Far From You Read online

pulled me

  to him

  as the music ripped

  through our bodies.

  I didn’t know his name.

  He didn’t know mine.

  And yet,

  it was like

  we’d known each other

  forever.

  My best friend, Claire,

  was with me,

  and she kept trying

  to pull me away,

  like she was afraid

  for my life.

  Silly girl.

  Nothing to worry about.

  If anything,

  he sparked

  a fire

  inside of me,

  making me want

  to live

  again.

  the peace I need

  I pulled up in my old Nova.

  Claire got in

  wearing a long, flowing purple skirt

  and a silky, smooth black blouse.

  She makes

  all of her own

  clothes.

  Fashion

  is her

  passion.

  I think she

  should be a singer.

  She’s the voice

  to the music we make

  at church.

  Like hot cocoa

  and a soft blanket

  and fuzzy slippers,

  warming you up

  top to bottom.

  Raspy and sweet

  all at the

  same time.

  I used to envy her,

  but then I decided

  to just be thankful

  for making

  incredible music

  together.

  My music

  was complete

  because of Claire.

  She got in

  and threw a CD

  in my lap.

  “Your turn to listen.”

  The church we go to,

  Center for Spiritual Living,

  makes CDs

  of the sermons

  and the music.

  After I backed out,

  I looked at Claire,

  but my smile

  didn’t want to come out

  and play.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  She knows me

  like a druggie knows

  his best vein.

  “They went to the hospital.

  Early this morning.”

  She gave a nod

  of understanding.

  I drove

  in silence.

  That is,

  until she reached over

  and popped the CD in the player

  Blaze had installed for my birthday.

  We listened to her sing

  the words:

  Pain in your heart.

  You’re playing the part

  of a human in need.

  You beg and you plead

  Wash it away.

  Wash it away.

  Give me the peace,

  the peace I need.

  I wrote that song.

  Funny how

  time goes on,

  things change,

  and yet,

  some things stay

  exactly the same.

  me and God

  It’s not that I’m

  super-religious or anything.

  In fact,

  the Center for Spiritual Living

  is not about religion.

  Otherwise

  it’d be called

  the Center for Religious Living.

  There’s a difference.

  I like it because

  there isn’t any

  bullshit there.

  They let me be

  who I am,

  and understand

  that it’s all about

  staying

  connected

  to the source.

  I’ve been going

  for as long

  as I can remember.

  It was my mom’s church.

  She played the guitar and sang.

  Dad hardly ever went with her.

  But she’d take me,

  and I’d sit in the audience,

  hypnotized

  by her voice.

  Magical.

  She’s the reason

  I’m in love

  with music.

  It’s one

  of the many gifts

  she gave me.

  She probably

  helped give me

  my love for

  God too,

  even though I get

  mad at him sometimes.

  Kinda like my dad.

  I get mad at him a lot.

  Still, I can’t help

  but love him too.

  holes of the heart

  After church

  we went out

  for doughnuts

  and coffee.

  Claire loves

  chocolate coconut ones.

  She likes to dip them

  in her coffee,

  and then coconut flakes

  float on the top

  like icicles

  bobbing down

  a muddy river.

  I like the holes.

  The little rejects

  that aren’t

  as alluring

  but are just as

  sweet.

  “I’m sewing my dad’s bowling shirt this afternoon,”

  Claire told me.

  “A bowling shirt?”

  She shrugged. “He joined a league.

  His team wants cool shirts.

  I said I’d make him one.

  If they like it, I’ll make them for the whole team.”

  “Claire.

  A bowling shirt?

  What’s next?

  A fishing vest?”

  She reached over

  and took one of my

  powdered-sugar

  doughnut holes.

  “Shut up.

  It’s cool. I swear.

  I’ll show you.”

  Claire didn’t put

  the entire hole

  into her mouth.

  She took a bite,

  and her lips

  were suddenly white,

  like she kissed

  a snowman

  and he kissed her back.

  I pictured this girl

  with white lips

  sewing bowling shirts,

  and it made me laugh.

  She grabbed another hole

  and dabbed it on my cheeks.

  I squealed and started

  to do the same,

  when my phone rang.

  We froze,

  doughnut holes

  midair.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  “Maybe it’s Blaze,” she said.

  I glanced at the number.

  I shook my head.

  I stuffed the doughnut hole in my mouth.

  The phone kept ringing.

  Claire gave me a look.

  “I’m eating!” I mumbled.

  Finally

  the ringing

  stopped

  and I noticed

  my heart felt heavy,

  like the holes

  were stuck

  right

  there.

  Holes in my heart.

  Yeah.

  That was about right.

  what to do?

  As I drove Claire home,

  she talked,

  trying to get my brain

  to think about other things.

  It didn’t work.

  “Want to come in?”

  she asked when I pulled in the driveway.

  I shook my head.

  “Come on.

  Don’t you want to see the bowling shirt?”

  I smiled.

  “Sorry, Claire,” I said.

  “Forgive me?”


  She reached over for a hug.

  I liked her answer.

  “Go see Blaze,” she said.

  “Don’t go home and just sit there.”

  She’s smart,

  that girl.

  “And check your messages,” she said as she got out.

  Okay.

  Maybe

  too smart.

  the good stuff

  Blaze’s mom, Ginger, let me in

  and pointed to the garage,

  which meant

  that’s where he was.

  She doesn’t like me.

  Blaze keeps telling me I’m imagining it.

