The Truth About Forever(100)

I nodded, still feeling out of it, but I did as she asked. The folders I put in her office, the newspapers in recycling, the magazines outside my sister's bedroom door. When the EZ-Key was the last thing left, I went into my room, then sat down on my bed with it in my hands.

Downstairs, I could hear my sister doing last minute vacuuming, my mother in my shoes clacking and re-clacking across the floor. I knew they needed me, but there was a part of me that just wanted to lie back in my bed, close my eyes, and find myself waking up again, to this morning, to another chance. Maybe I'd still go downstairs and across the lawn to Wes, but what I'd say, I knew now, would be different. He'd always told the truth. I should have done the same.

And this was it: Wes was my friend, absolutely, but regardless of what I'd led him to believe, the night I'd seen him with Becky I'd felt more than what a friend should. It was about time I admitted it. In fact, on some level, I'd known all along, which was what had almost sent me back to Jason, back to this neat, orderly life that I hoped would protect me from getting hurt again. And here, in this world, it was entirely possible to pretend that none of my summer with Wes, and Wish, had ever happened.

But it had happened. I had followed Delia's van that night, I had told Wes my Truths, I had stepped into his arms, showing him my raw, broken heart. I could pretend otherwise, pushing it out of sight and hopefully out of mind. But if something was really important, fate made sure it somehow came back to you and gave you another chance. I'd gotten one reaching out to grab Kristy's hand as she pulled me into the ambulance; another during the trip to the hospital that ended with seeing Avery born. Events conspired to bring you back to where you'd been. It was what you did then that made all the difference: it was all about potential.

I stood up and pulled my chair over to the closet, then climbed up to put away the EZ box. I was about to step down when I saw the shopping bag I'd put up there all those weeks ago. This whole day I'd felt like something was different. Which was probably why I pushed the box back and finally grabbed the bag off the shelf.

"I can't believe this," my mother muttered to herself, bemoaning the rumbling thunder as she passed my half-open door. "It's like we're cursed or something."

I sat down on my bed, then reached into the bag, pulling out the package. It was heavy in my hands as I shifted it into my lap, my fingers already loosening the wrapping paper.

"Honestly," she called out, over another thunderclap, "how are you supposed to plan for a day like this?"

The paper was coming off now, wrinkling, ripping, and even though I knew there was something familiar in the shape that was emerging, I couldn't place it.

"The lawn, the catering, the tent," my mother said, passing by again. "What happens now?"

I just sat there, looking at my gift, feeling my heart beating loud in my chest, then lifted my hand and pressed it over the one on the sculpture in my lap. A lot of things were beginning to make sense, while others were more confusing than ever. All I knew was that this heart in hand was mine. I'd wanted a sign, and all this time it had been so close by, waiting for me to be ready to find it.

My mother's last question was still echoing in my head as outside my window there was the biggest thunderclap yet. It shook the house, the windowpanes, the very earth, it felt like. And then, just like that, it was pouring. She'd gotten her answer. And so had I.





* * *





Chapter Twenty





When I came downstairs, all hell was breaking loose.

I'd put my heart in hand on my bedside table next to my angel, then stood up, sure now of what I had to do. As I came into the kitchen, though, I found my mother and sister in a frenzy of furniture rearranging, pushing chairs and couches up against walls in an attempt to somehow open up space for seventy-five people in our dining room, foyer, and living room.

"Macy," Caroline said to me, rushing past carrying an end table, "do something about the stools."

"Stools?" I asked.

"The island stools," my mother shrieked as she passed going the other direction, dragging a settee. "Put them against the wall. Or in my office. Do something with them! Just get them out of here!" Her voice was loud, wavering, crazy sounding, and for a second I just looked at her. But only for a second. Then I did exactly as I was told.

I'd seen my mother under pressure. I'd seen her grieving. But I'd never seen her look as out of control as she did just then, and it scared me. I turned and looked at Caroline, who just shook her head and went back to pushing one of the recliners against the den wall. There was no way a person could carry this much stress for much longer, I thought. Eventually, something had to give.

"Mom," I said to her as she passed by again, reaching out my hand to touch hers. "Are you okay?"

"Macy, not now!" she snapped. I pulled my hand back: now, even that was too much. "Please, honey," she said, shaking her head. "Not now."

For the next twenty minutes, I could see the tension building, in her neck, her features, the shaking timbre of her voice as one bad thing after another kept happening. When the phone wouldn't stop ringing. When the superintendent called to report that one of the windows in the model townhouse was leaking from all the rain. When the lights flickered, went out, then flickered back on again, still not seeming too steady. Each time, I watched my mother react, her body tensing, her voice rising, her eyes moving wildly across the room, scanning for one thing or another. Whenever she caught me watching her, I'd quickly look away.