The Complete Burn for Burn Trilogy: Burn for Burn; Fire With Fire; Ashes to Ashes (49 page)

I watch my alarm tick down, and a minute before
it’s supposed to go buzz, I turn it off. I close the photo albums
I pulled out last night and set them on my floor. Then I pull the
blankets back up over me. My head finds the still-warm dent in
my pillow, and I lie there for a minute.

Since she passed away five years ago, I’ve made it a habit to
stay up the entire night before the anniversary of my mom’s
death to think about her. I don’t sleep, not one minute. It’s like
some depressing form of meditation, I guess, but it’s what I’ve
always done. I think about her all through the night.

I can trace that whole last shitty year of her life back to the
moment it started, to the day Mom had to drop me off at school
early because she had to go off island for an appointment with
some specialist doctor.

I think about the day she and Dad sat us down at the kitchen
table to tell us. How it wasn’t good, but we still needed to have
hope. Mom was calm and Dad cried so hard he couldn’t breathe,
and Pat ran straight out the back door in his socks and didn’t
come home for three whole days. I felt anything but hopeful.

I think about when I told Rennie, when we first got the diagnosis. I rode my bike over early, before she was even awake,
and basically ambushed her. She sat in her bed, still half-asleep,
while I knelt on her floor and cried and cried. There was a sick
part of me that was happy to have such a sad story. By then she
was already starting to pull away from me. She was completely
obsessed with Lillia and creaming her pants over the fact that
Lillia was moving to Jar Island full-time after next summer. It’s
pathetic to admit, but I remember hoping that Rennie might
pity me enough to be close with me again, at least while I went
through this terrible shit, but my mom getting sick only made
things weirder between us.

I think about how Mom was strong for so long, until she
couldn’t be, and then over a single freaking week she evaporated.
Cancer eats you from the inside out, and I watched her waste
away to skin and bones, to a hollow body, in seven days. The last
day, she only opened her eyes once, and I don’t know if she saw
me standing there, at the foot of her bed. Dad called out her name
and Pat said he loved her, but her eyes didn’t focus. It was like we
all saw the door closing. I wanted to say something meaningful,
but I couldn’t get it out before her eyes shut again. We brought a
stereo into the room and played “Suite Judy Blue Eyes” on repeat.

It was almost a relief to see her go.
All those memories, plus the good stuff from before she got
sick, typically take up most of the night. Once the sun rises, I
shift gears and wonder how things might have been different if
she’d lived. I go through the old photo albums, the letters she
wrote to me as soon as she found out she was sick.
I do it all and I never, ever sleep.
The bonus to this is that I can sleepwalk through the actual
day it happened. I’m so tired I don’t have to feel anything. That
means I won’t cry in front of strangers; I won’t break down. It
keeps things nice and tidy.

When I come downstairs, Dad is already at the table, staring
over his newspaper off into space. Pat is quietly eating a slice of
cold pizza over the sink. Well, as quietly as Pat can eat. Dude is a
wildebeast. This is exactly what this day is like. Our loud, crazy
family turns the volume down as low as it can go.

I give Dad a hug, and it brings him back into reality. He taps
the newspaper and says, “Found a coupon for the store. Half off
a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving used to be awesome. Mom would entrust me
with her recipe box, a wooden thing Dad had made to keep all
her index cards. I’d set out the ones we’d need, each one sticky
and stained with use. It would be my job to line up the ingredients on the counter for each of the recipes. Sugar yams, green
bean casserole, turkey rubbed with sage and butter, cranberry
sauce and sausage stuffing.

