Nothing But Blue (10 page)

No one could appreciate this house or my room the way I did. This house, my house, would have a big For Sale sign stuck in the front yard. As if anyone who wanted to could buy it and live in it.

“It'll all work out. You'll see,” my father said.

My mother put her hand on my knee. “We're doing this so you can have more things, sweetie. So you can be happy. You're never happy anymore. You'll be happier there, I promise. We'll buy you a brand-new computer as soon as we get there. And we can afford to send you to a better college. Anywhere you want.” She leaned over and tried to touch my hair. I pulled away.

Do parents ever think of their kids when it comes to big decisions? Like uprooting them right before their last year of high school? Taking them away from the one boyfriend they may ever have? I was born in this town. The ocean was deep inside me. I'd painted my bedroom five different colors trying to find the perfect one. I finally found it. A soft spring-lilac color called Enchanted. I had the mural of the trees on my wall.

And now I had Jake. My life was finally, finally beginning, and I had to leave. It wasn't right.

I run away from Clara and the restaurant with the chant pounding louder than ever.

All dead. No one survived. All dead. All dead.

One survived.

I run in a blur, my feet hitting the pavement with the rhythm of a sledgehammer. I'm running, I think. I am running home. My parents would be so proud of me for getting exercise. I'm running harder, faster, and stronger than ever.

It starts to rain. I turn around to see if anyone has followed me. No one. Not even Shadow. I don't know if he saw me run out; maybe he'd gone around the corner to find some garbage to eat. What if he didn't notice that I left? I didn't think to call for him. How could I do that? Or did he finally decide not to come with me? To leave me all alone once and for all? No, he said he'd be with me. It's all my fault.

I stop running, not sure what to do. The rain starts to come down steady. For some reason I feel lighter, and then I realize why. I left my entire backpack at the restaurant. Everything. How could I be so stupid? I've lost my dog and all my stuff. My clothes, the knife, my water bottles, everything I've managed to find is gone. I have to start over. I can't go back. I have to go forward. Always forward.

Through the downpour I see a small white church. It sits on a hill like a castle.

The door is open so I walk in. There are old wooden pews and a small platform in the front with a podium on one side and an organ off to the other. A huge bouquet of flowers is on the podium. The church is peaceful and calm, and best of all, empty. I can hide out here for a while, dry off and regroup.

I sit in a pew and close my eyes. I erase Clara at the diner. I erase what she said. She doesn't know anything anyway. Already she is part of the past. I am here now in a church.

I take a deep breath, count to ten, let it out slowly, and repeat. This has become my way of praying. I'm not praying to anything in particular. I'm not religious. I don't like labels and I don't like things that people have to join. I guess that means I can be whatever I want. But really, all I want to be is nothing. Nothing would be so much easier than this. I concentrate on nothingness.

My breath eases. The pine-wood smell combined with the lilies on the podium makes me yawn. There is a small stained-glass window that lets in a soft light while the rain patters against it. All of this gives the place a sense of tranquility and warmth. Maybe this is what spirituality is. Maybe this is why people come to places to worship. They need to go somewhere to be calm. I lie down on the bench and close my eyes. I wonder if there is a god, and if so, what the plans for me are. Maybe this is a way of telling me to pay attention, to do something with my life. Or maybe this is what death is—not caring anymore. Not
doing
anything anymore. Giving in to the nothingness. Maybe there is no reason, no plan. Nothing.

The sound of footsteps makes me open my eyes with a start. I'm crouched low enough so that I don't think I can be seen, but I shrink into the back of the pew, just in case.

The feet walk by me to the stage. A chair scrapes across the floor, and then the pipes of the organ fill the room. Each note vibrates to the ceiling and hovers. It is a sad melody, like a long, low, hauntingly beautiful howl. One note echoes and then another plays over it.

The notes pour through my veins and into my heart, filling me with something I can't describe—a mixture of sadness and beauty all at once. Before I know it tears are streaming down my face. A hiccup escapes, loud enough to be heard. I put my hand over my mouth, but it's too late. The music stops.

