Page 93 of The Summers of Us

The only escape from the nonstop horror reel was sleep.

Haven sat next to Quinn at the funeral and held her hand throughout the program. The seats were filled with Quinn’s friends and their families, Hadley’s school teachers and friends, and Hadley’s father. Neither Blair, Josh, nor Quinn’s mother had the strength to give a eulogy. That forced Quinn to stay intact long enough to take to the podium with stories of the girl who loved constellations, weeds, and other things only imagination allowed.

“Hadley wanted nothing more than to leave her mark on the universe, to explore the galaxies, to discover new solar systems. She’s dancing with the stars now. I hope the constellations love Hadley the way she loves them. I hope they are everything Hadley dreamed of.” Quinn cupped her hand over the microphone to release her sobs. The funeral home filled with the heartbreaking cries of a girl left with nothing.

“She deserved a rollercoaster.” It was the last thing Quinn said before she ran out of the room and never came back.

The funeral was cut short. People Quinn didn’t know offered their condolences. She wanted nothing to do with them but shook their hands anyway—her hands clammy and her face emotionless. When Everett saw her, he hugged her as if he could squeeze all the sadness straight from her body.

He couldn’t.

Nobody could.

Quinn’s friends knew it would be a long time before she became herself again. They did everything they could to keep her mind from dozing off the way it always seemed to. Saray filled their kitchen with enough fried rice and tamales to feed a village. Liezel and Everett made sopas and purple yam cookies. When Quinn managed to eat, she couldn’t keep anything down and resigned her stomach to the same emptiness as everything else.

Haven, Holden, Mason, and Jorge texted her every day. They sent her stupid jokes, pictures of baby animals, and funny videos. She woke up to dozens of them, only to fall asleep again without replying. The sun was her only indication that it wasn’t night time. There was only day and night, but she didn’t know how many times they changed shifts.

All she thought about was how happening to your own life didn’t stop life from happening to you.

Everything she’d built this summer on was a lie. Happiness was a lie.

Everett drove to her house every afternoon, but he never got the courage to knock on the door. He stayed parked down the street until sundown, long after the cotton candy ice cream he’d bought for her had melted away in the floorboards. Everett would never know how much Quinn needed him, and Quinn would never know how close he had been the entire time.

Those close to the family filled Blair’s porch with flowers: roses, daisies, lilies, carnations, anything that would give her some sense of hope. Blair didn’t let them in the house, and had no intention of keeping them alive. She wanted the weeds to eat them alive. Weeds were Hadley’s favorite, anyway.

Quinn’s mother had arrived in time for the funeral and helped Blair with all the logistics of putting your little girl to rest. When summer was coming to a close, she helped Quinn pack her things and drove the two of them back to Raleigh, away from the beach that stole Hadley from them, but never from their pain.

Blair spent the next three months in Hadley’s old room.

Quinn vowed never to touch the water again.

August 11

Hadley died a year ago today.

My buzzing phone wakes me up before the sun. Texts from my friends, and one from Mom, light up the morning. They’re variations of each other: they love me, they’re sorry, they’re thinking of me. If I didn’t already know today’s date like the lines on my palms, I would now.

I copy and paste the same thank you to all of them, then limp to the kitchen. Blair’s door is closed, and her car is still in the driveway, so I pry open her door to check on her.

She’s wrapped in her comforter, sprawled out on the queen bed, her limbs peeking out in random places. She looks peaceful—untouched by the black cloak of today.

I want some of that peace. I crawl into bed beside her, listen to the soft sound of her sleeping.

I’m not sure I’ve slept at alluntil I check my phone; three hours have passed. I want to go back to sleep, but I know it won’t find me again. The fan in her room is too loud, my awake thoughts even louder.

There’s no going back to dreamland, so I peel myself from her bed and head to the kitchen. I turn the stove on. Four eggs meet the pan and two slices of bread meet the toaster.

There are no flowers in the vase on the island, so I head to the front yard. The flowers on the front porch are still dead, but I don’t need flowers. Not today. I pluck weeds from the yard for the vase.

Late-summer-singed dandelions, purple dead-nettles, white clovers. If you’re worthy of a windowsill, you’re worthy of being called more than just a weed.

The eggs are ready to flip. I break my yolk and leave Blair’s untouched. I jelly the toast, flip the eggs onto their plates, and arrange it on the first pan I find under the stove.

Today’s breakfast in bed isn’t as glamorous as the movies make it seem, but those people didn’t lose their only cousin. They didn’t wake up to a million reminders of a tragedy. They didn’t bear the pain of their heartbroken aunt.

Blair’s still sleeping when I open her door.

I set the tray down on her bedside table, pick my plate off to go eat in the living room.

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