As You Wish Page 8

  “So, Eldon Wilkes,” she says. “Someone has a birthday coming up.”

  I laugh. “Yep, that’s a thing.”

  “And what are you going to wish for on your super special day?” She thinks she’s being seductive, which makes me laugh harder.

  “Who the hell knows? World peace, maybe.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Naughty boy. That’s against the rules.”

  I grin at her, the slow, lazy smile that’s worked on pretty much every girl I’ve ever talked to.

  “What’re you gonna do about it?” I ask.

  She tries to match my suggestive stance. “You wanna go somewhere quiet?”

  I consider telling Dessie that nowhere is quiet enough to block out my thoughts.

  “There’s a cave in the back,” I suggest.

  I don’t know if Juniper sees us walk past. I make a point to not look at her. I don’t look at the graffiti on the cave wall either. Eldon + Juniper in a big, sloppy heart. Because we’re ancient history, and I don’t care anymore. From here on out, I’m all about the future.

  “So, Jessie,” I say, and she giggles. “What are we gonna do now that we’re all alone?”

  I can tell from her expression that she has a few ideas.

  Chapter 9

  Countdown: 18 Days

  When I wake up Saturday morning, the room is shaking. At first, I think I’m still drunk, then I realize it’s an earthquake. Madison’s earthquakes aren’t serious. But when you feel the way I do, they can still make you puke.

  I curl up in the fetal position and wait for the shaking to stop.

  Hours later, long after the earthquake ended, I still haven’t gotten out of bed or recovered from the party. Merrill texts in the late afternoon to ask if I’m down for another round at the hot springs.

  Yeah, right. I have an uncomfortable suspicion that I embarrassed myself the night before. Especially considering the text I get from Dessie Greerson starting, About last night… I don’t read the rest of the message. In fact, I don’t read any messages for the rest of the day.

  Instead, I occupy myself by playing mind-numbing games on my phone and listening to the silence coming from Ebba’s room.

  My parents never told me to stay out of her room. It was one of those things we all simply knew to do. We keep the door shut and pretend it exists in another dimension. You can feel it there next to you, but you can’t see it. Definitely can’t access it.

  When Ebba still lived with us, she was loud. Always talking on the phone in her high-pitched, breathy voice about boys and school and who hated who and everything else in the world. Her voice flew around the house like a tornado.

  Compared to her, I don’t have a voice at all. I’m like my mom, keeping my words locked up tight. Better to stay quiet, because if you don’t, the words might never stop coming. And when you’re spouting off everything on your mind, it’s hard to pretend you’re doing fantastic.

  The silence is interrupted by a knock on my door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hungry?” my dad asks, poking his head into the room. He’s using his crutches.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll be right there.”

  “All right.” But he continues to hover in the doorway. “Eldon…are you doing OK, bud?”

  “I’m hungover.”

  He frowns but doesn’t lecture me. He knows how it is in Madison.

  “I mean lately. You haven’t been yourself.”

  I want to bury my head under the pillow until he goes away. Instead, I say, “Well, it’s sort of a shitty time.”

  “Because of football?”

  I almost laugh out loud. Of all things, football.

  “I know it’s rough,” my dad continues. “You never really had to work at it before.”

  There’s nothing I can say without destroying his vision for my future, so I mutter, “It’s fine, Dad. Really. I’ll get through it.”

  “I know your breakup didn’t help.”

  Oh God. We should have stayed on football.

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  I get up, signaling an end to the conversation, but my dad doesn’t take the hint. “I want you to know if you ever want to talk about anything, anything at all, I’m here. And if you want to do some extra training in the evenings, I’ll help you with that too.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  And I do. I wish he could help me. I wish it were that simple.

  My dad smiles. “Anything for my boy.”

  We walk to the kitchen together, my dad limping along and me holding back, letting him keep up.

  • • •

  Later, when I’m in my room again, I try to chase away the silence with Basin and Range Radio. I tune in to hear, “…your host, Robert Nash. Tonight we’re taking a break from sky watching to talk to a woman who’s had a close encounter with the infamous Blue Diamond Sand Yeti…”

  I snort. Robert Nash must be hard up for material.

  The woman begins her spiel about the yeti, and I turn on my side and face the wall. When we were little, Ebba and I talked about cutting a secret tunnel between our rooms. We built forts out of pillows and blankets and denied our parents entry. When we didn’t have money for board games, Ebba and I made our own. I taught her how to play poker; she taught me how to French braid her doll’s hair. She’d hide scraps of paper in my room, with Tag! You’re it! in her loopy, girlie handwriting. I’d hide them back, and when she found them, she’d collapse with shrieks and giggles.

  After the accident, I tore up my room looking for one of those scraps of paper. I emptied every drawer, even pulled my freaking mattress off its frame. My dad had to physically restrain me, wrapping his arms around me and saying, “It a piece of paper, Eldon. It’s just a piece of paper.” It meant more than that, though I couldn’t explain why.

  I still haven’t found one.

  I still haven’t wrapped my mind around the idea that all those moments Ebba and I shared, well, they’re it. They’re all I have, because there won’t be any new moments. We’ll never create new memories.

