What Remains True Read online

  EDEN DAVENPORT

  Eden sits on the floor, crisscross applesauce she calls it. When I was a child, we called it Indian style, but that moniker is no longer politically correct. Shadow lies on the floor in front of her, his head down, but his eyes open and watchful. Her hands never leave his coat. They move continuously, stroking his fur, coming to rest, scratching his ears, resting again. But her young, unblemished, ivory face is a mask of worry. Her brow is furrowed, and in that instant, she reminds me of her father.

  “You said before you were going to make me talk about the very bad day,” she says, keeping her gaze directed at Shadow.

  “Yes,” I reply. “If that’s okay with you.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not. I don’t want to talk about that day.”

  “Why don’t we start with yesterday,” I suggest. “What did you do?”

  She relaxes a bit. “Yesterday was Monday. I went to school.”

  “How was it?”

  “I told you already!” Her voice is loud and uncharacteristically angry.

  I bow my head and apologize. “I just wondered whether you might share some specifics with me. About your day.”

  “Everyone thinks I’m a loser. It’s like, they think having a dead brother is contagious or something. Like if they talk to me or hang out with me, then their brother or sister or someone will die.”

  “But you know that’s not true, right, Eden?” This girl is hurting. Her sorrow makes me hurt. I want to erase her sorrow, but I know this is not a magic show. I can’t snap my fingers and make her hurt disappear. I can only provide her with tools. “You know that you are not contagious in any way.”

  “I feel like I am. Not contagious, maybe, like when you get the flu. But I feel like maybe I’m . . .” She struggles for a moment. “Tainted.”

  “That’s a very big word,” I tell her, wondering who called her that.

  “Not so big,” she says. “Only two syllables.”

  “You’re right. But it’s big in meaning,” I say.

  “It was in a book I chose from Accelerated Reader. It means ‘a trace of something bad, offensive or harmful.’ I looked it up.”

  I abandon my chair and kneel down in front of her, choosing to ignore the therapeutic directive to maintain distance. I reach out and still her hands on Shadow’s coat. The dog turns his head toward me, as if he is paying close attention to my words.

  “Eden. Please listen to me. You are not tainted. Are you hearing me? Please, really. You are a lovely, smart, and amazing young woman. You are not tainted in any way, shape, or form.”

  Eden’s hands tremble beneath my grasp. She shakes her head. “You’re wrong, Dr. Meyers. I am tainted. It’s my fault Jonah’s dead. I said something to him that . . . d-d-day.” She bites her lip as tears stream down her face. “I said something really mean, I told him to do something, and that’s why he died. It’s my fault.”

  I maintain a firm grip, subconsciously conveying the message I’m not going anywhere.

  “Tell me, Eden. What did you say to Jonah? What happened that day?”

  Shadow whines, kisses my hands, my face, any part of me he can reach. Eden must see this as a sign of trust. She starts to talk to me. And doesn’t stop until she gets everything out.

  SIXTY-ONE

  RACHEL DAVENPORT

  Rachel doesn’t want to talk today. She never wants to talk, but today she’s even more reluctant.

  For the past two weeks, I’ve watched her emerge from her drug-induced haze. Her eyes are clear and focused, and her energy level is higher. But these positive changes have not inspired her to fully participate in this process. She doesn’t trust me yet.

  I have Sam’s account of the events of that morning. Sam and Rachel were together when the accident happened. I can intuit Rachel’s perspective and the reasons why she bears the blame. But she needs to be the one to tell me, in her own words. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.

  She reclines against the back of the couch, feigning comfort, but her rigid shoulders and clasped hands betray her.

  “You look well,” I say, positioning myself in the chair opposite her. She snickers.

  “Right.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I know what I look like,” she says, picking at a cuticle.

  “Do you know what you looked like the first day you came in? Trust me, you look much better now.”

  She snaps her head toward me and lets out a surprised laugh. “That was direct.”

  I meant it to be. “Well, Rachel, the soft touch doesn’t seem to be working with you. Thought I’d try something new.” I stare at her, hard.

  “So the gloves are off now?” she asks.

  “This isn’t a boxing match. But you are fighting me at every turn. Do you want to move forward past your grief? Because I see no evidence that you do.”

