“I what?” I choke on my wine.
“I put them in one of the Buddhas, and you cleared them all away,” he says, standing up, “so that’s where they are.”
“Papa, when you say they’re in one of the Buddhas … Half of them are back out in the house. Do you know which one?”
“I know which one,” he says. It’s clear he’s always known. Is he as vague and absent as I think, or do I just not notice him? “I’ll find it. You all start to think about where we can do this. Maybe here.” He disappears into the dark.
“Here…” I say. “You don’t think he means in the garden?”
Ned snorts, and we’re back to normal. “Bit morbid. I bet near the Book Barn, or in the fields. What do you think?”
I wait until Papa comes back from the shed, a cardboard box in his hand. He rests it gently on the grass between us. It’s unreasonably tiny.
“Grots?” Ned prompts me. “Where should these go?”
“The sea,” I say, because Grey wanted to die like a Viking.
There’s nowhere else. The sea is the only place big enough, and the box is far too small. How can you hold the universe in the palm of your hand?
Sunday 24 August
[Minus three hundred and fifty-seven]
I wish I knew how the world worked, already. Because I wake up early with a pounding headache and Thomas’s email clutched in my hand. And I can read it.
From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Date: 4/7/2015, 17.36
Subject: Trouble times two The answer’s yes, obviously.
But I think you already know that.
Hasn’t it always been yes when it comes to us?
I want to see the stars with you.
And whatever you tell me, I’ll believe.
Because remember—
Things can get dark, and fairly terrible
But the scar on my palm makes you fucking indelible.
I read it a dozen times, and it still doesn’t make any sense. The stars—that’s obvious, the plastic ones he put on my ceiling. But what is he saying yes to? What have I told him that he believes? And I want to throttle him—this is hardly the clear warning you give if you’re flying across the Atlantic to visit! It is, however, thoroughly Thomas—full of heart and gesture and a little bit loony, with no thought to the consequences.
I think I know why I can read it, too, and it’s got nothing to do with the Weltschmerzian Exception. I’ve finally forgiven myself for Grey’s death. I’m allowed a little bit of love in my life.
And I know what I can do for a grand gesture. Still in my pajamas, I grab my book bag from the wardrobe and run through the misty dawn to the kitchen.
By the time I climb the apple tree, the day is full sunshine. While Umlaut chases squirrels around the branches, I check for frogs—I don’t want to accidentally shut one in. Then, moment by moment, I empty my book bag, and fill up the tin box. The seaweed from the beach. Canadian coins, the treasure map and my constellation, the little plastic stars, a pair of Thomas’s balled-up socks, my ice-cream-sticky napkin from the fair yesterday. The recipe he wrote out for me.
And the squashed and terrible results of my first solo baking attempt this morning—a chocolate cupcake.
I close the lid and padlock it for Thomas to open. This time capsule of our summer. It’s the best I can do. Then I lean back against a branch and start writing him an email on my phone.
From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Date: 24/8/2015, 11.17
Subject: Bawk, bawk, bawk Trouble times two, remember? Turns out, one is worse. I can’t explain it, but I need you to come and open the time capsule with me. I know you’ve got no reason to. But I don’t know how to be without you.
If you need more reason than that … Picture me now, holding out my little finger to you. And saying: Hey, Thomas. I dare you.
I look at what I’ve written. I think about Thomas’s email, and that he told me it was a reply to mine. My fingers move on instinct, adjusting the date to 4 July. And I know it will work, because it already has. I hit send and shove the phone in my pocket, along with the key for the padlock. Now I just need to shower and go find Thomas.
I’m standing up and turning around on the branch, one foot reaching out into the air, searching for a knothole, when the time capsule begins to change. First, the old and tarnished padlock I took from the toolbox this morning becomes shiny and clean. Then the names on the top, THOMAS & GOTTIE, fade away.