Before I have a chance to say another word, she says, “I have to go.” She gives me a small wave, then turns and skips away.
“Sol?” my uncle calls out as he appears in my line of vision. I drag my gaze from Grace Miller and meet his. He sighs in relief and reaches for my hand, covering it with his larger one. “How are you feeling?”
I glance to the side again, searching for Grace, but she’s already gone. I bring my gaze back to my uncle’s.
“My head.” I touch the spot on my temple. When I fainted, I must have hit the pew in front of me before someone caught me.
I wince as Luke sweeps the hair off my forehead with his hand, resting it on my neck. He sighs wearily. “I know you’re hurting, bud. If I could turn back time, I would. I’d give your mom and dad to you.” His voice is shaky with emotion, and his palm on my neck squeezes in comfort. “I miss them so much. But if we keep the good memories here”—he points the spot where his heart is—“they will always be with us.”
“They will?” After the past few weeks, I want to believe him so badly. If there is a way to relieve this numbing pain, I’ll take it.
He nods and smiles. His eyes fill with tears, but I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad.
I push up to my elbows and press my forehead into his chest. His arms circle my shoulders, and he pulls me close.
“You have me, Sol. I’ve got you.”
Ten years old
I can’t stop thinking about Solomon Callan, the boy with sad blue eyes.
Beautiful sad blue eyes.
Right after dinner, my mom asks me to brush my teeth. She’ll come to my room shortly to tuck me in, so I do as I’m told.
When I’ve finished, I run back into my room and head for my desk. I grab a blue notebook and tear out a small piece of paper, then pick a pencil. I quickly scribble today’s date and Solomon’s name. I fold it, open the glass jar wrapped in pink lace and white ribbon, and drop it inside. My Beautiful Memories Jar was a birthday gift from my mother on my sixth birthday. On the last Sunday of each month, I empty it and read the notes as a reminder of the beautiful things that happened over the past few weeks.
I skip to my bed and straighten the pink and purple sheets before climbing on top and getting on my knees like I do every night. I pray for my mom, thanking God for giving me such an awesome and beautiful mother. I pray for Solomon to find peace and ask God to heal the large bump on his head so he doesn’t suffer from the awful headache for long. Then I pray for school holidays to come quicker so I can sleep longer in the morning and help Mom at the diner and eat as many vanilla waffles as I want without getting sick.
Mom comes into the room just as I finish praying. I crawl between the sheets, pulling them to my chin, and wait for her to read my favorite storybook from the nightstand.
She looks at the jar, and her mouth lifts in her smile. “More beautiful memories?”
“Yep.” I beam, thinking about the boy with blue eyes and wavy dark hair.
“Good.” She smiles and tucks several locks of hair behind my ear. “I noticed you didn’t have your good luck charm flower on your hair.”
“Solomon needs it more than I do.”
She nods, her smile turning gentle. “He does, doesn’t he?”
When she opens the book, she lies next to me, resting her head on the pillow beside mine. My eyes follow the slight sway of the paper cranes floating on a string suspended from the ceiling. I make a note to make more tomorrow to fill in the empty patch in the corner.
As soon as Mom picks up from where she left off last night, my eyes start to droop, lulled by her soft voice. My last thought before I fall asleep is that I wish I had the power to make people smile.
Thirteen years old
Saturday morning is my favorite day of the week. Not only do I get to sleep longer, attend morning Mass where I’m part of the altar servers, but my uncle also drives us to Boston to visit my parents at the cemetery. Then we drive back to the house I grew up in and he cooks dinner for us. Later, we drive back to Portland. This has been sort of a tradition since I moved here to live with him three years ago.
After blacking out during Mass that day, Uncle Luke and I started attending grief therapy. It took me a long time to stop resenting God. I started to believe there was an actual reason He had let me live. I joined the altar server team a year later. At first, it was something for me to do. I wanted to feel useful. Then I realized I really liked being part of something as big as Mass. Something that offered peace and refuge to me and a lot of other people.
Then I started assisting Eric Beck—the youth ministry leader—with the youth group. I finally felt as though I fit in. I felt as if I was needed.
I glance at the digital clock on the wall that flashes 10:15 a.m., then I watch as the recreational room fills in slowly for youth group, which begins in fifteen minutes.
A group of kids ranging from ten to fifteen years old stumble through the door. They shove each other and laugh out loud. A few other kids, some of them around my age, walk in and sit down. Several come from troubled family backgrounds, and being here gives them a chance to experience a completely different perspective about life. I know I’m only thirteen, but I love seeing them transition from troubled teens to God-fearing youths. Even though they’re a loud and rowdy bunch, I enjoy being a part of it.
A few weeks ago, my teacher—Mrs. Albright—asked each of us what we wanted to be when we grew up. It took me a while to figure out where my heart lay. Every time I attend Mass, an incredible peacefulness fills me like no other. Each time I minister the youth group, I feel surer about my decision. Then visiting the sick with Luke in their homes, I see how much hope and peace he gives them. When I told my uncle, he seemed concerned because I was too young to make such a decision. What he doesn’t realize is that I know myself very well. Sometimes losing someone you love makes you grow up fast.
Ivan Alvarez swaggers into the room. He’s only thirteen, like me, but he’s so confident and sure of himself, the other kids turn around to look at him. Girls giggle and fan themselves with their hands.
We first met at Lincoln Middle School when I moved here. We hit it off, and we’ve been best friends ever since. He’s half Korean and half Spanish and doesn’t attend Mass as much as his father would like. He attends youth group, though, which makes things a little better between them.
Ivan stops in front of me, and I roll my eyes. “You’re such a show-off,” I mutter under my breath with a small laugh.
He grins and shrugs. “Bet you wish you were me.”
“No.” I laugh and shake my head. “I’m good.”
“Eric not here yet?”
“Soon,” I answer. His head slants to one side as he studies me, his eyes turning serious. “What?” I ask, running my fingers along the smooth cover of my Bible to stop the nerves from taking over. I can deal with Playful Ivan. Serious Ivan, on the other hand, makes me nervous.
“What’s going on with you? You look so peaceful and happier than usual.”
The nerves I was feeling vanish, and I smile at his question. This one I can answer. I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell him the news. I pull him to the less crowded side of the room. “Remember when Mrs. Albright asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up?”