  “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I don’t deserve to.”

  “That’s bullshit, girl,” I snap, suffusing my voice with what I call street edge. Rachel’s mouth drops open. As a therapist, I don’t lecture. Lecturing is frowned upon in my profession. We’re supposed to ask questions, let our patients come to the right conclusions themselves. But with Rachel, my instincts compel me to abandon my training.

  “I’m gonna tell you what isn’t bullshit,” I say. “You are in the driver’s seat here. You get to decide. No one can do it for you. Not me or Sam or Ruth or Eden. Just you. You want to bury yourself in your grief and shrivel up and die before you’re dead, that’s your choice. But you’ll end up dragging your whole family down with you, Rachel. They’re grieving for Jonah, but they’re also grieving for you.”

  Her lower lip trembles, and in that instant, she looks just like her daughter. Her voice is hoarse, thick with emotion. “I don’t deserve to move forward.”

  I shake my head for emphasis. “So we’re back to this now?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “We’re back to that now, too? Then help me to understand.”

  Rachel is silent. I try a different tack. “What about Eden, Rachel?”

  “What about her?”

  “Does she deserve to move forward?”

  “Of course, she’s a child,” Rachel whispers.

  “What about Ruth?”

  Rachel seems to getting the gist. She nods. “Yes.”

  “Sam? Does he deserve to move past his grief?”

  Her answer is quick. “No. He doesn’t.”

  I lean forward. “Why not? Because of what he did the night before the accident?”

  “He told you?”

  I don’t respond to her directly. “Let me see if I’m following you. Sam made an error in judgment, and for that one misstep he should be forced to grieve over the loss of his beloved son forever? Do I have it right?”

  She blinks a couple of times, then looks at me. Opens her mouth, closes it, swallows. “Sam deserves to move past his grief. I just, it’s hard for me to let go of . . . If Sam hadn’t done what he did, I wouldn’t have done what I did, and Jonah would still be alive.”

  “What did you do, Rachel?”

  She doesn’t answer me, changes the subject. “He came to me yesterday.”

  “Jonah?” My mind flashes back to my dream and Jonah’s imploring brown eyes.

  “I thought I was dreaming,” she says. “I mean, I haven’t seen him for a while. I thought maybe, without the meds, I wouldn’t see him at all, but there he was, sitting on the end of my bed. It was different, though. He was . . . faded.”

  “Did he talk to you?” You gotta help ’em, and fast.

  She frowns at the memory. “Yes. But I couldn’t understand what he was saying. It’s like he was speaking English, but I couldn’t compute the words.”

  I pause for a moment. Then, “Do you think it might be possible that he wants you to let him go?”

  She jerks her head from side to side, her anxiety mounting. “No. He was upset and crying, and he looked really angry, lik
e the time I took him to the doctor for shots—that was the only time Jonah was ever really angry with me. The way he was looking at me, I could tell he blamed me. I asked him to forgive me, but he just shook his head, because he can’t forgive me. And why should he forgive me? I can’t forgive myself.”

  “For what, Rachel? What can’t you forgive yourself for?”

  She springs from the couch. “For fucking killing him! Don’t you listen? It’s my fault he’s dead!”

  “I know you believe that.”

  “Because it’s true.” Suddenly drained, she drops her head to her chest and returns to the couch. She sits perched on the edge as silent tears slide down her cheeks.

  “Tell me what happened,” I say gently.

  She nods, stares at the floor. “Okay. But it won’t change anything.”

  When she begins, I sit back in my chair and take a quiet breath. Rachel Davenport is finally talking.

  PART FIVE: THE VERY BAD DAY

  SIXTY-TWO

  JONAH

  I’m the first one up. I love vacation ’cause you get to sleep in, but I never do. Sometimes I lie in my bed for a long time and listen to the outside wake up. It’s always the birds first. The crows, mostly. They’re loud and squawk like crazy, but then other birds start making tweet sounds and I like that sound better, even though I don’t know what kind of birds those are. If they were insects, I’d know.

  Marco is kind of smooshed under my back, and I roll to my side and pull him out from under me. He’s still got that big yarn smile, so I guess I didn’t hurt him or anything. I put his arms around me and bring his Velcro hands together, then we hop out of bed and get down on the floor.