Needless to say, it’s not like that anymore.
Dad tried, and failed miserably, at recreating the family meal
the first few years after Mom died. Every time it was a disaster, and he’d feel bad about the money he wasted and how he
couldn’t survive without Judy, and the whole thing was so awful
that we started buying a rotisserie chicken and frozen veggies.
The only thing we’d make at home was baked potatoes. And
even though it’s nearly impossible to fuck up a baked potato, it
still never tastes right to me.
Dad starts bawling at the table. I wonder what memory he’s
thinking about. And like every year that this shitty anniversary
falls on a Monday through Friday, I hate the thought of spending this day without him.
Even worse, this time next year I won’t be on Jar Island.
“I’m not feeling well,” I tell my dad, my voice soft and
quiet, like my throat hurts. “Maybe I should stay—”
“Don’t even,” he says.
“What? Come on, Dad.” I know the sick sound is gone, but
seriously? “I never skip!”
“I know you don’t. And that’s why you’re going to school.
Your mother would never forgive me for letting you miss school
on her account.”
I open my mouth to keep arguing, but Pat shoots me a look.
He’s right. This day is hard for everyone, and I don’t want to be
starting shit with my dad. So I trudge back upstairs, get dressed,
and head out the door.
One good thing—I don’t think many people know that I
don’t have a mom. Not besides Ms. Chirazo, anyhow. It’s not
like I come to school and everyone treats me different. Which
I’m glad for, because I couldn’t deal with any pitying looks. But
part of me does wonder if Lillia remembers. If she’ll say anything. She wasn’t around for the funeral—her family still lived
in Boston back then—but they made a donation in my mom’s
name to some cancer society.
I walk past Lillia in the hall. She’s talking to Ash, and she sees
me and gives me a tiny smile, but it’s the same one I get every
day. No different.
I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned my mom to Mary, but it’s not
like I told her the exact day she died.
It’s weird, even though I’m totally used to going through this
day alone, somehow this year it’s worse.
I open my locker door to chuck in my jacket. But I freeze.
There’s one white daisy inside, laid at the very top of my pile
of shit.
Daisies were my mom’s favorite flower. Everyone placed one
on top of her casket before it got lowered in the ground.
I spin around and look behind me. Who did it? It wasn’t
Lillia. And it wasn’t Mary. She wouldn’t know that.
And then, for a second, a split second, I see Rennie peering at
me from around the corner of the hallway. Our eyes meet.

The weekend when Mom had her last round of chemo, nobody
felt much like celebrating. She’d had gone through the treatments,
even though things weren’t looking promising.

A month before, her doctor had said something like, “It’s
your call, Judy.” Which is basically the worst thing a doctor
can say. It means that even he doesn’t have much hope. Still,
at dinner we’d had a family discussion about whether or not
she should do it. Dad spoke first. He thought she should take
it easy, enjoy what she had left, but Mom looked at me and Pat
and said, “How can we not try?” Dad started sobbing. We all
did. Nobody touched the lasagna.

Mom had her last treatment on Thursday, and three days
later Pat had a dirt-bike race. It was his first one since Mom got
sick. Usually Pat’s races were a family affair, and Rennie would
tag along too. Obviously Mom wouldn’t be able to go this time,
and, unspoken, maybe never again. Pat promised her he’d win
her a trophy. He did a good job not crying in front of her. He
waited until he was out in the garage to lose his shit.

I loved watching my brother race. Every other racing family knew who he was, because he was that good. We were like
minor celebrities on the track. Even when I’d be hanging out
on the swings or in line for a hot dog, the other kids showed
me respect. But I didn’t just go to cheer Pat on. I had a job,
too. After each heat I’d wipe Pat’s bike down until it shone
brand-new. I’d get all the grit off. His helmet, too. Rennie
gave herself the job of making sure Pat always had a cold can
of Coke.

Dad and Pat had loaded up the trailer. I went to pack a bag
of rags, and Dad pulled me aside. “Katherine,” he said, setting
his hands on my shoulders, “I want you to stay home this time.
Make sure your mother doesn’t need anything.”

This might have seemed obvious, but it wasn’t to me. I was
looking forward to getting out of our house, away from Jar
Island for an afternoon. Also, there was Rennie. “But Rennie
is supposed to come with us! We made plans weeks ago! She’s
expecting us to come get her.”
“Sorry, kiddo. Next time.” Dad quickly put Mom’s afternoon medications inside a teacup. “Call Rennie. I’m sure she’ll
understand.”

I called Rennie, and she did understand, though I could hear
in her voice that she was disappointed. I watched from the front
window as Dad and Pat drove away.

It was my mom. A side effect none of us had expected was
that Mom was now cranky as hell. She’d never been like that
before. Everything seemed to bother her. How messy the house
was getting, what Dad would make her to eat, the smells coming
from Pat’s bedroom. I had always been Mom’s girl, her baby,
but even I wasn’t immune. She flipped out when I put some
special sweater of hers through the laundry.