“Who's here?” A man's voice.

The church is just a church again. I have been discovered.

The man walks over and stands in front of the pew so that I can't get by him. I sit up. He is wearing olive-green coveralls and has a dark bushy mustache. He looks worried. “There is no service today,” he says with a Spanish accent.

“Th . . . the door was open,” I stutter.

“No one is supposed to be here,” he says. “You won't tell, will you?”

I must have given him a confused look because he goes on. “Only the organist is supposed to play. This is a very old organ. Worth a lot of money.”

“But it was so beautiful,” I blurt.

“I'm the maintenance man. I will get fired if they know I play it.”

“What was the music? That you were playing?”

“Bach.”

“It was beautiful,” I say again.

The man examines me more closely. Can he tell I've been crying? “Do you need something?” he asks.

I wipe my face. “I just came in to get dry. I'll leave now.”

“You can stay till it stops raining,” he says.

“Will you . . .” I pause, searching for the right way to ask. “Would you . . . keep playing?”

“You will not tell?”

I shake my head.

“Okay,” he says. “Only because you need some Bach.” He goes back to the front.

I let the music fill me. The ache in my legs goes away. The blisters on my feet no longer sting. I am crying but I am not sad. When the man finally stops and the final note fades, there is silence everywhere. Calm, peaceful silence.

The silence is suddenly broken by a bark. I sit up. Shadow? Is he here? The bark comes again. It is outside. It sounds like him—a short, sharp, single bark. He wants to come in. The man opens the door before I can get up, and a sopping wet Shadow bounds down the aisle.

Shadow! My Shadow! He is so tickled to see me, he practically leaps into my arms. I am so tickled to see him, I say his name over and over and tell him how sorry I am and that I will never, ever leave without him again. I had just started to dry off and Shadow leaves me damp and smelling of wet dog, but I don't care.

“Your dog?” the man asks.

“Yes,” I say.

The man puts his hand out, and Shadow sniffs it. “No dogs allowed,” he says. “I'll get in much trouble.” But he pets Shadow behind the ears affectionately. He bends down to Shadow's level. They stare at each other. I look from one to the other, each reflected in the other's eyes. Then Shadow bows his head and breaks the stare.

The man still has a faraway look in his eyes. “Some dogs are magical,” he says. “They know things. They make things happen. They have a power.” He stands up and puts a hand on my shoulder. “This dog, he is magic for you.”

I start to protest. How can a dog be magic? Besides, if he is magic, how come so many bad things have happened? Very bad, awful things. I don't believe in magic. I certainly don't believe in magic dogs, but Shadow keeps finding me and I can't explain how. And then there's the communicating thing. I look at Shadow now, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe that was all in my mind, like everything else.

“I have to go now,” I say. “Thank you for the music.”

I head for the door. The rain is really coming down, and the sky is dark. How did it get to be night again? I must have been in the church a lot longer than I thought.

“Come,” the man says, and gestures to me.

Shadow follows him and I follow Shadow outside down a small path through the rain until we reach a one-room shed in back of the church. It's full of gardening tools, pots, rakes, and a lawn mower, but tucked in the back along the wall and under a tiny window there is a camp cot. Shadow immediately bounds over and jumps on it. I start to reprimand him.

“It's okay,” the man says. “You can rest here. No one comes in but me. There are some towels and blankets.” He points to a chest of drawers.

A room with a roof, a window, a bed, and blankets! “Thank you,” I say. Shadow has already snuggled himself in a ball but looks up and wags his tail.

“You must need magic,” the man says. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “You will be all right.” Then he turns and leaves.

 

I leave the shed as soon as the sun is up. It's stopped raining and I want to get a fresh start to make up for lost time.

I walk for a long time on a stretch of straight road. There is no sidewalk, but there is a raised curb in front of the barrier. I take a rest to massage my feet. Shadow takes advantage of a shady spot to lie down while I finish the rest of a sandwich I've been saving since my last dumpster rummage.

