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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part One
Rip
Random Light
The Ultimate Truth
Free Fall
Setting Sail
Waves
Erosophy
Know Thyself
Life in a Glasshouse
Part Two
The Dance
Kiss the Joy as it Flies
By the World Forgot
Celebration
Whisper
If Water had Memory
Arrows and Maxims
Mantra
Part Three
Break on Through
Life’s Longing
Dervish
Glimpses from the Cavern
A Small Death
Rites of Passage
Part Four
Mystic on the Fringe
Chaos Theory
Sleepwalking
Leap
The Divinity of Love
Acknowledgments
Copyright
FOR MY BOYS
ONE
RIP
SHE LOOKS GOOD FOR A CORPSE. Except she never wore green eye shadow, was
never this still. Her rib cage has been cracked open—you can’t see anything, it’s
all been cleaned up, but I can imagine them beneath her dress, the tracks of
stitches that will never heal. Some doctor thrust his hand inside her chest,
reached in and touched her heart. It must affect your view of love. It didn’t work,
of course—her heart refused to obey his hands. Bit senseless, my dad reckoned,
breaking her open when there was no longer a chance. But it’s worth it, isn’t it?
Her face is the wrong color, too pink, like she’s stepped out of the bath, and
the coffin’s not her style. Especially the handles. She wore silver, not gold.
Nobody else seems to have noticed—nobody’s seeing anything; it’s as if they’re
wading through syrup. Have forgotten how to be real.
I was hanging out with my friend Seb while it was happening, all that
wrestling to save a life. Four days ago, that’s all it’s been. We were listening to
music. Radiohead. Could’ve been worse, I guess, more disrespectful—could’ve
been watching reality TV, or downloading porn. The problem is, I didn’t feel it.
I’ve tried, these last few days, to imagine that I sensed something, anything, the
moment she left: a stab of pain, some kind of vision. But I didn’t. I felt nothing
last Thursday afternoon, September 1st, at 4:27, the instant that Anna Ellis, my
mother, died.
*
Body lowered into the ground. Vigilant sparrows. Spring rain. Mud.
*
I feel nothing, taste nothing, not even these chocolate éclairs. Aunty Rachel, my
mom’s sister, made them because she knows they’re my favorite, but the icing’s
a paste sticking my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Aunty Rachel’s standing
over by the open window in our living room, leaning into her brother, my uncle
Carl, the curtains billowing around them like protective sails.
An old woman’s staring at me but I don’t know who she is. She frowns as I
spit the éclair into my hand and take a look at it—hey, if people can tell fortunes
from cats’ guts—and thrusts a napkin in my face.
This is not right. There are people I don’t know at my mother’s wake.
“Hello, Will,” she says. Her hair is the color of smokers’ fingers. “I’m your
great-aunt,” she whispers too close.
“Joy,” she’s saying in my face, like an insult, and I want to say, Fuck off,
Joy, what a stupid name to have at a wake. But Dad’s not far away, leaning into
the living room wall like it’s the only thing that will hold him up, his suit all
corrugated with grief.
“Joy,” she says once more to test me, and “The Lord moves in mysterious
ways.”
I step back, but there’s someone behind, hedging me in. “This is Faith,” says
Joy. “She’s your great-aunt too.”
Faith grips my arm. Her hair has the same kind of stain. “My, haven’t you
grown. You must be at least eighteen.”
“Seventeen,” I correct.
Fingertips in my bicep, she murmurs, “Anna’s safe now.”
I jerk away from her—it’s easy, she’s so small; they both are, these witches.
They’re the kind of sad old ladies who skulk around other people’s deaths in
preparation for their own.
“Safe now?” I ask, full of jagged rib cages and last thoughts, as a car steered
by a drunk driver smashes into her life. Safe as houses? Safe as death?
God, Mom, where are you? Are you disappointed I’m crap at all this? You
never told me what to do when you died, but you should’ve, because it’s the
only thing we can be sure of. Death gets all of us in the end. And then I see her,
this girl, in the light by the window, long hair, eternal legs, generous smile she’s
trying to hold on to as she talks to my dad. She looks about my age and she’s in
a white dress—didn’t anyone tell her you’re meant to wear black to a wake? She
touches her fingers to her lips and suddenly, I can taste chocolate, like a betrayal.
I am the king of bad timing. Only a monster could think of love.
*
Dream.
Hags around a cauldron. One drops in eye of newt and hemlock as the other
one stirs. Steam rises from the potion and forms question marks in the sky. The
witches are wearing black T-shirts, one saying Joy, the other Faith. They have
hair the color of a bruise and they’re pointing at an angel, its wings in full flight.
An angel with that girl’s face. The one who wore white to a wake.
*
“Will?”
It’s Adam. He’s looming over me, smelling of airports. I stretch my legs
against the sheet, and my feet touch the end of the bed.
“Hey,” I say, my eyes struggling to meet the world and my brother’s face.
He’s tanned and his hair is even shorter than when I saw him last. Must have
been six months ago—he was standing next to Mom, waving as he climbed into
her car, heading for the airport to fly to Malaysia, and now he’s sitting on the
edge of my bed. “You didn’t make it.”
“I tried, but I couldn’t get a flight.”
My mouth tastes of doubt. Adam always gets what he wants, including seats
on fully booked flights. His phone rings, the theme to the X-Men—he digs it out
of his jacket and turns it off. “So, how was it?”
“Weird.” I close my eyes again. All I can see is that girl, white wings and her
white dress.
“I spoke to Dad on the phone. He said Nan organized the whole thing, wake
and all, bloody Catholics. How’s Dad anyway? Is he all right?”
“How can you tell?”
“Good point.”
Dad leaned against our living room wall all yesterday afternoon at the wake
and let people come to him. He never said a word to me the whole frigging time
except Your mom would’ve liked those flowers. Twenty-four years they were
married—was that the best he could do?
