The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, page 46
He can’t hold time at bay.
It is racing forward now, rushing away.
And Addie looks at him as if she can read his mind, see the storm building in his head. But she is sunshine. She is clear skies.
She draws him out of bed, and into the kitchen, and Henry sits on a stool and listens as she makes an omelet and tells him about the first time she flew a plane, heard a song on the radio, saw a moving picture.
This is the last gift she can give him, these moments he will never have.
And this is the last gift he can give her, the listening.
And he wishes they could climb back into bed with Book, but they both know there’s no going back. And now that he’s up, he cannot bear the stillness. He is all restless energy, and urgent need, and there isn’t enough time, and he knows of course that there will never be.
That time always ends a second before you’re ready.
That life is the minutes you want minus one.
And so they get dressed, and they go out, and walk, wearing circles into the block as the panic begins to win. It is a hand pressing against weakened glass, a steady pressure on spreading cracks, but Addie is there, her fingers laced through his.
“Do you know how you live three hundred years?” she says.
And when he asks how, she smiles. “The same way you live one. A second at a time.”
And eventually his legs are tired, and the restlessness recedes, doesn’t vanish but dulls to a manageable degree, and they go to the Merchant, and order food they do not eat, and order beers they do not drink because he cannot bear to dull these last few hours, as frightening as it is to face them sober.
And he makes some comment about his last meal, laughs at the morbid thought of it, and Addie’s smile falters, for just a second, and then he is apologizing, he is sorry, and she is folding herself around him, and the panic has its claws in him.
The storm is brewing in his head, churning the sky on the horizon, but he doesn’t fight it.
He lets it come.
Only when it starts raining does he realize the storm is real.
He tips his head back, and feels the drip of rain on his cheeks, and thinks of the night they went to the Fourth Rail, the downpour that caught them breathless when they reached the street. He thinks of that before he thinks of the rooftop, and that is something.
He feels so far from the Henry who climbed up there a year ago—or perhaps he’s not that far at all. It is only a matter of steps, after all, from the street to the edge.
But what he would give to go back down.
God, what he would give for just another day.
The sun is gone now, the light going thin, and he will never see it again, and the fear crashes into him, sudden and traitorous. It is a gust of wind, cutting through a too-still scene. He fights it back, not yet, not yet, not yet, and Addie squeezes his hand, so he won’t blow away.
“Stay with me,” she says, and he answers, “I’m here.”
His fingers tighten on hers.
He doesn’t have to ask, she doesn’t have to answer.
There is an unspoken agreement that she will be there, with him, until the very end.
That this time, he won’t be alone.
And he is okay.
It is okay.
It will be okay.
XVIII
It is almost time, and they are on the roof.
The same roof he nearly stepped off a year before, the same one where he stood with the devil and made his deal. It is a full-circle moment, and he doesn’t know if it has to be here, if he has to be here, but it feels right.
Addie’s hand is linked in his, and that feels right, too.
A grounding force against a rising storm.
There is still a little time, the hand on the watch a fraction of a fraction of a fraction from midnight, and he can hear Bea’s voice in his head.
Only you would arrive early to your own death.
And Henry smiles, despite himself, and wishes he had said more to Bea, and Robbie, but the simple fact is he didn’t trust himself. He has made his good-byes, though they will not know it until he’s gone, and he is sorry for that, for them, for whatever pain he might cause. He is glad they have each other.
Addie’s hand tightens in his.
It is almost time, and he wonders what it will feel like, to lose a soul.
If it will be like a heart attack, sudden and violent, or as easy as falling asleep. Death takes so many forms. Perhaps this does, too. Will the darkness appear and reach a hand into his chest, and pull his soul out between his ribs like a magic trick? Or will some force compel him to finish what he started? To walk to the edge of the roof, and step off? Will he be found on the street below, as if he’d jumped?
Or will they find him up here, on the roof?
He does not know.
He does not need to know.
He is ready.
He is not ready.
He wasn’t ready last year on the roof, when the stranger held out his hand. He wasn’t ready then, and he isn’t ready now, and he is beginning to suspect no one is ever ready, not when the moment comes, not when the darkness reaches out to claim its prize.