The air is still. The sky is such a crisp, crystal blue that colors everywhere are enhanced. Touches of yellow, red, and orange creep along the edges of every leaf. Everything sparkles. I close my eyes and imagine the ocean with the sun glistening on the surface and the horizon a straight sharp line, only a few rocky islands to break it up. The kind of day I used to love. And if the air was at all warm enough, you could take one last plunge of the season into the icy cold waters.

I hold my face to the sun. I used to spend so many of my days just killing time. My parents called me apathetic. “Do something,” they said. “Get some exercise. Join a club. Make some friends.” But I didn't do anything, just listened to music, watched TV, and waited for something to happen. In the summer I waited for school to start. Once it started, I waited for it to end. I never called my friends. I waited for them to call me, which they did for a while, but eventually they stopped. I waited for someone to ask me out. I figured if I just waited long enough, eventually something would happen, and finally someone did ask me out. Was that really what I had been waiting for all along?

Shadow comes over to sit with me. I put my arm around him. “I don't know anything,” I say.

He quirks his head, listening hard.

“You know so much. You're a dog, and you know way more than I ever will.”

He touches my hand with his cold, wet nose.

We sit like that for a few minutes, until Shadow lets out a deep sigh and does a full-body shake
. Stop waiting,
he says.

I get up. “Guess it's time to push on, then.”

There is a long hill in front of me. We must be nearing the mountains, which means there are many more mountains beyond before we get to the coast. But I suppose I am getting closer. Bit by bit.

I make the slow climb upward, then all the way down. When I get to the bottom the wind slows to stillness. I stop and listen.

I look behind. Nothing is there. The air moves in small ripples, as though it's been disturbed. Then I hear, ever so faintly, what sounds like a thousand marching footsteps approaching. I almost expect to see an army with cavalry and spears appear out of mist, ready to storm into battle.

On the crest of the hill a long line of people emerges. They are backed by the sun, so they are dark silhouettes. They are coming straight toward me. They take up the width of the road. Slowly they cross the top of the hill and start to descend. Behind them is another row and another and another.

There are so many. As they get closer, I can see some of them are holding signs. I watch, frozen, until I'm afraid they will see me. I jump over the rail and crouch behind a tree to watch. Shadow starts barking and I tell him to be quiet. He joins me in the bushes.

It looks like a parade, but it's so quiet. There's none of the usual parade cheers or singing or dancing. No floats or costumes. Just the marching of feet. Their signs and T-shirts say things like
NO MORE WAR
and
WALK FOR PEACE
and
LOVE IS THE WAY.
There are at least a hundred people or more—old, young, and in between. No one is talking. Where they've come from or where they're going, I don't know. It's odd that they are walking on this road, since no one is here to see them.

I watch from my hiding spot. Mostly I see their feet. They all have good sneakers or boots. Some wear little packs around their waists to carry water or snacks, but their arms swing free.

At the very end of the parade two vans follow slowly. Both have peace signs painted on the side. I imagine they are full of supplies—water, food, extra weather gear, maybe even tents and sleeping bags if the marchers are camping.

I wait until they all pass and the vans are well out of sight before I step onto the road and continue.

Shadow and I are alone again until I hear the squeaky brakes of a bicycle behind me. Before I can duck into the bushes again, it reaches me and slows down.

I notice the bike first. It's a rusty green women's no-speed. A wire basket is duct-taped to the handlebars. In the basket are pieces of computers—a smashed laptop screen, an ancient-looking keyboard, and a variety of green innards with silver and yellow wires spilling over the edge.

“Heya,” the rider says. He is thin with a thick shaggy mop of hair falling over his ears and he's wearing equally sloppy clothes. He looks like he should be on a Harley instead of this funky, ancient bicycle. He certainly doesn't look like he's part of the parade. He is smiling, and even though his teeth are crooked and at least a couple of them are chipped, it's a nice smile.