“What’s so funny?” I asked. “I’m not as special as one of the members of your commune?”
“Hawthorn, you already have your name. You got your spirit name at birth. Most people aren’t so lucky.”
“So Hawthorn is my spirit name,” I said flatly. “After a tree my parents had sex under.”
“Do you know about the hawthorn tree? They’re tough, sturdy. They can outlast storms. Hawthorn trees provide food and shelter for animals and insects. They nourish the world around them. It’s a name anyone would be honored to have.”
“Take me with you,” I said suddenly. “Please.”
If Sundog was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he seemed to consider it seriously. I wanted him to say yes. I wanted him to take me to the desert, where the sun would dry my tears. I wanted him to whisk me away to some magical land where we would travel and have adventures, and everything would be OK.
But of course, it didn’t happen like that. Fairy tales aren’t real.
“Hawthorn, running from your demons only gives them more power.”
“Yeah,” I said and sighed. “Got it.”
I started to walk toward the back door, but he put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Your werewolf girl—she ran. You’re meant for more than that.”
I turned away so he wouldn’t see my eyes fill with tears. I’d never believed in the mystical healing stuff the hippies went on about, but I did know Sundog had the power to make me feel good about myself. I knew how lonely I’d be with him gone.
Back in the front yard, I found Timothy Leary sitting patiently near a stack of luggage, as if she knew it was time to leave. I picked her up and nuzzled her. I thought about asking if I could keep her, but Sundog would probably say something about how animals couldn’t be kept.
I helped the hippies load up the last of their belongings, then hugged Journey and Calliope and CJ good-bye. When Sundog bowed to me, I bowed back.
Then my mom and I stood on the lawn and watched the caravan pull away from the curb. My mom waved to them. I wiped at my eyes and hoped she didn’t notice. Before rounding the corner and leaving my life, Sundog honked the horn of the big old bus.
I sniffed. Mom put her arm around me and said, “I’m going to miss them too.”
When the last car in the caravan was out of sight, I walked around the house to the backyard. The grass was trampled flat where the tents had been set up. The remains of the last bonfire were still there, cold now. A long scarf lay forgotten on the ground. The yard looked lonely.
I lay down on the cold, matted grass and closed my eyes. I was surprised how quickly endings came. One day, the yard is filled with talking and laughter; the next, it’s abandoned. One day, a young girl is full of life; the next, she’s dead.
Why did Lizzie want to die? That’s what I didn’t get. How could someone like Lizzie, someone who had all the best things in life handed to her, want to kill herself? And if Lizzie Lovett couldn’t find a reason why life was worth living, what hope did the rest of us have? What hope did I have?
Chapter 33
Hanged
By Thanksgiving, it seemed like no one cared about Lizzie anymore. Not my family. Not the kids at school. Not the police or reporters. The mystery of her disappearance had been solved, and no one was interested in the mystery of her suicide.
Except for me. And, I assumed, Lizzie’s family. And probably Enzo. I thought about calling him to ask. I wanted to connect with someone else who was desperate for answers. She hadn’t left a suicide note. Did that mean her decision was spontaneous? Or did she just feel like she had nothing to say? In Lizzie’s mind, had she already tied up loose ends?
That’s what I thought about while the rest of my family enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner. My mom made a real turkey, which was how I knew she was still really worried about me. I wasn’t hungry though. I pushed my food around on my plate while everyone else acted as if everything were normal.
“I really appreciate you inviting me over,” Connor said to my mom.
“We wouldn’t have you eating Thanksgiving dinner on your own,” my mom said, making it clear that she disapproved of Connor’s parents going out of town without him. Despite her aversion to social conventions, my mom was really big on family holidays.
The rest of the conversation was boring. My dad kept saying how great everything tasted, and Rush shoveled turkey in his mouth like he thought my mom might snatch it away, shout, “Just kidding,” and run to get the Tofurky.
The whole holiday made me feel hateful. I wanted to throw my plate across the room just to get their attention. I wanted them to remember that Lizzie was dead, and turkey and forced conversation wouldn’t change that.