifteen miles away from the crash site, Julia takes an exit ramp, because she’s not sure she can drive past the crash site again. She can still see the Mercedes when she closes her eyes, and even though all of the mangled pieces will have been cleared away, she doesn’t want to see it, the hill, the tree, the skid marks.

Julia forgets that Kennie is still at school, most likely looking for a ride to the hospital. She does not remember all the small comments Liz made to her in passing, that she thought funerals were stupid and that she didn’t want people crying over her when she died. She can only think about how Liz was on this road yesterday, how the Mercedes was cruising down this very road in one piece yesterday. The passing cars, the blue ones—they could be the Mercedes. One of them could hold Liz, whole and laughing. But if Julia passes the crash site, if she sees it, she can no longer pretend. Liz never made it past the tree, the hill.