Music streams, thin and tinny, through a neighbor’s open window, and Henry pulls his thoughts back from death, and the edge of the roof, to the girl with her hand in his, the one telling him to dance with her.
He pulls her close, and she smells of summer, she smells of time, she smells of home.
“I’m here,” she says.
Addie has promised to stay with him until the end.
The end. The end. The end.
It echoes through his head like the striking of a clock, but it’s not time, he still has time, though it is vanishing so fast.
They teach you growing up that you are only one thing at a time—angry, lonely, content—but he’s never found that to be true. He is a dozen things at once. He is lost and scared and grateful, he is sorry and happy and afraid.
But he is not alone.
It is beginning to rain again, the air gone damp with the metallic scent of storms in the city, and Henry doesn’t care, thinks there is something to be said for symmetry.
They turn in a slow circle on the roof.
He has not slept well in days, and it has made his legs heavy, his mind too slow, the minutes speeding up around him, and he wishes the music were louder, wishes the sky were lighter, wishes he had just a little more time.
No one is ever ready to die.
Even when they think they want to.
No one is ready.
He isn’t ready.
But it is time.
It is time.
Addie is saying something, but the watch has stopped moving, it hangs weightless on him now, and it is time, and he can feel himself slipping, can feel the edges of his mind going soft, the night heavy, and any moment the stranger will step out of the dark.
Addie is guiding his face to hers, she is saying something, and he doesn’t want to listen, he’s afraid it’s a good-bye, he just wants to hold on to this moment, to make it last, to will it still, turn the film into a freeze frame, let that be the end, not darkness, not nothing, just a permanent moment. A memory, trapped in amber, in glass, in time.
But she is still speaking.
“You promised you would listen,” she says, “you promised you would write it down.”
He doesn’t understand. The journals are on the shelf. He has written her story—every part.
“I did,” he says. “I did.”
But Addie is shaking her head.
“Henry,” she says. “I haven’t told you how it ends.”
New York City
September 1, 2014
(3 nights until the end)
XIX
Some decisions happen all at once.
And others build up over time.
A girl makes a deal with the darkness, after years of dreaming.
A girl falls in love with a boy in a moment, and resolves to set him free.
Addie doesn’t know exactly when she decided.
Perhaps she has known since the night Luc walked back into their lives.
Or perhaps she has known since the night he wrote her name.
Or perhaps she has known since he said those words:
I remember you.
She isn’t sure.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters is that, three nights before the end, Addie slips out of bed. Henry rolls over in his sleep, wakes enough to hear her padding down the hall, but not enough to hear her put on her shoes, or slip out into the dark.
It is almost two—that time between very late, and very early—and even Brooklyn has quieted to a murmur as she walks the two blocks to the Merchant bar. It is an hour until closing, the crowd thinned to a few determined drinkers.
Addie takes a stool at the bar, and orders a shot of tequila. She’s never been one for hard liquor, but she downs the drink in one, feels the warmth settle in her chest as she reaches into her pocket and finds the ring.
Her fingers curl around the wooden band.
She draws it out, balances the ring upright on the counter.
She spins it like a coin, but there are no heads or tails, no yes or no, no choice beyond the one she’s already made. She decides that when it settles, she will put it on. When it falls—but as it begins to wobble and tip, a hand comes down on top of it, pressing it flat against the bar.
The hand is smooth and strong, the fingers long, the details just as she once drew them. “Shouldn’t you be with your love?”
There is no humor in Luc’s eyes. They are flat, and dark.
“He’s sleeping,” she says, “and I cannot.” Luc’s hand has withdrawn, and Addie looks at the pale circle of the ring still on the counter.
“Adeline,” he says, stroking her hair. “It will hurt. And it will pass. All things do.”
“Except for us,” she murmurs. And then she adds, as if to herself, “I am glad it was only a year.”
Luc sinks onto the stool beside her. “And how was it, your human love? Was it everything you dreamed of?”
“No,” she says, and it is the truth.
It was messy. It was hard. It was wonderful, and strange, and frightening, and fragile—so fragile it hurt—and it was worth every single moment. She does not tell him any of that. Instead, she lets the “no” hang in the air between them, heavy with the weight of Luc’s assumption. His eyes, such a smug shade of green.
