I read the words softly under my breath, finding a crumb of peace in them, if for no other reason than that the quote is in her handwriting.
Suffering, if it does not diminish love, will transport us to the farthest shore.
—Gautama Buddha
I trace the loopy letters one by one, wondering why Penny chose it to write down.
A man should choose a friend better than himself.
—Chinese proverb
I did. For the past nearly four years, I have known that if I have a superpower, it is the ability to choose the very best of friends.
On other pages, Penny wrote her own thoughts, transcribing them onto the page with lovely, colorful turns of phrase, often testing out a few lines only to cross them out and decide on others:
I’m afraid of being left behind like an old doll that Will and Lake have become too old to play with. Every time they leap from the cliff, I’m left frozen in place, too scared to ask them to stay, too scared to follow.
I slip the Clue 2 envelope between the pages and close Penny’s journal. With each passing day, I feel more like I’m living in a snow globe that’s been tossed upside down and shaken left and right. There are sides to my friends that I never knew existed, angles that I’ve never been in the position to see, maybe because I was looking from too close up. I want to be close again, even if it means only seeing the parts of them that are familiar. Now I worry that the farther I get from the car crash, the more they’ll feel like strangers to me.
I’m mostly too tired to move. Grief has this way of making me exhausted even when I’ve barely moved a muscle. Soon, I find myself navigating to a streaming music service application on my phone. I punch in the Beatles. Dozens of songs pop up. I scroll down and find “In My Life,” a new song that Ringo texted to me just last night. I hit play and the melody begins. I listen to the song twice straight through, enjoying the tune more on the second go-round. It’s the first verse that I like the most. I play that a third time. John Lennon sings about the memory of his friends and lovers, some of whom are dead and others living, but nevertheless he loves them all.
Eventually, though, my stomach growls and I’m forced to venture into the kitchen to forage for cereal and half a Pop-Tart. Matt is watching television—morning news anchors interviewing a best-selling author—which he almost never does. He looks up and gives me a covert grin, like we’re sharing an inside joke. I purse my lips, and realize that I’m holding in my own smile.
Last night we were spontaneous. We ventured out in the middle of the night and no one knew but us. It’s the sort of thing I imagined doing with my older brother when I was a kid. Secret adventures for milk shakes or the perfect tater tots. Camping. Memories that never became memories because they never happened.
Mom brings in the mail at ten o’clock and there’s a letter for me in a government-issued envelope. I stare at my typed name peeking out from the envelope’s plastic window.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asks, breaking the silence that has been metastasizing between us. We both know what’s inside the envelope and I don’t want to open it.
But since ignoring it won’t make it disappear, I slowly turn it over and rip open the perforation. I find three neatly folded pages inside:
Dear Miss Devereaux,
With your eighteenth birthday approaching, we would like to confirm your time slot on Monday, August 24 at 11:00 a.m. to complete your resurrection choice. Please fill out the Application for Resurrection form provided herein or arrive at the Trifeca Resurrections Division, Trifeca County Courthouse, Third Floor, Suite 3300, twenty minutes before your designated appointment time.
Two government-issued forms of identification will be required at checkin, such as a driver’s license, birth certificate, and/or valid passport. A complete list of acceptable documentation is available on the Bureau of Healthcare Research & Quality website, www.hrq.gov/resurrectiondocs.
Instructions for resurrection candidate drop-offs may be found on the back of this letter. All drop-offs must be made within twenty-four hours of your appointment. If you are forfeiting your resurrection choice, please check and initial the box below.
Sincerely,
Luis A. Valdez Director of Resurrections Division
Trifeca County
I finish reading. My mom doesn’t need to ask what the letter says. She doesn’t look at me either, and I don’t care if I caused the rift between us or if she did, but it hurts to have her disappointed in me.
How did everything get so screwed up? Penny and I were going to be best friends until we were eighty and we were going to sit on our rocking chairs together and knit wacky-colored oven mitts. Will and I had a plan.
I was going to keep my promise to my family so I could wash my hands of my brother forever. But now nothing feels right.
The secret smile Matt and I shared moments earlier has been forgotten. He too knows what has arrived in the mail, and he stares out at the jetty with his mouth sealed. I wish for a crazy second that I could talk to him about this, explain to him what I’m going through, but then I remember who he is and what we are and instead I just want to punch a hole in something hard. I want to curse and drive too fast and listen to music so loud that it shakes my organs.
Back in my room I text the only person I can talk to, Ringo.
The paperwork came, my message reads.
I’m relieved when the response is quick: Neville’s in twenty?
I’m there in ten, arriving before Ringo. The smell of coffee beans and soaked tea leaves acts as an instant stress reliever. Kai and Vance are tucked into the corner, Kai’s legs thrown over Vance’s on one of the small love seats, and they are both plugged into their headphones. Vance nods at me and it’s not dismissive, more like he expects me to be there the same as any of his other friends.
There are remnants of the rest of the group—strewn magazines, Simone wearing a black apron and clearing tables—but the main vibe seems to be: intermission. I like the more relaxed connection of the group…or at least I find it intriguing. Penny, Will, and I, we were usually attached to one another like we shared vital organs. For instance, we had this running joke that if one of us had to be absent from a group hangout we’d call, “No secrets!” Because no one wanted to be left out.
The thought makes me sad. At the end of this, there will be only two out of the three of us left and the secrets will stack up first by the tens, then dozens, then hundreds, until we don’t even think about it anymore.