Amy looked away; some echo of truth rested in what Carol Anne was saying, but Amy couldn’t or didn’t want to find it. Time slipped past them and the sun descended to the rhododendron bushes in the backyard, the tips lit like miniature green torches. Amy leaned back against the couch cushions, forgetting about telegrams, Jack and Lisbeth, and the dull longing burrowed in her chest; she was thankful for the bushes Phil had planted in the backyard, for her best friend, for her cushy couches.

Amy reached for Carol Anne’s hand. “Can I say it again? I am so proud of you.”

“Yes, you can. You know, Amy—you’ll get mad at me for saying this, but you have to find out what’s really bothering you—not just look at the old stuff to . . . I don’t know—feel better.”

Amy closed her eyes and hugged her friend goodbye. Carol Anne had attempted to impart some truth, but there was no way anyone could understand the tug-of-war her heart and mind played all day. Wise words, quotes and her friend’s metaphors weren’t going to solve this pain and she didn’t know what would.

After Carol Anne’s car puffed white smoke down the driveway, Amy grabbed her winter parka off the back of the kitchen chair, then walked outside to watch the sun set behind her dormant rose garden. She sagged into a lawn chair and stared at the sky, admired the overblown and shrouded sun behind the yellow and pink striated clouds. She watched and let her mind wander, once again, to the past invading the present.

A loud bang caused her to jump; Phil walked into the backyard. “What’re you doing out here in the dark?”

“Watching the sun set.”

“Babe, the sun set half an hour ago. Get inside. You’re gonna freeze.”

She glanced up at the ink black sky: no moon, no stars, no setting sun. How had she not noticed when she was watching the entire time? How could she have missed the final sinking of the sun, or the shudders of her life? She’d been watching, but obviously not carefully enough.

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-six

Nick slid down in the chair, hoped the dark, greasy-haired boy in front of him was tall enough to hide his own too-long hair from Amy’s sight. The classroom was shaped like an amphitheater, rising from a podium in curved rows of blue padded spring-back chairs overlooking a chalkboard wall. A musty smell, like an old gym locker mixed with chalk dust, filled the room. The floor was sticky under Nick’s feet, where another student must have spilled some caffeine-laden drink, trying to stay awake during class. The name “Megan” was carved in crooked lettering on the wooden flip-down desk, which pulled up from the side of the chair like a meal tray on an airplane.