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I spend the whole weekend watching Netflix with Mom and helping her reorganize the office. Sorting through old tax papers and throwing out user manuals for appliances we no longer have isn’t normally my idea of fun. But with Sasha gone and my resolve set firmly on the Ignore Zack button, I don’t have much to do. I know I should work on making new friends, but I’m still not ready to move on. A best friend like Sasha only comes around once in a lifetime.
“So how are things?” Mom asks while she flips through the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.
“Fine.” My voice is jagged and on edge. Talking about Sasha is like walking on a tightrope — sometimes I can get across it just fine, but other times I feel like I’m falling to my doom.
“That’s good. And your job?”
“Perfect.” At least that’s not a lie.
Mom pulls out a thick folder, plops it on the carpet and goes through it. “I knew we’d have a life after Sasha, but it’s still hard without her.”
“Hmm.”
“Yeah, I just miss her bright personality,” Mom says, giving me a sad smile. “Since you two were little kids, I can’t remember a single week I went without seeing he
r. Now it’s been over a month.”
“Yeah.” The imaginary tightrope wobbles beneath my feet. I really, really don’t want to talk about this.
“I’m proud of you, honey.”
I look up from a box of Dad’s fuel receipts. “For what?”
Mom studies me. “For being so strong. You know you can always talk to me, Raquel. Anytime you want, and about anything.”
“I know,” I say quickly. But it’s a lie.
I can’t talk to her about anything. Not about Elijah. Not about Sasha’s last wish.
And lately, that’s the only thing worth talking about.
***
The next email comes on Monday night at exactly seven p.m., as if someone had timed it. I’ve checked my other emails from TheFutureSasha, and they’re all sent right on the hour. I’m pretty sure she set up an account online that sends her prewritten emails at the date and time she specified. What I’m having trouble understanding is how she knew when to send them. What if she had lived another month?
Her clandestine accomplices must have a way of knowing what to do, and when. I’d love to meet them, to find her secret message-board friends, find out about their friendship with Sasha and how they orchestrated her ultimate last wish. Of course, that would go against the very spirit of her wish, so I guess I’ll never know.
This email tells us to meet at the Mount Horeb Baptist Church as early in the morning as possible. I have to Google the place because I’ve never heard of it. It’s a little church from the 1800s and it’s a historical landmark that hasn’t been used as a real church in a century. Weird.
Sasha believed in God and had full faith that she’d be going to heaven when she died, but it’s not like she ever went to church except on Christmas and Easter — and she’d been slacking for the last few years.
Still, I get that bubbly feeling of excitement in my chest at the thought of going on another adventure for Sasha. With her brother.
I send an email asking Elijah when he’s free to visit the church at sunrise. I feel awful that he’ll have to drive all this way so early in the morning, so I tell him it’s okay if we’re not there right at dawn.
He doesn’t reply immediately, his username a grayed-out line on my email chat screen. I guess I can’t expect him to always be online waiting for me, but after twenty-four hours of no reply, the knot in my stomach has doubled in size, all filled up with worry and angst.
The knot only grows when Mrs. Cade calls me on Tuesday and invites me over to dinner. I love her and Mr. Cade, but a tragic dinner is about the last thing I’d seek out right now, when I am finding flashes of happiness. But I tell her yes, obviously, because I’d never say no to my best friend’s mom.
Mrs. Cade opens the door, wearing a smile as bright as her yellow dress. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says, pulling me into a hug. At my feet, Sunny’s tail is wagging and he’s looking out past me, like maybe he thinks I brought Sasha back from an extended vacation he didn’t know about.
“Save some hugs for me,” Mr. Cade says, entering the foyer. Their foyer is about the size of my bedroom, and it’s lined with priceless artwork, a Tiffany lamp and an umbrella stand.
Mr. Cade squeezes me so tightly all the air in my lungs whooshes out.
“Thanks for having me,” I say, lacing my fingers together in front of me. “Dinner smells good.”
“We’re having chicken Alfredo,” Mrs. Cade says, as they lead me into the dining room. “With homemade cheesy garlic bread.”