Honestly, I was a little afraid of her.
“One sec!” I shouted upstairs. And then to Rennie I said,
“Can you come over?” I hoped it was obvious in my voice. I
didn’t want to be alone with my mom. I needed her.
“Um . . .” I could hear her switching the phone from one
ear to the other. “Actually, my mom needs my help with taking down some wallpaper. Sorry. I’ll call you later!”
I was mad. I was so mad. But not at Rennie. At my mom. I
blamed her for making my friend not want to come over, not
Rennie for being a sucky friend. I trudged upstairs.
Mom was in bed. Her eyes were slits. She’d kicked off all her
blankets; she was sweating in the bed. “Can you please turn off
the heat. I’m dying!”
“Anything else?” I said it so bitchy. So incredibly bitchy.
“No,” she said. “Sorry to bother you.” She said it sadly,
which I knew was my opening to apologize. Instead I walked
out and closed her door, hard.

I blamed the wrong person. Not my mom. She was sick. She
needed me. It was Rennie. And maybe if Rennie had been a better friend, maybe I would have had more patience. Taken better
care of my mom that day. It’s unforgivable, really.

I take the daisy, the one Rennie put in my locker, and I throw
it into the garbage can. I don’t know if she’s still watching, but
I hope to God she is.
CHAP
TER THIR
T
Y - THREE

Tuesday, I’m late leaving last period because
our test goes long. I run straight to the pool, expecting to
see Reeve in the water doing laps. But the pool’s empty; he’s
not there. I wait for a few more minutes; then I go sit on the
bleachers and text him.

Huh. What does that mean, he’s done? With what? With
working out or with me? If we don’t swim today, I won’t get
to spend any alone time with him before Thanksgiving break,
because tomorrow’s a half day.

I think fast. The only thing for me to do is go to him right now
and ask him what he meant. Make a show of how much I care.
I hightail it out of the gym and drive over to his dad’s office.
It’s not far from school. It’s in a small building that looks like
a colonial house. There’s a white-and-black sign that reads
tabatsky property management out front.
Reeve’s truck is parked out front, no other cars. I flip down
my vanity mirror and dab on some lip gloss and fluff up my
hair. Then I grab my purse, hop out of the car, and walk up to
the building.
Reeve’s sitting at a desk; there are keys all lined up in front of
him, and he’s sorting through them. He looks up and starts to
say, “Hi, can I help—” His eyes widen when he realizes it’s me.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was worried when you didn’t show,” I say. I scooch
closer to him and perch on the edge of the desk, which is when
I notice he’s not wearing his walking cast. “Oh my gosh! No
more boot!”
“Yeah. Earlier this afternoon.” Reeve keeps sorting keys,
making piles, and not looking at me. And he doesn’t sound that
happy about it.
“So why the face? We should be celebrating! Pancakes on
me.” I poke him in the side so he’ll finally look at me. “I knew
all your hard work would pay off.”
Flatly he says, “It didn’t.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Reeve stares straight ahead and says, “I asked Coach if he
would time my sprints today. I was pumped to show him how
much progress I was making in the pool, and I figured if I could
win him over, he’d help me train and maybe make some phone
calls for me to the scouts. Tell them I’m back on track, that I’ll
be in fighting shape by the time spring workouts begin, and to
save me a roster spot.” He clears his throat, like the words are
getting stuck, and I feel my heart sink for him. “Well, it was a
complete joke. I’m nowhere near where I used to be. I’m slower
than the defensive line, and those guys weigh like three hundred–plus pounds. It’s over. I need to face facts, figure out what
I’m going to do now. “
“Wait. Maybe you won’t get the top programs, but I thought
there were still a few D-three schools,” I begin. “Like what
about Williams?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not even good enough for a practice
squad, Lillia. I’m done. My ass isn’t going to college. No football scholarship. I’m staying right here on the island.”
I stay still and quiet as he tries to yank open a file drawer.
It’s stuck, and he pulls on it so hard that the keys he’s organized
slide together into a heap. Reeve’s face goes red; he looks like
he’s going to cry or maybe punch a wall. “Fuck!” he yells.
I jump in my seat and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says,
and he lets out a choked sound. He’s crying. Reeve Tabatsky is
crying.
I’m not sure what to do. Rennie’s so good at comforting him,
at saying all the right things. I’ve never been great at comforting
people.
“Don’t apologize,” I tell him. “You have nothing to be sorry
for.”
I’m the one who should be sorry. Next fall, Reeve should be
a football god at a division one school, doing keg stands and
hooking up with random girls. That’s his destiny. The thought
of Reeve stuck here on the island, going to community college
and living at home . . . it’s too sad to even think about.
Reeve sinks back into his chair; he hangs his head in his
hands, and his shoulders start to shake. He’s sobbing like a little
boy. Meanwhile I keep my eyes on the floor.
He gets quiet all of a sudden and he says, “Remember what
you said to me on Halloween night?”