She blinks. “For what?”
For forcing my way into your sister’s life during those early days even though she was clearly trying to hold me at arm’s length. For not doing everything in my power to make sure she didn’t get pregnant. For not finding some way to convince her to get an abortion.
“For not bringing Hope to see you sooner,” is all I say.
She shakes her head. “Don’t say that. I know my parents are being complete jackasses. Do you know they actually blame you for Meg dying?”
I stare at her. I did know that, yeah, but no one’s ever said it directly to my face before. It’s strangely satisfying—so much so that it almost trumps the stab I feel at the sound of her name. Almost. “They’re right.”
Mabel rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah, because you’re the one who gave Meg cancer, right?”
“No, but the chemo was working. The tumors were shrinking. If she didn’t have to stop going, she would have gotten better. And guess what? I’m the reason she had to stop going. So, A plus B equals…” Thinking about this, everything hurts. My arms, my legs, my heart, my brain. The pain is physical, debilitating. I want to keel over in the middle of the road and wait for a speeding car to run me over. Too bad there’re never any speeding cars around here. Goddamn four-way stop sign.
I sit on the curb.
Mabel sits next to me, stroking Hope’s head. “You’re wrong,” she says. “And Meg thought so too.”
I lift my head slowly. “How do you know? Did she tell you that?”
“No. But…” She reaches into her purse—one of those giant leather ones with the brass buckles that all the girls carry around—and pulls out a notebook. It has a red cover.
Holy shit. Is that—
She hands it to me.
It’s probably just a regular notebook. Don’t get your hopes up.
I open it and am immediately overcome with a feeling I’d forgotten even existed. When exactly what you want to happen, the thing you’re wishing for, actually comes true.
This is one of Meg’s journals. I flip through quickly. It’s full.
It doesn’t matter what’s written in it. Just the fact that it’s here, in my hands, means I get more of her.
I hold it tight against my chest. Sort of the same way Mabel’s holding Hope. Like it’s the most precious thing in the whole world.
“I started reading this after she died,” Mabel says. “It made everything feel a little better, you know? Like she wasn’t all the way dead. She was still here, a little.”
“I know.”
“She wrote this one when she was about seven months pregnant, I think. It was in my room when my parents boxed up all her stuff. That’s why they missed it. Everything else went into storage.”
I swallow. “Everything?”
“Her room is a guest room now.” Mabel lowers her eyes. “Like we don’t have enough of those already. They painted it this disgusting pea soup color and bought all new furniture. My parents are fucking crazy.”
Have to agree on that one.
“Anyway,” she says. “I think you should have it.”
I should probably say something like, Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. She was your sister. You should keep it.
Yeah, that’s not going to happen.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yep. But, Ryden…” She looks at me, her eyebrows quirked warily.
“What?”
“There’s some pretty intense stuff in there. What she was going through… Anyway, I thought I should warn you.”
Guess what? We were all going through some pretty intense stuff then.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I make the split-second decision not to read the journal all in one sitting. If I read it slowly, piece by piece, my time with her will last longer. “Thanks, Mabel.”
She kisses Hope on the forehead and passes her to me. “Can I see her more often?”
“Of course. Come over whenever you want.”
She smiles.
Chapter 6
Back at home, I hand Hope off to Mom. “I’m gonna go to my room for a while, ’kay?”
“What’s that?” Mom asks, nodding to the notebook tucked under my arm.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it.”
“We have to talk about—”
I close the door on her and slide onto my bed, backing up so I’m wedged in the corner. I open the book.
January 11.
She wrote this more than seven months after the green journal, five weeks before she died. It’s a short entry.
I know Ryden blames himself for me getting pregnant. I wish he wouldn’t. It’s not his fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. “Fault” is the wrong word. “Fault” implies something bad, regretful, unfortunate. If he could only see what I see, he would know this baby isn’t something to be sorry about at all. It’s a happy thing. It’s amazing. Maybe someday he’ll understand that. I hope so anyway.