Even If the Sky Falls (3 page)

I
LOVED MY BROTHER,
A
DAM—NO . . . NO.
I
LOVE MY BROTHER,
Adam—I have to stop doing that, I really do. It's the anger talking and screaming and doing most of the thinking. Oh yeah, and the guilt. Anger and guilt are what drive this ship these days mostly—but they weren't important, not back then, not in the time before everything happened. Now it seems like anger and guilt are all I have left, anchors during this screwed-up situation that I never thought I'd be in. But that's the now. Back then I was happy. I went to church. I smiled all the friggin' time and ate without my mom having to yell at me. I didn't snap at my friends or refuse to see them or refuse to talk to anyone for days. . . .

More important, back then I was just a girl who missed her brother. My amazing, strong, older brother who made the perfect Sunday pancake; who knew just what scary story to tell me so I couldn't sleep a wink at night; who knew when I needed him to defend me at school and when I could handle things on my own; who knew I needed to share a laugh or roll my eyes at our parents when they acted ridiculous; and who went off to war to do his duty and left me behind.

Despite how proud we all were of my brother, I missed him terribly—as did our parents, of course—there wasn't a Sunday Mass where we didn't pray for his safe return and the return of all the other soldiers out there. “What kind of people would we be if we only prayed for our own family?” my mom would say. I never answered. I didn't—and still don't—understand why it's selfish to pray just for the ones you love. I smiled and joined my mother in a prayer for every soldier in the world and their families, but silently, in my own heart and mind, I only prayed for Adam.

It had been almost a year since he'd been gone—his gnawing absence a wound that was scabbed over and picked on occasion to reveal the pulsing pain of loss. Was he okay? Did he think of us? What did he do every day? Did he . . . kill people? Would God forgive him if he did? Would I?

We went on with our days, my parents pretending to
care about what I did, hanging out with friends, having fun, only to have the guilt bombard me at night, keeping me up, until exhaustion won.

Also, funny thing, when someone you love goes off to war, it's like you aren't allowed to say how much you miss them, at least not to other people. Well, you
are
, but you have to then agree that he's doing the right thing and fighting for his country and missing him becomes this childlike statement that gets swept under the rug, like “I'm bored” or “Are we there yet?”

I'd encountered this phenomenon more than once in the year he was gone and most always from an adult asking me how we were holding up and how my parents were. “I miss Adam,” I would always say, and they'd nod and tell me all the good he was doing overseas as if it couldn't get done by anyone else, and aren't you just being a bit selfish, young lady? At least that's what it felt like.

Then they'd smile that sad, pitying smile and pat me on the cheek, and I would make a note not to talk to anyone about Adam.

I missed my damn brother. Let that be that.

By then the emails had stopped between us—he simply didn't have the time to write back, my parents insisted. But I kept going—I kept writing—almost as if to spite everyone, I didn't care if he read them or not, I needed to write to him, to tell him about my day and who said what stupid thing in class and wasn't it just ridiculous that such and
such happened. I imagined Adam poring over my words, remembering what it was like to be back home surrounded by those he loved and maybe those he hated, clinging to the normal in any way he could.

A year after he was deployed we got word my brother was coming home. We were beyond excited—we cleaned and scrubbed every single surface of the house, bought all of his favorite snacks despite my mom's opinion on what the Lord thinks of sugar. We fixed his room till it was so perfect it hid all our worries.

When he walked into the house, I leaped into his arms, crying and saying how happy I was that he was home. He patted me on the head—“Me too, kid, me too”—and hugged our parents. He excused himself and passed out on his bed. That was fine, of course, he was tired; he'd just come back from a war and needed rest. We ate dinner and had dessert without him. We left him a serving in the microwave in case he woke up in the middle of the night.

We did this for one week straight. I'd wake up in the morning and Adam would be asleep in his room, and he'd still be there by the time I got back from school. We didn't pressure him—he needed time, my parents said. We didn't know what he'd been through, and it was best not to pressure him into doing anything he didn't want to. Lots of people weren't lucky enough to get their loved ones back.

But I was impatient. I stayed up late and watched his door until my eyes burned, only to fall asleep and wake
tucked into my own bed. I knew it was Adam who carried me to my room; my father's had a bad back for most of his life—he can only manage a good-sized book and that's it. I kept on watching, hoping I would catch him eventually.

I did. One night I woke up snuggled into my bed when I heard the scuffle of plates and ran down to the kitchen to join him. He slammed the microwave shut, pressing the buttons as hard as he could.

“Gee—trying to wake up the whole house?” I said, hoping he'd heard the lightheartedness in my voice. Adam and I were finally awake at the same time; we could finally talk or not talk and just sit in the same room together, which was totally fine, as long as he let me stay. I said a silent prayer that he would.

“Sorry, kid.”

