In Sight of Stars(74)

“‘Hello, what is it that you are doing?’ the old man asks the boy.

“‘I’m seeing how many skips I can make,’ the boy replies. And the boy is very good at it because his rock skips ten times.”

“Ten is so many,” I say. “Are you sure he did ten? The most I’ve gotten is five.”

“You have to keep trying,” Dad says. “Shall I finish?”

“Yes.”

“The old man walks on.”

“He comes to the third pool?” I say.

“Yes, a third pool, where a young boy is tossing pebbles into the pond. ‘Hello, what is it that you are doing?’ the old man asks of this boy, too. ‘I am just making ripples,’ the boy replies. And, the boy is obviously successful, because the ripples spread outward in ever expanding circles, covering the entire surface of the pool.”

“Is that good or bad,” I ask, “that his ripples go out so far?”

“It’s neither,” Dad says, after thinking for a moment. “It just is.”

“Okay.”

“So, the old man walks on and comes to the fourth pool. A fourth and final pool, where he, as a young boy, used to throw stones, skip rocks, and toss pebbles. He stops there and reflects, and, after a while, the three young boys, bored with their own games, come join him.

“‘Hello, what is it that you are doing?’ they ask of the old man.

“‘I am watching the pond,’ he answers.

“The boys say, ‘You are obviously very successful,’ and so they stay with him, and they sit and watch the pond together.”

“That’s it?” I ask. “The end?”

“The end,” my father says. “That’s all there is.”

*

I glance at my phone. I’ve been gone half an hour, so I start back up to the car. I need to keep my promise to my mother.

Between my father and me, how will she ever stop worrying?

As I round the bend to my car, I see a figure on the guardrail. Thin, round shouldered. Long hair.

Did my mother tell her?

My chest tightens, and my heart beats so hard I’m afraid it might break through my chest.

For a minute, I stop walking. It’s like my legs won’t move. I think about heading back down to the water. But I need to get to my car. I need to be home within the hour.

I jam my hands in my pockets and keep going, feeling the ladder from Sister Agnes Teresa.

“For when you hit those chutes…”

Hey,” she calls, when I get close enough.

“Hey.”

Sarah.

I keep my hand on the ladder, moving my fingers up the rungs with my own steps, one after another, stopping, finally, a safe enough distance from the guardrail.

“With wisdom and bravery…”

“When did you get back?”

“This afternoon,” I say. “I was going to call you soon. Did my mother tell you I was home?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“How did you know I’d come up here?”

She shrugs. “It’s a small-ass town, Alden, you know that. People talk. Pretty much everyone knows everything.”

She’s being kind. I’m predictable. I’m needy. She knew to come looking here for me.

My hand wants to reflexively move to my ear, but I keep it in my pocket and think of Dr. Alvarez, of her promise that, one day, none of this will seem so important and big.

This moment is only a postage stamp.

Still, it feels insurmountably huge.

Sarah stretches a bare foot out in my direction. She points her toes. Her flip-flops sit there on the ground.

“Warm enough for those, then?” I ask. She smiles sadly and tries to reach her pointed toes out toward me, like a peace offering. Forgiveness, maybe. Friend to friend.

I don’t feel it, though. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I just need to get through the next few days.

“Are you mad that I came?” Her voice breaks a little. She pulls her foot back, sensing.

“Not mad at you,” I say. “Not really. Just … at everything. But, mostly at myself.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be … I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me,” she says. I don’t answer. I can’t make any promises right now. “I’m so sorry, Klee…”

But I can’t hear it, not yet, not now, so I hold up a hand, and for the next few minutes, neither of us says anything.

Eventually, I take the remaining few steps to where she sits.

“So, are you coming back to school?”

“I guess so,” I say. “Yeah. What choice do I have? I need to graduate, right?”

She laughs softly. “Yeah, I guess you do. Pretty much.”

She turns her gaze up to me now. Her eyes cut through me, searching, like they did that first day in Tarantoli’s. For something I can’t give her now. For something I never could. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

“I feel awful, Klee. Just awful,” she says. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay.”

I nod, and stare at my cell phone. The time glares up at me. Forty-five minutes I’ve been gone. And ten minutes, at least, to get home.

“Give me a second,” I say. “I have to call my mom.”