want me to get into an accident. He wants me to live my life.
The sun’s up, brightening the dark green leaves on the trees growing amongst the graves. I walk past the old tombstones first. Some date back over a hundred and fifty years. They’re made of limestone instead of marble, and the dates and names are barely visible. No one puts flowers on those graves. There’s no one left to—no one still alive who remembers who these people were.
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I follow the path to the newer section of the cemetery, where there are lots flowers, mostly plastic, sitting on the various graves. There are large marble stones with pictures of husbands and wives. A few with only one spouse pictured because the other one is still alive. And solitary stones. One grave has a cradle etched beside the name of the child who lived only a few months. Instead of flowers, a teddy bear leans against the gray marble headstone. Connor’s grave is in the last row next to an open wheat field. There’s a photograph of him inset between the dates of when he was born and when he died. It’s his senior picture. He’s wearing a baby blue button-down shirt, but it isn’t buttoned all the way up. His hair has that perfect “yeah, I get up in the morning looking like this” appearance. He’s standing outside, the sun at his back, and anyone would envy him. Anyone would think the world was his.
“Happy birthday,” I say. “Mom and Dad will be out later, but I wanted to give you something first, on my own. It’s not wrapped, but . . .” I place the controller Connor gave me one year ago today in the grass just below his picture.
“Kind of cheap, I know—giving you back what you gave me. Truth is, I don’t play anymore. Well, I play a little bit with Josh. Kid’s getting pretty good, too, but I’m not going to let him become like I was. I’m going to make sure he gets out in the world. Me and Jimmy, we’re co-coaching his soccer league. And don’t give me that shit that I don’t know anything about soccer, because I already know that, but it’s kids kicking the ball around outside—how hard can it be? And Jimmy, he’s taking 3 5 5
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it really seriously, reading books on it and Googling plays. I didn’t even know they had plays in soccer.”
Two robins chase each other across the grass, then disappear, one after the other, into the thick leaves of a maple tree.
“I want you to know how much that night we stayed up playing meant to me. It was the greatest game of my life, and since I know I’ll never top that, I don’t need the controller anymore. And guess who got a four-point-seven this semester?
Yep. I actually started trying, but no sports. I can’t deal with those dickhead coaches. I have been running, though. You were right about me liking it. I think Matt likes it too. Okay, I know that sounds totally effed up, but sometimes when I’m running, I get this weird feeling in my chest like his heart likes it. He was a really fit guy, and it’s not like he could run the same after he lost his leg, so . . .”
I shake my head because I can’t believe how much things can change in just one year.
“I wish . . .” My eyes start to burn like they always do when I come to visit Connor. “I wish I’d looked at you like Mom and Dad and Cami look at me. It’s kind of creepy in a way”—I laugh—“but it’s also awesome.”
I look around at the various graves, each one the resting place for a person, for a human being with a name and a face and fears and aspirations. I wonder how many of them died without knowing how much they were loved.
I guess that’s just how people are. We take for granted that we’ll always have the chance to tell someone what they mean to us. We take for granted that nothing is going to happen to 3 5 6
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them, and so we all walk around not realizing how much we’re loved. How much we’re valued.
I almost died. Connor did die. Now my parents embrace me with their eyes. They hug me and kiss me, and I know without any doubt how much I’m loved. But the truth is, they don’t love me any more than they did this time last year or the year before, or the year before. We’ve just all learned to show it now.
To not take anything for granted.
“Happy birthday, Connor,” I say, hoping he can hear me.
Hoping that he knows what I never told him.
I look out at the open field. The wheat’s starting to lighten from green to gold, the rising sun illuminating it. In the breeze, it rolls like waves on the ocean. A hand touches my back, startling me.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Cami says, wrapping her arms around my waist.
“You looked too peaceful. I couldn’t.”
She lets go of me and scans the graves that seem to go on and on just like the stalks of wheat in the field. “We’ll never take life for granted, will we?” she says, grabbing my hand and pressing it against her lips.
“Not a second of it.” I pull her to me and start to kiss her, but stop. I don’t think Connor would mind us kissing on his grave. I know he’s happy for me. But still. He can’t kiss Emma.
Cami seems to understand, and she leans her head against my shoulder.
“Happy birthday, Connor,” she says. “We miss you.”
She looks at me, sees the tears in my eyes, and gives me an 3 5 7
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understanding smile. But she doesn’t understand. These tears aren’t for Connor. They’re for me, because one day I might be standing here young and healthy and Cami will be . . .
Maybe Rubenstein was right when he said I’d come around.
He’s got people watching me. Not all the time like Bartholomew had, but I see them every once in a while; strangers stand out in small towns. And I recognize the way they suddenly avert their eyes when I look at them. I could tell one of them that I’m ready. That I’m a hundred percent onboard with whatever his plans are. But first I have one request. Change Cami. If he’s really figured out how to give himself immortality, then give it to her, too. And then give it to Josh, because she won’t be able to stand seeing him get older. And Josh will want it for his someday girlfriend, and we’ll all want it for Jimmy and for our parents and then where would it stop?
“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” I tell her, and the sympathy in her eyes turns to concern.
“Are you all right?” The grip of her hand tightening around mine. “You’re healthy, right? You’d tell me if you weren’t?”
Her deep brown eyes fill with fear.
“I fine. I’m going to be around for very long time.” I stare at her, marveling at the way the morning light brings out tiny strands of auburn in her hair. I look into her eyes, and what could possibly be wrong?
I’m alive.
I pull her toward me and hold her as I think about those who didn’t survive.
I wish all the years Edward Bartholomew gave me could 3 5 8
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be turned into a birthday cake for Connor. I’d resurrect him and all the others, and we’d slice the years up—every person—
every superior—getting an equal number. Maybe they wouldn’t divide up to be that many, but it wouldn’t matter, because we’d make sure they were good years. The best.
I love the thought of all of us together having a party. Triagon could play the piano, and Hannah could dance. Amber could fix up her hair and wear a gorgeous dress, and we’d line up to kiss her, because . . . well, who wouldn’t?
Cami pulls away, and she must see the slight smile on my face. “What are you thinking about?”
I smile back, because right now I’m young and she’s young, and really, no one knows how much time they’re going to have.
And if there’s one thing I know Connor would like to tell me, it’s live. Just live. And I intend to. And I’ll hold on to Cami as tightly as I can, because there’s one thing I know for sure: it’s going to be one hell of a ride.
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