so wouldn’t add much more time. But Dad didn’t want her to stop. I remember hearing him beg her to do the treatments even though they made her so sick that she couldn’t get out of bed. They made her lose weight, too. She looked awful, and she felt awful.
“Sometimes I couldn’t be around her because her immune system was compromised and they were scared I’d make her sick. The treatments helped her live longer, but it was terrible, and I don’t want that. I never want to die like her. If my tumor ever grows and becomes malignant, I’m not doing a damn thing to stop it. Instead, I’m going to live every day to its fullest until I drop dead. I want quality of life, not quantity.”
“How old were you when she passed?” he asks.
“She died when I was fifteen.” I touch my hand to my hair. I lost Mom’s sunflower barrette and the pain in my chest rivals the one that’s often in my head. A lump forms in my throat. “Mom was diagnosed when I was eleven. I was diagnosed a few months later.”
The sympathy on Sawyer’s face is real. It’s not pity, it’s understanding. He nods at me, as if telling me it’s okay. That he understands there are some hurts that don’t go away, as if he knows that somehow at eleven, we were both changed forever.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. I lost my barrette in the fall. I’m a little sad about it, but it’s a barrette so whatever.” I need to change the subject. “How did you become brave?”
Sawyer’s mouth curves up. “I killed a spider.”
“What?”
“I was terrified of spiders and there was this huge one in Lucy’s room. One of those big hairy wolf spiders. I swear to God that thing was the size of my palm.”
“And how did you kill this Australia-sized spider?”
“A shoe. Scared the crap out of me, but I did it. So I figured if I could do that, then maybe I could be brave forever if I tackled my biggest fear.”
“What was that?”
Sawyer lowers his head like he’s embarrassed, like he’s sharing secrets he never intended to share. He lifts his head again, and when he looks me in the eye, there’s a bond that’s created between us. An energy that’s so tangible it feels as if I can reach out and touch it.
“I jumped,” he said.
“You jumped?”
“From the high dive. I’ve been jumping and swimming ever since.”
A swift breeze blows from the direction of the bridge and it’s cold. An odd and eerie sensation, especially since the night is warm. Taps come from inside the bridge and Sawyer’s head shoots in that direction. “Did you hear that?”
I did, and it’s the most beautiful sound. I scramble to my feet and Sawyer joins me.
“Grab your camera,” I whisper, and he does.
As we approach, a chill tingles the base of my neck, and Sawyer rubs his arms as if he is also affected. I stand on the edge of the bridge, and it’s like I entered the air of an electrical storm. Sawyer steps farther in than me, scans the area, but I know what he sees—darkness.
“Take a picture of the inside of the bridge,” I whisper. “Three pictures in quick succession, but before you take them, ask the ghosts to be present in the photo.”
His entire face contorts. “Do what?”
“It’s like picture day at school. Everyone likes to run their fingers through their hair before sitting. If we want a ghost to show, we have to give it time to work up enough energy to take the photo. Plus, how would you feel if some stranger showed up and started taking pictures without asking? If you think about it, it’s sort of rude.”
“I … um … am going to take your picture now,” Sawyer calls out, and I cringe with how it’s apparent how stupid he feels. “If that’s okay.”
Not the most eloquent, but it will do. Sawyer raises the camera, takes several photos in a row, changes position and does it again.
I pull out the recorder and extend my arm into the black of the bridge. “As I said earlier, we aren’t here to hurt you, but to talk to you. Are you trapped on this bridge?”
Knowing the drill, Sawyer goes completely still and we wait a few seconds to see if the ghost responds.
“If you’re trapped, what do you need us to know so you can be free?”