Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

She lifted the gray bag. “I brought her something to read. ”

“Great! Great! I could use some time in the garden. The weeds are bullying me around this month. You want some lemonade? It’s homemade. ”

“Sure. ” She followed Dorothy through the scrupulously clean rambler. Drying lavender hung from the rafters overhead, scented the air. Bouquets of fragrant roses displayed in cracked water pitchers and metal pans decorated the counters and tabletops.

Dorothy disappeared into the kitchen and came back with an icy glass of lemonade.

“Thanks. ”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Marah nodded and went down the long hallway to Tully’s room. Sunlight poured through the window, making the blue walls shimmer like seawater.

Tully lay in her hospital bed, angled up, her eyes closed, her brown hair dusted with gray threads and curled riotously around her pale, thin face. A creamy coverlet was tucked up to just below her collarbone. Her chest rose and fell in a steady, easy rhythm. She looked so peaceful. As always, for a split second, Marah thought Tully would just open her eyes and give her that wide, toothy smile and say, Hey.

Marah forced herself to move forward. The room smelled of the gardenia hand lotion Dorothy loved. On the bedside table was a worn paperback copy of Anna Karenina that Desmond had been reading to Tully for months.

“Hey,” Marah said to her godmother. “I’m going off to college. I know you know that, I’ve been talking about it for months. Loyola Marymount. In Los Angeles. Ironic, right? I think a smaller school will be good for me. ” She wrung her hands together. This wasn’t what she’d come for. Not today.

For months and months, she’d believed in a miracle. Now, though, it was time to say goodbye.

And something else.

The ache in her chest was big and getting bigger. She reached for the chair by the bed and sat down, scooting close. “I’m the reason you crashed your car, aren’t I? Because I was a bitch and sold that story to the magazine. I told the world you were a drug addict. ”

The silence after her statement dragged her down. Dr. Bloom had tried to convince her that Tully’s condition wasn’t her fault—everyone had—but it was one more thing Marah couldn’t make herself believe. She couldn’t help apologizing every time she visited.

“I wish we could start over, you and me. I miss you so much. ” Marah’s voice was soft, uncertain.

In the quiet, she sighed and reached down for the gray bag on the floor beside her. She pulled out her most prized possession. Her mother’s journal.

Her hands shook a little as she opened the journal, saw Katie’s Story written in Tully’s bold, scrawling handwriting.

Marah stared down at those two words. How was it possible that she was still afraid to read what was written on these pages? She should want to read her mother’s last thoughts, but the idea of it made her queasy. “I promised her I’d read this with you when I was ready. I’m not really ready, and you’re not really you, but I’m leaving and Dr. Bloom tells me it’s time. And she’s right. It is time. ”

Marah said quietly, “Here goes,” and started to read aloud.

Panic always comes to me in the same way. First, I get a knot in the pit of my stomach that turns to nausea, then a fluttery breathlessness that no amount of deep breathing can cure. But what causes my fear is different every day; I never know what will set me off. It could be a kiss from my husband, or the lingering look of sadness in his eyes when he draws back. Sometimes I know he’s already grieving for me, missing me even while I’m still here. Worse yet is Marah’s quiet acceptance of everything I say. I would give anything for another of our old knock-down, drag-out fights. That’s one of the first things I’d say to you now, Marah: Those fights were real life. You were struggling to break free of being my daughter but unsure of how to be yourself, while I was afraid to let you go. It’s the circle of love. I only wish I’d recognized it then. Your grandmother told me I’d know you were sorry for those years before you did, and she was right. I know you regret some of the things you said to me, as I regret my own words. None of that matters, though. I want you to know that. I love you and I know you love me.

But these are just more words, aren’t they? I want to go deeper than that. So, if you’ll bear with me (I haven’t really written anything in years), I have a story to tell you. It’s my story, and yours, too. It starts in 1960 in a small farming town up north, in a clapboard house on a hill above a horse pasture. When it gets good, though, is 1974, when the coolest girl in the world moved into the house across the street …

Marah lost herself in the story of a lonely fourteen-year-old girl who got made fun of on the bus and lived through her favorite fictional characters. They called me Kootie and laughed at my clothes and asked me where the flood was and I never said a word, just hugged my brown-paper-wrapped schoolbooks closer to my chest. Frodo was my best friend that year, and Gandalf and Sam and Aragon. I imagined myself on some mythical quest. Marah could picture it perfectly: an unpopular girl who sat out one night under the stars and happened to meet another lonely girl. A few chance words that night became the start of a friendship that changed both of their lives.

And we thought we looked good. Have you gone there yet, Marah? Followed fashion to a ridiculous place that makes no sense and still looked in the mirror and seen a cool, magical version of yourself? That was the eighties for me. Of course, Tully was in full control of my wardrobe …

Marah touched her short black hair, remembering when it was pink and gelled …

When I met your father, it was magic. Not for him—not then—but for me. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can look into a pair of eyes and see your whole future. I wish that kind of love for you kids—don’t accept anything less.

When I held my babies and looked into their murky eyes, I found my life’s work. My passion. My purpose. It may not be trendy, but I was born to be a mother, and I loved every single second of it. You and your brothers taught me everything there was to know about love, and it breaks my heart to leave you.

The journal kept going, winding and turning and bending through the years of her mother’s life; by the time Marah came to the end, the sun was gone; night had fallen and Marah hadn’t even noticed. Orange exterior light came through the windowpanes. Marah clicked on the bedside lamp and kept reading aloud.

Here’s what you need to know, Marah. You are a struggler, a railer-against-the-machine. I know losing me will wound you deeply. You’ll remember our arguments and fights.

Forget them, baby girl. That was just you being you and me being me. Remember the rest of it—the hugs, the kisses, the sandcastles we made, the cupcakes we decorated, the stories we told each other. Remember how I loved you, every single bit of you. Remember I loved your fire and your passion. You are the best of me, Marah, and I hope that someday you’ll discover that I am the best of you, too. Let everything else go. Just remember how we loved each other.

Love. Family. Laughter. That’s what I remember when it’s all said and done. For so much of my life I thought I didn’t do enough or want enough. I guess I can be forgiven for my stupidity. I was young. I want my children to know how proud I am of them, and how proud I am of me. We were everything we needed—you and Daddy and the boys and I. I had everything I ever wanted.

Love.