I'll Give You the Sun (41 page)

“You would've been my stepfather, Guillermo,” I say as my answer. “And I would've made your life mis-er-a-ble.”

He drops his head back and laughs. “Yes, I can see it. You would have been the holy terror.”

I smile. Our connection is still so natural, though now, for me, it's tinged with guilt because of Dad. I turn back to my clay model, start caressing my mother's shoulder into shape, her upper arm. “It's like some part of me knew,” I tell him, working the bend of her elbow. “I don't know what I knew, but I knew I was supposed to be here. You made me feel better too. So much better. I was so locked in.”

“This is what I think,” he says. “I think maybe Dianna, she break your bowls, so you come find a stone carver.”

I look at him. “Yeah,” I say, the back of my neck tingling. “Me too.”

Because who knows? Who knows anything? Who knows who's pulling the strings? Or what is? Or how? Who knows if destiny is just how you tell yourself the story of your life? Another son might not have heard his mother's last words as a prophecy but as drug-induced gibberish, forgotten soon after. Another girl might not have told herself a love story about a drawing her brother made. Who knows if Grandma really thought the first daffodils of spring were lucky or if she just wanted to go on walks with me through the woods? Who knows if she even believed in her bible at all or if she just preferred a world where hope and creativity and faith trump reason? Who knows if there are ghosts (sorry, Grandma) or just the living, breathing memories of your loved ones inside you, speaking to you, trying to get your attention by any means necessary? Who knows where the hell Ralph is? (Sorry, Oscar.) No one knows.

So we grapple with the mysteries, each in our own way.

And some of us get to float around on one of them and call it home. We visited
The
Mystery
this morning and Dad hit it off with the owner, Melanie—I mean
really
hit it off. They're having drinks this evening on the deck of the ark. To discuss the sale, he told us, trying to hide the super-kook grin.

I wipe my hands clean on a nearby towel, reach in my bag and take out Guillermo's copy of Mom's book on Michelangelo.

“I stole it. I don't know why. I'm sorry.”

He takes it from me, looks down at Mom's picture. “She call me that day from the car. She sound so upset, so very upset. She say she need to see me later to talk. So when Noah come here and tell me . . . I am sure this is what she was going to say to me: that she change her mind.”

On my way out, I stop to visit with the angel and make my last wish. For Noah and Brian.

Best to bet on all the horses, dear.

• • •

I
t's Thursday, two weeks later, and Dad and I are on the front stoop, peeling off our wetsuits. He swam, I surfed, or more accurately, I got rag-dolled wave after wave—totally amazing. As I dry off, I'm keeping my eyes glued to the trailhead across the street because I feel fairly certain the five p.m. rendezvous spot is in the woods where Noah and Brian spent all their time that summer.

Noah told me he found Brian's address online and sent him a series of drawings he did—around the clock like a maniac—called
The Invisible Museum
. A few days later, there was a response to his post on LostConnections. It said:
I'll be there
.

Last week, Noah received an invitation to attend CSA, based on the photos of his mural I took. I told Sandy I'd give up my spot for him if necessary. It wasn't. Noah hasn't decided what he's going to do.

The sunset has turned the sky into a carnival of color as Noah and Brian walk out of the forest, hand in hand. Brian notices Dad and me first and shrugs his hand away, but Noah immediately finds it again. At this, Brian's eyes squint up and his face cracks open in a heart-crushing smile. Noah, like always around Brian, can barely keep his head on his neck, he's so happy.

“Oh,” Dad says. “Oh, I see. Okay. I didn't realize. I thought, Heather, you know? But this makes more sense.”

“It does,” I say, noticing a ladybug has landed on my hand.

Quick, make a wish.

Take a (second or third or fourth) chance.

Remake the world.

Acknowledgments

Writing this novel took a lot of time, way too much of it away from the people I adore the very most. My deepest heartfelt gratitude goes to them—I named names last time; it's the exact same names this time, so I'll just say: my friends, my family, my dd—thanks to all of you for bending the days and weeks and years toward joy, for squeezing in with me under the umbrella during storms, for understanding when I'm in writing lockdown and celebrating with me when I'm not. Like Jude says: Some people are just meant to be in the same story. I'm so happy I get to be in the same story with you wonderful people.

For the earliest reads when I was still at VCFA and this story was nothing but a nascent mess of first pages in a packet, thanks go to my wondrous mentors: Julie Larios and Tim Wynne Jones. For her passionate, intimate, dazzling discourse with me and this work during my VCFA post graduate semester, a big thank-you: Louise Hawes. For early reads that must've felt like bushwhacking, thank you so very much: Brent Hartinger, Margaret Bechard, Patricia Nelson, Emily Rubin, my amazing mother, Edie Block, who is my heart and ballast, and for later reads: Larry Dwyer and Marianna Baer. For all the phone calls and emails about writing emergencies and revelries, thank you again and to the moon: Marianna. For teaching me how to carve stone, thank you to the terrific stone sculptor: Barry Baldwin. For help with everything surfing, thank you: Melanie Sliwka. For science queries, thanks go to my mad scientist brother: Bruce. For Paris,
merci beaucoup,
Monica. For their constant support and daily check-ins while writing this one, special thanks go to: my brother Bobby, my mom, Annie, and especially specially: my darling Paul. Almost all of Jude's “bible entries” I made up but a few may be frankensteined from the fantastic 1903
Encyclopaedia of Superstitions, Folklore and the Occult Sciences of the World
edited by Cora Linn Daniels and C. M. Stevens.

I am so lucky to have Holly McGhee of Pippin Properties as my literary agent. I'm grateful every day for her brilliance, her savvy, her support, her humor, her passionate devotion to art and writing. Her joy. She offered profound, insightful feedback on this story along with wild enthusiasm. Really, more often than not she makes me feel airborne with excitement! Endless thanks also go to the other Pippins: Elena Giovinazzo (for so very much) and Courtney Stevenson (who also read and gave excellent notes on the manuscript, plus much more). I'm absolutely indebted to my editor Jessica Garrison at Dial who had keen, perfect instincts for this story and whose superb feedback was spot on, revelatory, and invaluable. Plus she's patient, funny, and kind to boot: a delight. I deeply thank everyone else at Dial and Penguin Young Readers Group too, particularly: Lauri Hornik, Heather Alexander, copy editor Regina Castillo, designer Jenny Kelly, and Theresa Evangelista, who designed this kickass cover I so adore. In addition, many thanks go to my UK editor at Walker Books, Annalie Grainger, for helping make sure Oscar sounds like an English bloke, and much more. Finally, I'm so grateful for my foreign rights agents, Alex Webb, Allison Hellegers, Alexandra Devlin, Harim Yim, and Rachel Richardson at Rights People in the UK as well as for my film agent Jason Dravis of Monteiro Rose Dravis Agency. It takes a village and I have an extraordinary one!

My dear friend: the fierce, gracious, beautiful, ridiculously brilliant and talented poet Stacy Doris died while I was writing this book. This story about artistic passion and pleasure, about the ecstatic impulse, about split-aparts, is also dedicated to her.