“S'okay.” I sat down by the kitchen table and watched him scrambling for utensils, then searching for a glass, and finally pulling out Dad's secret stash of whiskey, which wasn't really a secret. He kept it at the back of one of the cabinets in plain view and took it out to mark special occasions. I'd only seen him crack it when Adam graduated college, and I'm sure he would've opened it again at Adam's arrival if he'd been awake at all this last week.

“That's for special occasions,” I said because I'm such a Goody Two-shoes and I was worried. But now, in hindsight, I think I could see it, feel it in the pauses and stilted conversation, in the cautiousness I felt when approaching
him, like he would break and shatter into something sharp.

If I'd only known how little my brother was holding it together, how large the cracks were.

Adam poured enough to fill half the glass, then looked up at me. “I'll tell you a little secret I learned while I was deployed, kiddo. Every day you're alive is a special occasion.”

He downed the whiskey in two swigs, and for the first time since he'd gotten home, Adam smiled.

So I smiled back.

T
HE SOUNDS OF
M
ID-
S
UMMER HAVE DISAPPEARED IF ONLY FOR
a moment, paused, waiting for my mind to catch up to my heart.

It's just me and the whiskey breath of this stranger, Adam's twin, leaning toward me.

“Sorry.” I recover and try to compose myself, but I lose my rhythm and stumble to the ground. The Adam look-alike tries to reach for me, but I wave him away along with the memory of Adam. He shrugs and continues on, leaving me on the ground as the party goes on around me. I am a rock in the flow of a river. It parts but doesn't stop.

“You okay, honey?”

I turn my head and look up into a lovely set of brown
eyes and a warm smile. A woman of about eighty extends her hand to me, lifting me up. There's no trace of the Adam look-alike, and I shake off the thought that it was in any way a sign that I should be back with the group. I smile up at my helper.

“Yes, thank you. Just lost my place.”

“Well, it's right here.” She motions me to follow her back into the mass, and I do. “You don't want to miss the Midsummer Boys!”

“The what?”

She's dancing away from me, and I marvel at her stamina. I'm shaking my head, back into the sway, watching this woman who could be my grandmother shimmy with more energy than I've ever had, when I see him. I mean, I see the whole street band tucked in front of one of the many stores down the block, momentarily stationary, but I only
really
see him.

I stop staring, because I was—am—staring, and try to focus on anything else. The balconies, the half-naked ladies in costume—some just half naked; I mean, more power to them—but still I keep drifting back to him, a tall, muscular boy with a 'fro dyed electric blue and a cardboard top hat with big paper donkey ears poking out of its side. He sways back and forth to the music, his smile so wide it takes over his face. I am caught, frozen, as the parade continues to flow. I smile before I can stop myself, and our eyes lock.

For a moment I think I know him. His smile, his eyes,
something feels familiar, but I would remember if we had met.

He's singing something, but I can't hear the words. His gaze is locked on mine and that's all there is.

Oh yeah, I would remember that smile.

Look away, Jules! Look away!

But I can't. I'm stuck in the tractor beam of his eyes and lips. I've never wanted to touch a guy's lips as much as I do now. I turn, expecting to find his gorgeous bohemian girlfriend right behind me and instead see my eighty-year-old savior dancing up a storm. Maybe he is smiling at her? Because who wouldn't? She's fantastic! I turn back and . . . he's definitely looking at me. “Fairy girl!”

Annnnnnd he is calling me over.

Crap.

“Fairy girl!” he shouts again, this time motioning me over with his banjo—did I forget to mention the banjo? He has a banjo. And lean, long fingers that strum said banjo like no banjo has ever been strummed before. “Fairy girl!”

He could mean anyone really. Half the people here have wings.

“Red-winged fairy girl, I see you!”

Maybe not.

I move closer, weaving through people, careful not to snag my wings on the way. “Hello,” I say once I'm close enough to hear him without having to shout.

Hello?

Why didn't I say “Hi”? Don't look so eager, Jules.

“Hello back.” He smiles and continues to play, accompanying the band. “I like your wings!”

“Thanks. I made them myself, like, an hour ago. I like your hat.”

“Thank you. Took me days.”

We smile at each other like idiots. Or at least I do. Yeah, probably just me on the idiot front.

When he turns away, I look him up and down, taking in his hands as they strum along, his chest (he has a few buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, so sue me—I ogled him), a thin gold band around his left wrist, blue-tipped hair and handmade hat with the ears. A grin spreads across my face. “‘What fools these mortals be,'” I say again, and he looks back to me, beaming.

“You're Bottom, right? From
A Midsummer Night's Dream
?”

He bows and brays like a donkey.

I take in the rest of his band, dressed in a similar style, when it hits me. “You're the Midsummer Boys!”

“That we are. You a fan?”

“I—uh.”

Crap, say yes!

