Where the Staircase Ends(60)

But was it really even a choice?

I barely had time to think my answer when suddenly I felt myself tumbling backwards. The door, the hand, even the constant gray-blue of the stairs and the sky began slipping from my grasp, flaking away like dried paint from a wall.

Wait! Wait, don’t let me forget. Please don’t let me forget.

I tried to hold on to something, anything, that would help me remember everything that happened on the stairs, but a thick fog filled my head, swirling like the storm that ravaged the steps only moments before.

Then the darkness swept me away completely, and I thought of the last line of Emily Dickinson’s Fly poem:



And then the Windows failed – and then

I could not see to see.





EPILOGUE


My eyelids are two-thousand-pound boulders sitting on my eyes. They hurt along with every inch of my body, even my hair. (Is it even possible for hair to hurt?)

At first I think I’m in my bedroom, but the sheets are too scratchy, the pillow too flat. Then I register the steady beep, beep, beep of a machine and smell the acrid scent of bleach and alcohol, and realize I’m in a hospital bed.

I make a half-ditch effort to open my eyes and catch a thin swath of light and movement on the other side of the room. My parents’ voices fill the space, talking in whispers. They must not know I’m awake.

Everything in my body wants to return to the deep slumbering place I woke from, but I feel a tug in my chest. Like there’s something I need to do.

I try to open my eyes again, this time using everything I have to keep them from shutting. The world is a watery Monet, but I can just make out my mother’s face, my father’s salt-and-pepper hair, and maybe (maybe?) a flash of red.

There’s a shriek, then a sob, and I hear my father shout five of the seven words he told me I could never say out loud. The room is a flurry of movement, and I lose the battle with my eyelids and plunge back into darkness.

Someone grabs my hand. My mother, I think, judging by the soft skin and protective death-grip.

I don’t know why, but all at once two words press against the back of my throat, desperate to get out. It’s like if I don’t say them the world will explode, like I’ll be pulled back into the sea of black I just emerged from and never get another chance.

My mouth feels thick and fabric-filled; my throat does everything it can to keep the words down. But I have to say them. It feels like the single most important thing in the world. (Why?)

This time I don’t bother trying to open my eyes. Instead, I use what little strength I have to push the sticky words out of my mouth, feeling more like I’m trying to climb a mountain than speak.

I tip my head in the direction of my parents’ voices and the place where I thought I caught a glimpse of red hair. The words are goopy sounding, not clear and strong like I’d wanted, but saying them feels just as wonderful as my brain thought it would.

“I’m sorry,” I slur.

My mom sobs again and releases her hold on me. Another hand replaces hers, this one smaller and cooler, and I immediately recognize the familiar scent of Sunny’s perfume.

Then Sunny’s breath is hot against my ear as she whispers, “I’m so, so sorry. Taylor … ”

Her voice is urgent, pleading.

I want to tell her that she doesn’t need to apologize, because she already did.

But when?

A vision snaps in front of me—Sunny standing on a massive staircase, surrounded by an army of other Sunnys. I have no idea where it came from, but it feels familiar, and I wonder if it’s something from my dream trying to push its way into my consciousness.

“Don’t … ” I manage to croak.

The bed starts to shake as Sunny cries, and I realize she thinks that I don’t forgive her. That I’m telling her to stop because I don’t want to hear it. But that’s not it at all, because I’m the one who’s sorry.

I try to speak again, but the words won’t come. Instead I squeeze her hand. I’m too weak to put much oomph behind it, but it seems to do the trick.

She squeezes my hand back.

I let myself relax against the bed, feeling for some reason that everything is exactly as it should be. Feeling like maybe this is what I’d wished for all along.

It’s enough to let me drift back to sleep, this time with a small smile on my face.





ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


It takes a village to raise a novel, and Where the Staircase Ends is no exception. First and foremost, thanks to the fabulous team at Month9Books for everything you’ve done. To Georgia McBride, for seeing the potential in my story and giving it a home. To Lindsay Leggett and Bethany Robison, my fabulous editors, for helping to bring out the best in my words. To Jaime Arnold, Jennifer Million and the rest of the team, for all the help and support behind the scenes. Month9Books is a fantastic place to launch a writing career. Thank you.

This story would never have reached the world if it wasn’t for the help and support of my many writing friends. To Jen, Lauren and Triona, the amazing and talented women of Thinking To Inking—I never would have made it this far without you. Thank you for everything. To Kristy Shen, who encouraged me to submit to Month9Books in the first place—you realize this whole thing is kinda your fault, right? Saying thanks doesn’t feel big enough, but I hope it’s a starting point. I also owe an immense amount of thanks to Margie Senechal, Suzi Retzlaff, Tamara Walsh, MaryKate Connolly, Stephanie Diaz and Ico Ahyicodae. I’d be remiss not to mention the wonderful community over at AgentQuery Connect. Thanks for giving me a place to go when I had no idea what the heck I was doing. I hope everyone there sells a million books. You deserve it.