This Is Not How It Ends(82)

Elise nodded. “Their bags didn’t release.”

Most people would want to destroy the company responsible for killing their parents, but not Philip.

“That’s what he does, Charlotte. He fixes companies, people, lives . . .” Her voice trailed off. “He leaves them a little richer . . . better . . . stronger. He never wanted anyone to experience the pain he went through.” I’d always known Philip’s capacity to give, but hearing this bittersweet story moved me. How harsh their death had to be, how deeply it affected him, so much so to inspire him to single-handedly take on their killer. I ached to hold him, knowing I never would again. And while I thought there was something else Elise wanted to say about Philip, she stopped herself and let me hold on to this memory.



It was hard to capture the essence of my emotions those first couple of days. There was a heavy grief for what was lost to me, lost to Philip. I was angry at God, angry at cancer, and angry at myself. It was impossible to go back in time and remember when things turned sour—and the phone call that had changed my life—without referring to Hurricane Kelsie. Her damage spread wide across our lives, each of us left forever marked.

I stopped going to Morada Bay and avoided Ben. I hit “Decline” when he called, and I left a flurry of text messages ignored. I think he thought we could go back to the way it was, but a triangle wasn’t a triangle without a third point. Besides, we could never go back to the way it was, even if Philip were still here. Ben was off-limits to me. No matter what we once felt for each other, that night changed everything.

I slowly returned to work. Liberty greeted me like a mother tending to a lost child suddenly found, easing me into my return with a few hours in the afternoon. On my fourth day back, Jimmy showed up carrying a large brown package. I met him at the door. “Where’s Carla?” I asked. “Did you walk here yourself?”

He shook his head no. “She’s waiting outside.”

“You don’t have an appointment today.”

“I came to see you.” And then, “I’m sorry about Philip.”

We took our seats in the waiting room. “Me too.”

Propping the package against a chair, he held on to the armrest nervously.

“You okay, buddy?”

“I’m not doing the treatment anymore.” He paused. “Not here and not in New York. I hope you’re not upset.”

“Why would I be upset?”

“We worked so hard, and I know how important it is to you. I just want to be a regular kid. And not eating peanuts doesn’t bother me.”

“What matters to me is you being comfortable, Jimmy. You made so much progress and can eat so many foods that were once forbidden.”

“Will Liberty be upset?”

“Are you kidding? She’s thrilled you can eat eggs and gluten. Most things in life aren’t all or nothing. The nice thing is now you have some choices, before you didn’t.”

“It’s weird to have a choice. I think rules make life easier.”

I thought about his insight, knowing it pertained to more than merely food.

“We’re all sensitive to stuff, Jimmy. People, music, words. And sometimes those sensitivities affect us in ways we can’t control, forcing us to do things we otherwise wouldn’t. If you’re not one hundred percent in with the treatments, don’t do them.”

This seemed to appease him, and his mood immediately lifted. “Tell me about the game,” I finally said.

His eyes widened, and he recapped the Heat loss against the Nets. “I rooted for the Nets,” he said. “Hope you’re not mad.”

“Why would I be mad? New York’s your hometown.”

“I like it here,” he said. “I don’t want to move.”

“Your grandparents are there. Your cousins. It’ll be fun for you.”

“You won’t be there.”

I let this sink in while he stared at the wall, at the list of names of people who had been cured by NAET.

I reached across and stroked his hand. His eyes were a miniature version of Ben’s. “Maybe I’ll come visit.”

He turned to me, his face brightening. “You’d do that?”

I knew I shouldn’t make a promise, but I did. “I would.”

“I’d like that,” he said. The package was on the ground, propped up between the chair and his legs. He grabbed it with two hands and said, “This is for you. So you don’t forget us.”

I didn’t believe I had any tears left inside of me when I ripped open the paper and saw what Jimmy had painted for me. I didn’t want him to see how much it touched me. It was a thin line I tried to avoid.

The canvas was the three of us. And Sunny. We were floating in the ocean, each on our own raft. Close enough, but not touching, Jimmy was smiling. The sun was a beautiful gold.

“It’s perfect,” I told him, biting my lip, biting back the tears.

“You’re doing that thing my mom used to do.”

I looked up. “What’s that?”

“It’s okay if you cry,” he said. “I cried a little when I painted it.”

“I’m so glad you started painting again, Jimmy. You need to express yourself. And you’re so talented. I’m sure we’ll be seeing your paintings in a museum in New York one day.”