  My entire history is tied up in my sister’s. My life is a slideshow of events that only she would understand. It’s no use explaining our inside jokes to anyone. No one else has lived them. Every single memory Ebba and I shared is now mine alone.

  The woman on the radio drones on about the yeti, and Robert Nash says, “Yes, Mmm-hmm.” I press my face into my pillow. When my eyes start to sting, when tears start to fall, I don’t hold back. I let out all I have to keep hidden at school, at practice, at parties. I let myself need my sister. I let myself hate Fletcher Hale for slamming his car into her and taking her away from me. I let my loneliness rip me apart.

  By the time I’m wiping my eyes and blowing my nose, Robert Nash is signing off for the night. I turn off the radio and leave my room. I linger outside Ebba’s bedroom and pretend it’s not negative space. Pretend I can swing open the door and step into a few months ago, before any of this happened.

  I’ve never been good at pretending.

  I take a breath to steady myself, trying not to break down again, and continue down the narrow hallway.

  I’m standing in the kitchen, filling a glass with cloudy tap water, when I hear a noise outside. Something bangs against the side of the house.

  I turn off the water and listen. It’s not the wind, no question about that. There’s someone outside.

  If this were a different house, if my dad loved another sport, there might be a baseball bat within reach. But there are only footballs in our house. Hardly protection against criminals. I take the next best thing—my mom’s cast-iron skillet.

  I step out the back door and into the warm desert night with its howling wind and howling coyotes.

  The noise comes again.

  I creep slowly alongside the house,
the skillet gripped tightly in my hand. Really, it may be a better weapon than a bat. Harder to wield, yeah, but much more powerful.

  There’s only a sliver of moon, but the light seeping out of the kitchen and coming from Merrill’s house next door is enough to see by. Carefully, I step around the corner.

  And sure enough, there’s a man standing in the shadows.

  I don’t swing the skillet. I sigh. “Barnabas.”

  Barnabas Fairley looks up from rummaging in the trash can. His long gray beard is tangled, his hair in matted dreadlocks. He winks at me.

  “It’s late,” I say. “You’re going to wake up my parents.”

  He’s already gone back to sorting through our trash. Barnabas’s bicycle is likely parked in the front yard, his oversize bag of aluminum cans—and who knows what else—tied to the seat. After tonight’s prowl, that bag will grow bigger and bigger until it looks ready to burst. Then Barnabas will take his junk to wherever he sells it, the bag will deflate, and the whole process will start again.

  “You won’t find much,” I say. Our trash is mostly scraps of paper from Ma’s coupon cutting.

  That doesn’t deter Barnabas.

  I watch him for a minute.

  “Hey, Barnabas, will you tell me about your wish?”

  The grizzled old man who dresses in rags and rides his rusty bike around town, never speaking to anyone, turns to me and raises himself to his full height. He meets my gaze.

  “My wish is soon,” I continue. “I’m trying to figure out what to wish for.”

  He smiles the saddest smile I’ve ever seen, clears his throat, and speaks.

  “My wish…” Barnabas begins. His eyes get misty. The sad smile comes again. “My wish was a mistake.”

  “Tell me,” I say.

  And he does. He tells me the whole thing, pausing only to clear his throat and wipe his eyes. I listen, and even though I’ve heard the story before—parts of it, at least—it’s different coming from him. It twists my gut in knots. Makes me want to take Barnabas inside with me, give him a family.

  When he’s done talking, he ducks his head and goes back to pawing through the trash.

  “Thanks,” I say softly.

  He waves a hand at me. I don’t know if he’s saying you’re welcome or telling me to leave. I watch him for a moment longer.

  “Hey, Barnabas?” I ask. “You want this skillet?”

  He looks back at me, and his eyes light up like I offered him a second chance at wishing. I hand over the skillet.

  My mom is going to be pissed.

  • • •

  I’m surprised to find Ma in the kitchen. My eyes go to the peg where her skillet usually hangs, but she doesn’t mention its absence.

  “Do you want tea?” she asks, lifting the kettle from the stove.

  I nod and slide into my usual place at the kitchen table.

  The scent of mint and chamomile fills the room. It’s what my mom always drinks when she can’t sleep. If honey is selling cheap at the Tuttle farm, she’ll add that too.

  “Barnabas is out there,” I say.

  “I heard.”

  “Did he wake you?”

  “I wasn’t sleeping.”

  She places a steaming mug in front of me and sits down.

  “He told me about his wish,” I say.

  My mom laughs. “The entire town knows his wish.”

  “I’ve never heard it from him.”

  Ma sighs, like she can’t understand me. “It’s all the same, Eldon.”

  It’s not. It’s not the same at all. When you hear a story through the grapevine, you can distance yourself from it. You can tell yourself it’s only a story. You don’t have to feel anything.

  “Don’t you think it’s sad?” I ask. “He’s so lonely.”

  “Lots of people are lonely.”

  From her sharp tone, I get the feeling she’s talking about herself. Which is ridiculous. Her wish basically guaranteed she’d never be alone.

  “Are you lonely?” I ask incredulously.