  I scooch over to my ’cyclopedia, only it isn’t open to the page I left it at. That page had a Buprestidae on it. Those’re called jewel beetles, too, ’cause they’re shiny green like a emerald. Mommy thinks they’re creepy, and this one time, one flew into the car and started flying around with that loud kind of buzzing noise it makes, and Mommy started screaming and pulled the car over to the side and got out and opened all the doors and just stood there until the beetle flew out of the car. I was kind of mad a little bit ’cause I wanted to see it up close, but Mommy said no way, olay. I didn’t stay mad at Mommy ’cause Daddy told me that girls don’t like bugs—that’s just how they are and you can’t blame ’em for that.

  Now the ’cyclopedia is open on the katydid page. Katydids are in the order Orthoptera, and they’re really neat. They can be as big as five inches, and their antenna can be twice as long as their whole body. But I still don’t know why the book’s open to that page. I look down at Marco, and my mouth kind of opens by itself.

  “No way!” I say to Marco. “You didn’t, not really, did you?” I mean, I like The Velveteen Rabbit and all, but deep, deep down in my heart of hearts, I know Marco’s stuffed and isn’t real and couldn’t have gotten off the bed and looked in my ’cyclopedia, even if I pretended he could. But now . . . I mean . . . it’s like Daddy says, the proof’s in the pudding.

  “You wanna look for katydids today, Marco? They hatch in spring, but I guess you already know that since you were reading about them. Let’s get some chow and then we can start looking.”

  I put on clean unders and throw my dirty ones and my pj’s in the hamper, then put on some shorts and a T-shirt that has the Avengers on it. I’m not old enough to see that movie yet, but Daddy says he can’t wait until I am, ’cause he thinks I’m gonna love it and he’s gonna watch it with me.

  Mommy and Daddy’s door is closed all the way, and Eden’s is mostly closed. I tiptoe down the stairs. Shadow is at the bottom, tail wagging, happy to see me, like he always is. I tell him, “Good boy,” and scratch his neck. He licks my hand and my face, then sniffs at Marco and even gives him a kiss.

  I go into the kitchen, and Shadow follows me. He sniffs at me, then trots back to the living room.

  I’m not ’llowed to cook anything—the stove is off-limits—but that’s okay, ’cause Mommy makes the best eggs ever. But since she’s still sleeping, and my tummy feels kind of growly, and Marco and me wanna get started on our bug hunt, I’m gonna have to find something to eat that doesn’t need to be cooked.

  I carry Marco to the fridge. The door is hard to open, but I finally do it. Then me and Marco kind of just stare at all the food inside. There’s a plastic tub with leftover Auntie Ruth lasagna, and it’s so good I’d eat it, even cold, but I’m not sure about lasagna for breakfast. I pull the orange juice carton from the door and set it on the counter. A bag of bread is on the second shelf, but I’m too short to get it. I wish Marco would turn real right this minute so he could climb up and get the bread. I ask him if he will, but he just smiles at me, and I know that he won’t turn real until I’m asleep, if he even really did, which I don’t know if I believe for sure, but then how did my ’cyclopedia pages get turned?

  I grab the step stool from the pantry and put it in front of the fridge, then Marco and me climb on it and I grab the bread. I’m not ’llowed to use the toaster, either, at least not without a grown-up in the room. But that’s okay. I can just eat the bread without toasting it. Toasting takes time, and Marco and I are in a hurry.

  I’m also not ’llowed to go out front of the house if Mommy and Daddy are asleep upstairs. But that’s okay, too, ’cause Marco and me can start in the backyard. But, for sure, if Mommy and Daddy aren’t awake by the time Marco and me finish scoping the backyard, I am gonna start to make some real big noise.

  SIXTY-THREE

  EDEN

  Wouldn’t you know it? Every morning Mom has to wake me up to get ready for school, but the first official day of vacation, I’m awake at seven thirty. I so do not want to be up right now. I’m supposed to be sleeping in. That’s one of the vacation rules.

  Jonah’s up already. I heard him leave his room a few minutes ago, whispering to that silly stuffed monkey like it’s real. Duh. That is so kindergarten.

