The Sky is Everywhere(45)
Author: Jandy Nelson

“What is it?” I ask.

He grips the wheel tight with both hands.

“I really love her,” he says, his voice breaking. “More than anything.”

“Oh, Toby, I know that.” That’s the only thing I do understand about this whole mess: that somehow what happened between us happened because there’s too much love for Bailey between us, not too little.

“I know,” I repeat.

He nods.

Something occurs to me then: Bailey loved both Toby and me so much – he and I almost make up her whole heart, and maybe that’s it, what we were trying to do by being together, maybe we were trying to put her heart back together again.

He stops the truck in front of the house. The sun streams into the cab, bathing us in light. I look out my window, can see Bails rushing out of the house, flying off the porch, to jump into this very truck I am sitting in. It’s so strange. I spent forever resenting Toby for taking my sister away from me, and now it seems like I count on him to bring her back.

I open the door, put one of my platforms onto the ground.

“Len?”

I turn around.

“You’ll wear him down.” His smile is warm and genuine. He rests the side of his head on the steering wheel. “I’m going to leave you alone for a bit, but if you need me … for anything, okay?”

“Same,” I say, my throat knotting up.

Our conjoined love for Bailey trembles between us; it’s like a living thing, as delicate as a small bird, and as breathtaking in its hunger for flight. My heart hurts for both of us.

“Don’t do anything stupid on that board,” I say.

“Nope.”

“Okay.” Then I slide out, close the door, and head into the house.

Sometimes I’d see Sarah and her Mom
share a look across a room
and I’d want
to heave my life over like a table.
I’d tell myself not to feel that way
that I was lucky:
I had Bailey,
I had Gram and Big,
I had my clarinet, books, a river, the sky.
I’d tell myself that I had a mother too,
just not one anyone else could see
but Bailey and me.

(Found scribbled on the classified ads in The Clover Gazette under the bench outside Maria’s Deli)

Sarah’s at State, since the symposium is this afternoon, so I have no one on which to blame the Hey Rachel seduction fiasco but myself. I leave her a message telling her I’ve been totally mortified like a good saint because of her jouissance and am now seeking a last-resort miracle.

The house is quiet. Gram must have gone out, which is too bad because for the first time in ages, I’d like nothing more than to sit at the kitchen table with her and drink tea.

I go up to The Sanctum to brood about Joe, but once there, my eyes keep settling on the boxes I packed the other night. I can’t stand looking at them, so after I change out of my ridiculous outfit, I take them up to the attic.

I haven’t been up here in years. I don’t like the tombishness, the burned smell of the trapped heat, the lack of air. It always seems so sad too, full of everything abandoned and forgotten. I look around at the lifeless clutter, feel deflated at the idea of bringing Bailey’s things up here. This is what I’ve been avoiding for months now. I take a deep breath, look around. There’s only one window, so I decide, despite the fact that the area around it is packed in with boxes and mountains of bric-à-brac, that Bailey’s things should go where the sun will at least seep in each day.

I make my way over there through an obstacle course of broken furniture, boxes, and old canvases. I move a few cartons immediately so I can crack open the window and hear the river. Hints of rose and jasmine blow in on the afternoon breeze. I open it wider, climb up on an old desk so I can lean out. The sky is still spectacular and I hope Joe is gazing up at it. No matter where I look inside myself, I come across more love for him, for everything about him, his anger as much as his tenderness – he’s so alive, he makes me feel like I could take a bite out of the whole earth. If only words hadn’t eluded me today, if only I yelled back at him: I do get it! I get that as long as you live no one will ever love you as much as I do – I have a heart so I can give it to you alone! That’s exactly the way I feel – but unfortunately, people don’t talk like that outside of Victorian novels.

I take my head out of the sky and bring it back into the stuffy attic. I wait for my eyes to readjust, and when they do, I’m still convinced this is the only possible spot for Bailey’s things. I start moving all the junk that’s already there to the shelves on the back wall. After many trips back and forth, I finally reach down to pick up the last of it, which is a shoebox, and the top flips open. It’s full of letters, all addressed to Big, probably love letters. I peek at one postcard from an Edie. I decide against snooping further; my karma is about as bad as it’s ever been right now. I slip the lid back on, place it on one of the lower shelves where there’s still some space. Just behind it, I notice an old letter box, its wood polished and shiny. I wonder what an antique like this is doing up here instead of downstairs with all Gram’s other treasures. It looks like a showcase piece too. I slide it out; the wood is mahogany and there’s a ring of galloping horses engraved into the top. Why isn’t it covered in dust like everything else on these shelves? I lift the lid, see that it’s full of folded notes on Gram’s mint-green stationery, so many of them, and lots of letters as well. I’m about to put it back when I see written on the outside of an envelope in Gram’s careful script the name Paige. I flip through the other envelopes. Each and every one says Paige with the year next to her name. Gram writes letters to Mom? Every year? All the envelopes are sealed. I know that I should put the box back, that this is private, but I can’t. Karma be damned. I open one of the folded notes. It says:

Darling, The second the lilacs are in full bloom, I have to write you. I know I tell you this every year, but they haven’t blossomed the same since you left. They’re so stingy now. Maybe it’s because no one comes close to loving them like you did – how could they? Each spring I wonder if I’m going to find the girls sleeping in the garden, like I’d find you, morning after morning. Did you know how I loved that, walking outside and seeing you asleep with my lilacs and roses all around you – I’ve never even tried to paint the image. I never will. I wouldn’t want to ruin it for myself.
Mom
Wow – my mother loves lilacs, really loves them. Yes, yes, it’s true, most people love lilacs, but my mother is so gaga about them that she used to sleep in Gram’s garden, night after night, all spring long, so gaga she couldn’t bear to be inside knowing all those flowers were raising hell outside her window. Did she bring her blankets out with her? A sleeping bag? Nothing? Did she sneak out when everyone else was asleep? Did she do this when she was my age? Did she like looking up at the sky as much as I do? I want to know more. I feel jittery and lightheaded, like I’m meeting her for the first time. I sit down on a box, try to calm down. I can’t. I pick up another note. It says: