Page 11 of Into the Deep Blue

I came in through the bathroom window—climbed the trellis, hopped over to the eavestrough, slid open the window, and squeezed all six feet of me through like some kind of human fro-yo machine. Those were the hoops I jumped through to avoid breakfast banter with Brooklyn.

But I can’t sleep. Instead, I think about Brooklyn downstairs, replacing the last of Mom’s fingerprints in the kitchen with her own. I think about the lawsuit. Fiona. My fucking driving test.

Mom.

All these thoughts race around my head, and it’s like chasing a tireless white rabbit on a track. I thought about going to the crash site after grad. Not seriously, but it became a light switch in my mind that I couldn’t stop flicking. Go. Don’t go. Go. Don’t go. Ultimately, it was easier to turn it off, to let the thought fade into the darkness, except I wasn’t sure where that left me.

Her bucket list is in the same place Fi left it. I pull it free and read it—again. It’s not even ambitious. Visit the Grand Canyon and go to a Keith Urban concert in San Diego? It’s all so random. That’s not a bucket list. That’s get me the hell out of Oregon.

She started it after Alex left. She and Dad were constantly arguing about Alex taking off for sometimes weeks on end and leaving Max with them. Dad said Alex needed to take responsibility and that this was their time, but he was consumed by the business, so it’s not like he was around. Still, he pressured Mom until she finally caved and agreed to kick Alex and Max out. Mom was different after they left. Then came the bucket list.

She was on her way to number five—the Jane Goodall experience in South America. Follow Jane’s footsteps and let the wildlife touch your soul.

But the first half? I don’t even think she did half that shit. I bet she crossed off one through three every weekend while driving to the nearest outlet mall and checking into the Westin for a few days. Anywhere was better than here.

Dad surprised her with the plane ticket—that’s the kicker. First class no less. I guess he saw the list as an opportunity for freedom, too, except he needed more than a weekend. He needed a whole week, and wouldn’t you know he went away on business the same week of her trip.

At the time, I paid no attention to any of this. It meant having the house to myself after school and a week of parties. I was the king of my castle. My parents were gone, and I didn’t care where they were. It wasn’t until I had nothing but time on my hands that I started connecting the dots.

Jane Goodall didn’t even work in South America, she worked in Africa, which makes me think Mom never had this great passion for her work. She typed her name into a search engine and wrote down the first tour option that popped up, probably choosing it because South America was closer.

This is what grief looks like. It’s not sitting in a pile of clothes in her room. It’s googling Jane Goodall and plane crashes for months on end as if there’s an answer I can find in the search results.

Jane Goodall named one of her chimpanzees Frodo.

I imagine the view was spectacular, looking down at the jungle from thirty-five thousand feet.

I imagine the fall was not.

Or maybe she never got on that plane. Maybe she’s tucked into a Westin heavenly bed somewhere watching “Dateline”

with some chocolate-covered strawberries just happy to be rid of us.

I don’t understand why she took that trip. Why she couldn’t get divorced like a normal person? Dwelling on the whys only leads to a mountain of heartache. Was it me? Was I too difficult? It’s easy to text XO, but how can you say you love someone and do this to them?

I’m glad she died—fuck her.

And I don’t need to go to South America. I don’t need to yell from a mountain to hear my echo. I can do it from my room, right here, like it’s always been.

My phone buzzes. I know it’s Fi without even looking, and since my eyes are already closed, I almost ignore it, but what if she was in an accident or something?

Home

So tired

Sleep now no wolf

I have no idea what she’s talking about. The one we hit? But I’m glad she’s home. I text back:

?? night

Fiona: Night

love you

I sit up. Wide awake.

I reread it three times to make sure I’m not missing an “I”

in front. No, “I,”

jus.

“love you.” It feels casual, but still . . . it’s there. The words exist where they haven’t before.

I’m about to type it back, but stop because I’m not the kind of guy who does that. If I type it back, especially after last night, it means something, and she’ll know. Texting it just feels wrong.

So, I put my phone down, close my eyes and try to pretend I didn’t see it.