  I feel a teensy bit bad about how mean I was to Jonah yesterday. Mom and Dad always say that if you feel bad about something, you should apologize. Maybe when I get up, I’ll go downstairs and tell him I’m sorry. Mom and Dad also say “there’s no time like the present.” I groan and pull one of my pillows over my head. It’s dark under the pillow, but after a few seconds I, like, can’t even breathe, so I shove it away. I groan again, big and loud this time, then shove my covers off and get out of bed.

  The good thing is, even though it’s only seven thirty, I don’t have to get dressed. I can stay in my nightie all morning if I want. That’s a Saturday rule and a vacation rule, so it’s a double rule.

  I go into the bathroom and pee, and even though I didn’t think I really needed to, I pee for a really long time. I brush my teeth and look at myself in the mirror, and after I spit out the toothpaste, I start making funny faces at myself. I like doing that. It’s fun. Dad likes to make funny faces at me, but I don’t know if he practices them in the mirror. That doesn’t seem like a very Dad thing to do, but he can be really weird and silly and even though it’s kind of embarrassing, I like it. I would totally die if he made one of his faces in front of my friends, but in private, it’s okay.

  When I’m done with my teeth, I go back into my room and take off my undies, get a fresh pair, and put it on. This pair is my favorite—pink and yellow with little blue stars—and I’m glad Mom washed it because it is the perfect pair of undies for the first day of vacation. I know that sounds dumb, but it’s true. These ones are comfy and totally cute; they don’t ride up or cut across my waist or anything.

  I could probably get dressed, but, no, it’s Saturday and vacation, so I’m not going to, just on principle.

  I walk down the hall and see that Mom and Dad’s door is shut. I go down the stairs and see Shadow standing by the window in the living room, his head covered with the curtains, staring outside. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, he turns and sees me, then snorts, like he always does, and races over to me.

  Carlee
has a Chihuahua, a little dog named Cretin who looks kind of like a rat. Ava doesn’t like dogs at all. She says she got bit by one when she was three, but I kind of don’t believe her, because I don’t remember anything from when I was three. I think she just doesn’t like dogs, and I can’t wrap my brain around that, because how can you not like dogs?

  Shadow kisses my face and my arm and puts his paw in my hand. I pat his head and stroke his fur and tell him I love him. I used to tell Mom and Dad I loved them, like, all the time, but I kind of stopped doing that. But I always tell Shadow I love him. I don’t know why I stopped with Mom and Dad. Maybe because my friends made fun of Isabelle Cook because she told her mom she loved her right in front of everyone in line for class.

  I realize that’s pretty stupid, that I should tell Mom and Dad I love them, because I do, and I think it would make them happy, even more happy than it makes Shadow, who doesn’t really understand the words but kind of understands the meaning.

  I’ll tell Mom and Dad I love them as soon as they come downstairs.

  I go into the kitchen, and Shadow trots next to me. Through the window of the back door, I see Jonah outside. He’s over by the fence, bending down and pointing to something on the ground, telling the monkey something—probably something about bugs. He reaches down and picks something up. Gross. I do not like bugs, not any kind, except for ladybugs. Ladybugs are beast. They’re pretty and Aunt Ruth says if one lands on you, it’s good luck. Last year, Carlee and I spent every recess in March searching the field for ladybugs. We didn’t do it this year because Ava thinks it’s totally immature.

  I’m not going out there to apologize, especially not if he’s holding some icky spider or worm. Forget that. I’ll just wait for him to come back inside, but I’m not going to apologize until after he washes his hands, because I know when I say I’m sorry, he’s going to want to hug me and stuff.

  I go to the pantry and pull out my cereal, then grab a bowl from the cupboard. Jonah is creeping along the grass now, and I really hope he watches out for Shadow poop. Mom usually picks it up first thing in the morning so the grass is okay for playing on, but she’s still asleep, so there must be some poops out there. Mom and Dad offered to pay me to pick up the poop, add it to my allowance. Fifty cents a pile. Shadow poops a lot, which means I could totally be rich by summer, but I told Mom and Dad not on your life, no way, not gonna happen. I wouldn’t even do it for a dollar a poop.