I close my eyes, hoping the pain will recede, but it’s too much and too loud. It’s almost as loud as the booming sound that woke me as our car crashed against a tree on the Fourth of July. We were driving back from watching fireworks over the Charles River like we did every year, and the accident claimed my dad and mom.
I fell asleep in the car, so I’m not sure what happened exactly. According to the police report, a car swerved into our lane, causing my dad to twist the wheel to avoid a collision. But it was already too late. The two cars crashed into each other, causing our car to veer off the road. It rolled a few times before crashing into a tree.
Blood rushes in my ears at the memory of being jolted awake to the deafening sound of the crash. I remember the awful rasping as Mom struggled to breathe. Then everything went oddly silent, and terror filled me. My parents were dead, both of them, and I was still here, alone. Part of me died along with them at that realization. Later on, I learned that Dad had died on impact. I’d narrowly escaped death, somehow coming out of the ordeal with only a few broken ribs and a concussion.
Luke’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I gulp for air desperately to keep the pain from swallowing me alive. Maybe I should just let it consume me.
He repeats the words I’ve heard many times during the past few weeks. I want to rip my ears from my head so I don’t have to hear them again. “Cast your burden onto the Lord, and He will . . .”
My head bows in defeat before he can finish that sentence.
I want to tell him I tried. I tried very hard to let God handle my problems. My pain. But the crushing weight of my loss still sits heavy in my chest. I’m tired of feeling angry all the time, tired of reliving the accident over and over, tired of missing them, tired of everything.
What if what if I walked out of the door and disappeared?
What if you stayed? a voice whispers in my head or my ear. I can’t tell. It seems to come from everywhere at once.
I bolt upright in the pew, looking right and left, and then over my shoulder. All eyes are focused on my uncle at the front of the church, his voice resounding across the walls and domed ceiling.
The back of my neck burns as if someone is watching me. I scan the church, wondering if my mind is finally giving in to the grief and pressure. First, I hear voices, and now, I feel as though someone is watching me.
I’m about to face forward when my gaze meets a pair of eyes staring at me with curiosity. The eyes of a girl with brown skin and curly hair that glows like a halo around her head, an effect from the sunrays streaming through the window. A pink flower is tucked into her hair. She’s leaning her head against the arm of a woman with matching features.
We stare at each other for a few seconds, then I look away, my cheeks heating with embarrassment. She must think I’m crazy or whatever.
I jump to my feet, ready to flee. From the corner of my eye, I see the panic cross Uncle Luke’s face. But I can’t stay. I need to go.
I need to breathe.
“Excuse me,” I mutter to the woman on my right at the same time as I push my feet forward, but they’re stuck on the floor. Something is holding me in place. I can’t move.
My vision suddenly blurs, and a loud boom, boom, boom fills my ears. Then I’m falling sideways. I grab the pew in front of me for support, but my hands miss it by inches, and my head smacks on something hard. My eyes fall shut, unable to take the pressure behind them. The last thing I feel before darkness claims me is a pair of strong hands grasping my shoulders.
I blink my eyes open and stare at what looks like a white ceiling. I’m lying on a hard surface, and my head feels as if it’s about to split open. I move my head to the side and take in the bookshelves filled with books and several framed photos. There’s a cross above the shelves and a picture of the Pope hanging beside it.
“Is he going to be okay?” a woman’s voice asks softly. I tilt my head and see two women hovering at the door. The one with brown skin looks awfully familiar. My brain clears a little, and I realize she was sitting next to the girl with a pink flower in her hair.
“I don’t know. I . . . he has to be okay. He just has to.” Luke’s voice cracks as he whispers those words.
No one says anything for a few seconds. I hear feet walking in my direction. Then small fingers—smaller than mine—wrap around my hand and squeeze gently.
“You’re awake,” a voice whispers in my ear.
I turn my head and meet the same eyes I saw earlier. Up close, they remind me of maple syrup. My gaze darts to the door, to the women speaking with my uncle, then back to the girl hovering above me.
“That’s my mom over there.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the door, then leans closer to my ear and says, “You’re going to be okay.”
I blink twice and croak out, “I am?”
She nods confidently. “Just a small bump here . . .” She taps a finger on her forehead. “It will heal. Everything will be okay. I promise, okay?”
Her big eyes watch me patiently. I want to believe her, but I’m having a hard time. My parents once promised me nothing would ever take them away from me. And where are they now? Dead.
A broken promise.
I turn my head to face the wall as another torrent of tears floods my eyes. Finger tips brush my skin, wiping the tears as they spill from the corner of my eye, and I can’t help it. I bring my gaze back to this girl who’s showing me kindness instead of shying away from the sadness.
She purses her lips as if she’s in deep thought, then says, “My mom once told me tears are like rain for our souls. They wash away the pain and sadness in our hearts so we don’t drown.”
I wipe my cheeks with the sleeve of my shirt, my mouth curving into a reluctant smile at her attempt to make me feel better. “Your mom sounds awesome.”
At that, she smiles wide, and I notice the little gap between her two upper teeth. Something jolts inside me, and a part of me melts a little.
“She’s really amazing.” She sing-songs the last word. “What’s your name?”
“Solomon Callan,” I reply without hesitation.
“Grace Miller.” She opens her mouth to say something but then shuts it when the conversation behind us stops. Feet move in our direction, and she pulls her hand from mine. Immediately, I miss the comfort and warmth. She reaches for the pink flower in her hair and pulls it out, then puts it in my palm. I feel the sharp edge of the metal clip nip my skin.
I’m so confused. Why did she give me this? Is she expecting me to put it in my hair? “I don’t . . . it looks better in your hair.”
“It’s a good luck charm, silly.” She giggles, reminding me of the wind chimes that used to hang from the porch ceiling at my house in Boston.
Fresh pain slices through me. My mom and I loved to sit on the porch swing and wait for my dad to come home from work. Then he’d join us, and we’d rock back and forth on the swing, simply being a family while the wind chimes blew softly in the breeze. And now my family is gone. I wipe my wet cheeks with my free hand.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Grace whispers worriedly. “It’s just a flower. I’ll take it—”
“No. It’s pretty. Thank you.” My fingers curl around the silky soft fabric in my palm. She flashes me a relieved smile.