The Song of David(33)

“If you could go anywhere, just holding onto the tail of that kite, where would it be?” I asked Millie, my eyes on the sky, thinking about the places I’d been. “Or is traveling kind of a scary thought?”

“No. It’s not scary. Just unrealistic. There are lots of places I’d like to go even though I wouldn’t be able to see them. I could still press my hands against the walls and soak them in. Buildings soak up history, you know. Rocks do too. Anything that’s been around a while.” Amelie paused as if waiting for me to snicker or argue. But my best friend can see dead people. I have no doubt that there is a lot we don’t understand. And I can accept that. It’s easier than trying to figure it all out.

“It’s true!” Millie added, even though I hadn’t argued at all. “My mom took me and Henry to the Alamo in San Antonio when I was thirteen. Apparently there are signs all around the Alamo that say ‘Don’t touch the building,’ and it’s cordoned off by rope so you can’t do anything but look. Which is pretty unfair if you ask me. I look with my hands! So my mom got special permission. She was always finding a way to help me experience as much as I could, even if it meant finding someone to let us break the rules. I stood right next to the Alamo and laid my hands and face on the walls and just listened.”

“And what did you hear?” I asked.

“I didn’t hear anything. But I felt something. It’s hard to describe. But it felt like a vibration, almost. The way your legs feel when you’re waiting for a train to go by. That sensation . . . you know what I mean?”

“I know exactly,” I said.

“Whenever we traveled, my mom would make sure we stayed in hotels that had some history. In San Antonio, there’s a hotel called the Fairmount. Built in 1906. We walked in that place and I felt like I was on the Titanic. I felt my way all over that hotel. Remember how you said that the world was more beautiful, once upon a time?”

“Yeah.” I’d felt stupid when I said it, but now I was glad I had.

“It’s so true. There’s still original furniture in the Fairmount, and the whole place just feels . . . ripe.” She laughed at her word choice. “Ripe is the only word that fits. Like it’s bursting at the seams with history and time and energy. There’s so much beneath the surface, but no one can see it. Not just me. No one. And because no one else can see it either, it makes me feel privileged that at least I can feel it.”

“I know that hotel. They relocated it in 1985. Actually picked the hotel up and moved it down the street. My grandma was one of those rich old ladies who was big on preserving the historical sites. A lot of the wealthy families are. She was on the committee to save it. That was before I was born, but there was a big gala at the Fairmount to mark its one hundred year anniversary that we all attended. It’s a cool place.”

“I loved it.” Millie sighed. “Where else have you been?”

“I’ve been all over the world. I’ve seen more in twenty-six years than most people see in a lifetime. A lot more.”

“Did your parents take you?” she asked.

“No.”

She waited for me to elaborate, and I weighed what I should share. It wasn’t a happy story. But I realized, much to my astonishment, that I wanted to tell her.

“I had never thought about traveling. It wasn’t even my dream. I didn’t really have any dreams. At eighteen, I was a lost, rich kid with no idea who I was or how to navigate the rest of my life.”

Millie didn’t respond. Considering she couldn’t give a guy eye-contact, she was the best listener I’d ever met. She reminded me a little of Moses, the way she just soaked it all in and didn’t miss anything. The difference was, Moses didn’t hang on my every word. Millie did. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I didn’t want her hanging on the wrong ones, hanging her hopes on something I hadn’t meant, and holding me accountable for everything that came out of my mouth. I spoke the truth with a layer of bullshit thrown in for entertainment value. It was the Texas in me, part of the charm. But I couldn’t be that way with Millie. I had to say what I meant, always. I didn’t know how I knew it to be true. But it was. And I felt the responsibility in my gut.

“When I was sixteen, my sister, Molly, disappeared. She was kind of a party-girl. Same as I was. We were wild. But we were close. And we always looked out for each other. She was a couple years older than I was, but I was the man, you know? She up and disappeared on the Fourth of July and we didn’t know what happened to her. Not for two years. And I blamed myself. I looked for her, but I couldn’t find her. So I drowned my frustration with alcohol. Dad kept a well-stocked bar in the house, and I helped myself often. But by the time I was eighteen years old, the alcohol couldn’t touch the itch beneath my skin or the restlessness in my blood. I’d lost my sister and I was strangely jealous that she couldn’t be found.” I considered how far to go, and ended up leaving a bunch of stuff out, not because I was ashamed, but because it was just too damn heavy for kite flying.