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That’s what we remember.
Marah stared down at the last word—remember—through a glaze of tears that burned her eyes and blurred the text. In that watery haze, she pictured her mother down to the minutest detail—her blond hair that never seemed to fall right, her green eyes that looked right into your soul and knew exactly what you were thinking, the way she knew when a slammed door was an invitation and when it wasn’t, the way she laughed in fits and starts, the way she brushed the hair from Marah’s eyes and whispered, “Always, baby girl,” just before a kiss good night.
“Oh, my God, Tully … I remember her…”
* * *
I can feel my heart beating. In it, I hear the rise and fall of the tides, the whoosh of a summer breeze, the beat of a drum.
Memories of sound.
But now there is something else in my darkness, tapping at me, prodding me, unsettling the beat of my heart.
I open my eyes, not even realizing that they’ve been closed, but it makes no difference; there is nothing to see except the endless black around me.
“Tully. ”
That’s me. Or it was me. I hear it again, my name, and as the letters coalesce, echo with sound, I become aware of tiny bits of light, fireflies maybe, or flashlight beams, dancing around me, darting like fish.
Words. The starlight points are words, floating down to me.
“… coolest girl in the world…”
“… the sandcastles we made…”
“… the best of you…”
I draw in a sharp breath of discovery; it rattles in my chest like a pair of dice.
Marah.
It is her voice I hear, but the words are Kate’s. Her journal. I read it so many times over the years I have memorized it. I find myself straining forward, reaching out. Darkness presses back, restrains me, starlight is falling past me.
Someone takes my hand. Marah. I feel it, the warm strength of her grip, the curl of her fingers around mine; the only real thing in this world that makes no sense.
You can hear her, Kate says.
I turn and there she is, bathed in gorgeous, impossible light. I see her inside the glow, her green eyes, her blond hair, her wide smile.
Through the darkness I hear: “Oh, my God, Tully. I remember her. ”
And just like that, I remember me. The life I lived, the lessons I didn’t learn, the way I failed the people I loved and how much I loved them. I remember watching them gather around my bedside, hearing them pray for me. I want them back. I want me back.
I stare at Katie and see it all in her eyes: our past. There’s more, too: longing. I see the love she has for all of us—me, her husband, her children, her parents—and how that love is shiny with both hope and loss.
What do you want, Tully?
Marah’s words fall around us, glimmering in the water, landing on my skin like kisses. “I want another chance,” I say, and as I say it, the power of my choice pulses through me, gives strength to my tired, listless limbs.
I came to say goodbye. I need to move on, Tul. So do you. I need you to say goodbye to me and smile. That’s all I need. A smile to let me know you’re going to be okay.
“I’m afraid. ”
Fly away.
“But—”
I’m gone, Tul. But I’ll always be with you. Go …
