The Beginning of After - By Jennifer Castle Page 0,46

down the upstairs hallway I eyed my parents’ door. All I could feel was dread and a little fear, which was ironic considering how it used to represent a special kind of haven for me.

On the third night I finally got up the courage to go in.

It was cleaner than usual, with the bed made, the dresser drawers shut tight. My mother was a chronic drawer-leaver-opener, which drove my dad crazy. The books on both nightstands were stacked neatly and the hamper was empty. At some point, Nana must have done the laundry and put away the clean clothes.

I sat on the big king-size bed with the wooden antique headboard my mom had taken from the house she’d grown up in, and I actually had to remind myself that my parents were not alive anymore. They were so here in this room.

Suddenly, I remembered one night when I was probably seven or eight years old. I’d had a nightmare and wandered into the room, then scrambled onto the bed, to find that spot between my parents that was always warm and safe and waiting for me if I got scared.

Not saying a word, my mother held back the covers for me to snuggle in.

“I had a scary dream about hot lava,” I’d said.

“I’m sorry, baby. I hate bad dreams.”

“Do you get afraid too?”

“All the time.”

“What do you get afraid of?”

I’d hoped she would say monsters, or falling off a bike, or her friends not inviting her to their birthday parties. But she was quiet for a few moments and then said, “I’m most afraid of losing you or Toby.”

Arrrgh, I’d thought. “That doesn’t count. What else are you afraid of?”

Mom was quiet again, a deeper, more intense quiet, then said, “You losing me.”

I was little, but I’d known where that came from. One of her friends from college had just died of breast cancer a month or so before, leaving behind two kids.

Now I lay facedown on the bed, sobbing for the woman who once slept here not knowing that someday one of her worst fears would come true.

At the end of June, another day came on my calendar that I knew was the last day of school. It would be a short day, with each class lasting only twenty minutes instead of forty-two. Teachers would have parties or show funny movies or, if they were clueless, actually go over what the class had covered. That live current of excitement and celebration, of ending and starting.

I tried to distract myself by opening up the journal Suzie had urged me to start. She’d suggested I buy a simple unlined notebook with something silly on it, so I would feel free to write stupid and seemingly meaningless things in it. I’d found one adorned with a kids’ cartoon character I’d never heard of, its thin pages a bright, hopeful white, and cracked open the old set of colored pencils I hadn’t used since my sketches for the last Drama Club show.

“Draw what you remember,” Suzie had said. “Draw what you feel. Write a word on the page, like angry, and then give it form.”

So I tried to do that, but my drawing slowly morphed into the faces of dogs and cats I’d met at the hospital.

Finally, Meg called me at noon sharp.

“It’s done! I’m free!” I heard laughter in the background. “Wanna play today?”

“I have to work, remember?” I said, then tried to make my voice a shade lighter. “Come up tonight and we’ll make ice cream sundaes.”

So later, Meg and I sat outside on our back patio, eating Rocky Road topped with frosted cornflakes and whipped cream. I knew the rest of the junior class was at a bowling alley for the traditional “Now We’re Seniors!” party.

“There’s still time to go over to Pin World,” I offered after we’d slurped together for a few minutes. “I won’t mind.”

Meg licked her spoon and tried not to seem like she was thinking about it. “Maybe. But the person I really want to celebrate with is you, so what’s the point?” She paused. “It was really weird not having you at school.”

“It was weird not being there. But you know . . .”

“I know.” She plunged her spoon back into the sundae for another load. “But you’re going back in September, right?”

September felt so far away. Far enough that I could say, “Of course,” and not think about it anymore.

“What are you going to do about the stuff you missed? Will they let you