He laughs. “No worries. No one really knows us; I'm just messing with you.”

“I love the name though.”

“Nice, isn't it? Just thought of it today! Last week we
were No Return Policy.” He shrugs. “I like the Midsummer Boys better though, don't you?”

I nod.

“Let's do ‘I am that merry wanderer of the night,'” he says to the guys behind him, and the boys start the tune. He turns back to me. “Will's got a way with words, don't you think, Sunshine?”

With a wink he dives into the song, joining a buzok (I kid you not, I've never even heard one being played live; it looks like someone whittled down the top half of a guitar's body and left the bottom as is), a fiddle, and an accordion. I am entranced by his fingers and try to look away, but only find my way back to his smile. He knows this I think because he can't stop grinning. My cheeks flush, and I decide to give in to the music and try my hardest to forget about the Electric Blue Boy who knows the effect he has on women. I only catch a few of the lyrics that say “a night to wake, a night to live,” and I gather these words to me and take them with me through the night.

The band finishes “The Merry Wanderer” and picks up another—the crowd cheering as they do. It's Mid-Summer, and no one likes a lull. Shaking my hips from side to side, I find the rhythm of one song after another. Electric Blue Boy follows me with his eyes, and that's all I need to join in on the fun.

I shimmy over to the nearest café and borrow a pair of spoons, slapping them together across my thigh to try
them out. They make a nice, crisp sound that rings clear even through the pulse of the French Quarter. I have no idea who this new Julie is, but she feels fantastic and I let her take over. Electric Blue watches me, eyebrows arched up in surprise.

“You going to join us, Sunshine?”

I strike the spoons against my thigh. “Keep up if you can!”

I have no idea what I'm doing, but I don't care. I probably sound terrible but somehow it all works out. Our arms rub against each other, I feel a lightness I'm not expecting, and I hope it happens again as the crowds press us nearer and nearer. He leads the way down the street, pushing his shoulder against mine, and we walk that way for a song or two. Or three? I feel . . . I don't know what I feel, it's different and new and I can't describe it, and as I look up into the sky, I catch a glimpse of the quarter moon, peeking out from behind the clouds, pushing away the pitiful sun, ready to take over.

“Come on, Sunshine,” he says over his shoulder.

The accordion player is leading a line of revelers out of our secluded little corner and back into the mass. I follow. The wind follows, moving my wings back and forth—I'm flying. Street after street I play my little spoons until my arms hurt.

Eventually we stop and the crowds clap as the Midsummer Boys take a bow and the crowds rejoin the living,
pulsing mass that is the Mid-Summer mayhem.

My phone buzzes, a quick look tells me it's Tavis:
Where are you?
I drop the spoons, quickly lost in a sea of legs. There are twenty messages on my phone from Tavis. How did I not notice this? They're all variations of the same question:
Where are you? We're worried about you. Everyone is out looking for you.
I scan the crowd, hiding my growing panic, but don't see him.

You're just being paranoid, Jules. No way he can find you here.

“Take a bow, Sunshine.” Electric Blue Boy looks back, reaching for me.

We lace hands; the strength in his grip feels comforting, reassuring, and surprisingly intimate. Does anyone else notice how my gaze drifts down to our hands entwined? Do they share the flush across my skin? We bow to what's left of the crowd.

“It's over?” I manage, gripping the phone tighter. It's still buzzing, pulling me away from Electric Blue's touch, and his steady pulse that seems to sync with mine.

“This is just the pre-party. Parade starts at eight—still a couple of hours to kill before then, plus gotta scope out a place to take it all in.” He takes his hat off to slide the banjo across his back before replacing it with a flourish. “You?”

I ignore the buzzing and focus on his eyes, shoving the phone back in my pocket.

Before I can answer, his three bandmates huddle
around us. “Sunshine, these are the boys: Domínguez on the accordion, Taj on the buzok, and Danny on the fiddle. Otherwise known as my backup.”

I nod, ready to wave and disappear into the crowd. I've never been good with group conversations, feeling most comfortable hanging out in a corner with my closest friends, Kara or Em. Suddenly, Danny, who is tall and stocky with a tailored vest and hat, pushes Electric Blue to the side and shakes my hand. “Pleasure.”

Each of the boys follows suit, and before I know it I feel at ease.

“So you got someplace to be, Sunshine?” Electric Blue asks me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, I pull it out halfway. Crap. Another message from Tavis, then my parents, Em—who called her?—and a couple from Adam.
Shit.

When I look up the boys are all waiting for me.

What's it going to be, Julie? You've come this far.

I scroll through the messages one last time, then I shut the phone off and shove it deep into my bag.

“Not really.”

Electric Blue smiles, and I think maybe I should call
him
Sunshine. He bows and asks for my hand, which I give. He loops it around his arm and says, “Well, you do now.”