  She takes a sip from her tea. I have my own mug clasped in my hands, so I know the tea is hot enough to burn, but Ma doesn’t wince.

  After a long pause, she says, “It’s been a long time since I’ve had real friends.”

  I hesitate. I’m treading in dangerous water. “Because of your wish?”

  She nods curtly. “This town has never looked at me the same. Sure, people talk to me in the grocery store or invite me over for coffee. But I’ll always be pathetic to them. The girl who had to trick someone into loving her.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “It is true,” Ma says. She taps a cigarette from her pack and pulls a chipped, clay ashtray toward her. “And I’ve accepted it. My only hope is that you learn from my mistakes.”

  “I am learning. From everyone’s mistakes. I’m collecting wishes.”

  “I suppose that means you’re still trying to decide on a wish.” She exhales, and smoke mingles with steam rising from the tea.

  I don’t respond. I focus my gaze on the ashtray, which is an Ebba original. My sister loved giving people handmade gifts. I can’t even count how many macaroni necklaces she made for me. I threw all that stuff out, because I always assumed there’d be more coming. I didn’t know how little time we had left.

  “Eldon,” Ma says when the silence has stretched on for too long.

  I wait for more. But that’s all she says. My name, in a weary tone. A tone filled with disappointment.

  “You don’t even know if it will work,” I say. “If I try to save Ebba.”

  “No. I don’t know. But I need you to try.”

  “The doctors said there’s nothing—”

  “Those doctors aren’t specialists,” Ma says sharply. “If we had the money to fly in specialists, to put her in a better facility, she might have a chance.”

  If only Sheriff Crawford hadn’t rushed Ebba to Vegas immediately after the accident. If he’d kept her in Madison, maybe I could have wished for her health. It’s too late for that now—it would break the golden rule of wishing. Money is our last hope, but I don’t think it’s enough.

  I watch my mom. She watches her cigarette burn. I can feel the words she’ll never dare say: Ebba would do it for you.

  And she would have. Ebba would have done anything for anyone.

  But that doesn’t mean it’s the right choice.

  I have to wonder, if I don’t make the wish my mom wants me to, will she ever forgive me? And if she doesn’t, will my dad side with her? He will, of course. He has to. What will life be like if my entire family is lost to me?

  One day, I might end up as alone as Barnabas Fairley.

  Chapter 10

  The Wish History: Barnabas Fairley

  Crack open that history book again.

  And dig this:

  We’re taking our time machine way back, rewinding to the tail end of the psychedelic sixties.

  Take a look around town. Even in Madison, kids are turning on, tuning in, and dropping out. Check them out, all these teenagers with flowers in their hair. These kids, they think they can change the world. After all, if a man can walk on the moon, anything is possible.

  Skim past the Summer of Love. Browse through pages of peace signs and fringed vests. Take a look, but don’t linger too long.

  Because this is Barnabas Fairley’s story.

  And he’s not feeling groovy.

  The dude can’t pick up a newspaper without a growing sense of dread.

  Riots in New York.

  A doped-up, murderous cult in California.

  And the war.

  Most of all, the war.

  The year is 1969, and if you ask Barnabas, the world is terrifying.

  Look at him, alone in his ro
om, studying for Friday’s physics test. Seventeen-year-old Barnabas Fairley, who’s still rocking his 1950s flattop. Kids at school joke that his mom picks out his clothes. Which, you know, she does.

  Let’s dive from the pages of this book into Barnabas’s mind. Right now, it’s not the scary, mixed-up world that’s making Barnabas hyperventilate.

  It’s the thought of failing.

  Good going, Mr. Walsh. You just had to give your students that lecture about the importance of Friday’s test. How it’s a huge part of their final grades. How if they fail the test, they’ll probably fail the class.

  Fail, fail, fail.

  Never mind that Barnabas is one of the top students at Madison High School. Never mind that Mr. Walsh is overly dramatic and makes every test sound like the most important exam ever.

  Barnabas isn’t thinking clearly.

  No, he’s having a complete breakdown. The fear of failing grows and grows until no rational thought is left inside his head.

  Until it isn’t only his mind that’s impacted.

  It’s his heart.

  His lungs.

  The fear of failing takes over his entire body until he’s sure he’s having a heart attack.

  Until he becomes a hundred percent convinced he’s dying.

  He’s not dying, of course.

  Flip ahead to the next page in Madison’s history. Stop on the part where his panic starts to recede.

  Watch as Barnabas’s heart rate returns to normal. As his vision clears. As his lungs suck in air and push it out. Exactly the way lungs are supposed to.

  Scan ahead to Barnabas picking up his textbook again and studying, as if nothing strange has happened.

  And notice what Barnabas doesn’t do.

  He doesn’t say a word about what happened. To anyone.

  Can you blame him? After all, this is 1969 Madison. There’s no Mr. Wakefield running around school, making sure everyone’s mentally sound. People in town don’t know what a panic attack is. No one’s going to sit with Barnabas and explain anxiety disorders.

  This isn’t the first time Barnabas has had a heart-attack-that’s-not-a-heart-attack. It’s not the second. Or the tenth. And it certainly won’t be the last.