  I say I’m right.

  When I learned she’s a tattoo artist,

  I wanted her to give me one.

  She’s given Blaze seven.

  I wanted a little heart

  on my chest

  like Janis Joplin

  supposedly had.

  Dad would never know.

  Still, she wouldn’t do it.

  She used my age as an excuse.

  Whatever.

  She doesn’t talk to me.

  Never says, “Hi, Ali, how are you?”

  Or “Ali, want to stay for dinner tonight?”

  Or “Ali, I hear you’re going to be a sister.”

  Nothing.

  Like that day.

  No talking.

  Just pointing.

  Blaze was banging

  on his drum set,

  the music from the stereo

  blasting so loud,

  I wondered

  if he could hear

  himself play.

  I stood there,

  him oblivious

  to anything

  but the music.

  I love to watch him play.

  Muscles urging.

  Passion surging.

  Anger purging.

  So. Powerful.

  When the song ended,

  I walked over,

  and from behind,

  I slipped my arms

  around his tattoo-covered chest,

  leaned down,

  and kissed his neck.

  He took my hand

  and with a hundred kisses,

  walked his lips

  up my arm.

  “Surprise,” I whispered in his ear.

  He stood up,

  turned around,

  and then

  the world disappeared

  as I was swept up

  and away

  into the world

  of Blaze.

  Muscles urging.

  Passion surging.

  Anger purging.

  So. Amazing.

  almost the perfect day

  I got my guitar.

  We played.

  We kissed.

  We danced.

  We kissed.

  We talked.

  We kissed.

  We sang.

  We kissed.

  I almost forgot

  everything else.

  Almost.

  the best

  Finally

  I told him.

  “I think I’m a sister today.”

  “You think?”

  “Dad called.

  I didn’t answer.”

  He looked at me

  with his

  chocolate brown eyes

  and it’s like

  his love

  radiated through me

  so strongly,

  I started

  to sweat.

  “Want me to listen for you?” he asked.

  That is why I have

  more love

  than my heart

  can possibly hold

  for Blaze.

  He is

  better than warm fall colors,

  better than beautiful music,

  better than doughnuts and coffee.

  At that moment,

  I couldn’t think of one single thing

  better

  than Blaze.

  oh, so gently

  We went to his room.

  He listened to the message.

  When he was done,

  he kissed me softly,

  with such tenderness,

  it almost brought me

  to tears.

  Then he wrapped

  his strong arms

  around me

  and whispered in my ear,

  “Her name is Ivy.

  And she has the best big sister ever.”

  before, after, and somewhere in-between

  Blaze and his mom

  were going out to dinner

  with Blaze’s older brother and his brother’s wife.

  I wanted to go too.

  But Ginger didn’t invite me.

  It was hard to for me to leave,

  because I knew

  it’d be a while

  before I’d see Blaze again.

  We don’t go to the same school,

  and I’m so jealous of the girls

  who kiss their boyfriends

  before every class.

  Lucky girls.

  So, after we said good-bye,

  I headed home,

  thinking it would just be

  me and Cobain

  eating mac ’n’ cheese.

  But Dad was there.

  He looked happier

  than I’d ever

  seen him.

  “I thought you could come to the hospital,” he said.

  “We can all spend the evening together.

  You can meet your baby sister.

  She’s adorable, Al.”

  Perfect.

  The kid wasn’t even a day old

  and the one big, happy family thing

  had already begun.

  “I have homework, Dad.

  I can’t.”

  He tried to convince me

  I could skip it,

  or bring it with me,

  or do it in the morning before school,

  but I played the part of

  concerned student,

  and finally

  he let up.

  “You want something to eat?” he asked me,

  and suddenly

  it was like it was before.

  Before she came along.

  “Yeah.

  I’m hungry.”

  I had visions of us

  at the counter,

  making dinner

  together.

  We’d boil the noodles

  and mix up the sauce,

  throwing in a little bit of this

  and a whole lot of that.

  And then we’d sit down

  at the table

  together.

  Just me

  and him.

  I thought, Maybe he’ll ask about school.

  Maybe he’ll ask about my music.

  Maybe he’ll ask about Blaze.

  He reached for his wallet.

  “Why don’t you have a pizza delivered?

  I have to get back to the hospital.”

  He handed me a twenty.

  “We’ll be home tomorrow.”

  And then he left,

  taking any hunger

  I might have had

  right along with him.

  the long version

  When I came home

  from school that day

  so long ago,

  Mom told me to sit down

  and she’d get me some

  milk and cookies.

  She was a morning kindergarten teacher

  and was always there

  when I came home.

  But she was also an artist,

  and in the afternoons

  she’d usually be in her studio,

  painting.

  At that time,

  she’d been busy

  painting pictures

  for the owners of

  a bed and breakfast


  who wanted an

  Alice in Wonderland room.

  Mom loved the project because

  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  was her all-time

  favorite book.

  She even named me

  after Alice.

  The snickerdoodles,

  fresh from the oven,

  were warm

  and comforting,

  just like

  a mother’s love.

  She sat and

  watched me eat

  while I babbled on

  about this thing

  and that thing.

  When I saw

  a single,

  lonely tear

  escape

  before she could

  reach up

  and catch it,

  I stopped talking,

  suddenly aware

  of how the cookies

  were made

  to soften the blow

  of whatever

  was coming next.

  I don’t remember

  much of anything

  after she said

  the words

  “pancreatic cancer,”