“But Henry doesn’t deserve to die to prove your point.”
The arrogance flickers, cut through with anger.
“A deal is a deal,” he says. “It cannot be broken.”
“And yet, you told me once that a deal could be bent, the terms rewritten. Did you mean it? Or was it just part of the ploy to get me to surrender?”
Luc’s expression darkens. “There was no ploy, Adeline. But if you think I’ll change the terms of his—”
Addie shakes her head. “I’m not talking about Henry’s deal,” she says. “I’m talking about mine.” She has practiced the words, but they still tumble awkwardly off her tongue. “I’m not asking for your mercy, and I know you have no charity. So I’m offering a trade. Let Henry go. Let him live. Let him remember me, and—”
“You would surrender your soul?” There is a shadow in his gaze when he says it, a hesitation in the words, less want than worry, and she knows then, she has him.
“No,” she says. “But only because you do not want it.” And before he can protest, she continues, “You want me.”
Luc says nothing, but his eyes brighten, his interest piqued.
“You were right,” she says. “I am not one of them. Not anymore. And I am tired of losing. Tired of mourning everything I ever try to love.” She reaches out to touch Luc’s cheek. “But I won’t lose you. And you won’t lose me. So yes.” She looks straight into his eyes. “Do this, and I will be yours, as long as you want me by your side.”
He seems to hold his breath, but she’s the one who cannot breathe. The world tips, falters, threatening to fall.
And then, at last, Luc smiles, his green eyes emerald with victory.
“I accept.”
She lets herself fold, bows her head against his chest in relief. And then his fingers come up beneath her chin, tipping her face to his, and he kisses her the way he did the night they met, swift, and deep, and hungry, and Addie feels his teeth skate across her bottom lip, the taste of copper blossom on her tongue.
And she knows that it is done.
New York City
September 4, 2014
XX
“No,” says Henry, the word half-swallowed by the storm.
The rain falls hard and fast on the roof. On them.
The clock has stopped, the hand thrown up in surrender. But he is still there.
“You can’t do this,” he says, head spinning. “I won’t let you.”
Addie flashes him a pitying look, because of course, he cannot stop her.
No one has ever been able to.
Estele used to say she was stubborn as a stone.
But even stones wear away to nothing.
And she has not.
“You can’t do this,” he says again, and she says, “It is already done,” and Henry feels dizzy, feels sick, feels the ground sway beneath him.
“Why?” he pleads. “Why would you do it?”
“Think of it as a thank-you,” she says, “for seeing me. For showing me what it’s like to be seen. To be loved. Now you get a second chance. But you have to let them see you as you are. You have to find people who see you.”
It is wrong.
It is all wrong.
“You don’t love him.”
A sad smile crosses her face.
“I’ve had my share of love,” she says, and it is time, it must be time, because his vision is blurring, the edges going black.
“Listen to me.” Her voice is urgent now. “Life can feel very long sometimes, but in the end, it goes so fast.” Her eyes are glassy with tears, but she is smiling. “You better live a good life, Henry Strauss.”
She begins to pull away, but his grip tightens. “No.”
She sighs, fingers threading through his hair. “You’ve given me so much, Henry. But I need you to do one more thing.” Her forehead presses against his. “I need you to remember.”
And he can feel his hold slipping as darkness washes across his vision, blotting out the skyline and the roof and the girl folding herself against him.
“Promise me,” she says, and her face is beginning to smudge, the swipe of her lips, brown curls in a heart-shaped face, two wide eyes, seven freckles like stars.
“Promise,” she whispers, and he is just lifting his hands, to hold her against him, to promise, but by the time his arms close around her, she is gone.
And he is falling.
PART SEVEN
I REMEMBER YOU
Title of Piece: The Girl Who Got Away
Artist: Unknown
Date: 2014
Medium: Polaroid
Location: On loan from the personal archives of Henry Strauss
Description: Collection of six (6) photographs depicting a girl in motion, her features erased, obscured, or otherwise unreadable. The final photo is different. It features a living room floor, the edge of a table, a pile of books, only a pair of feet visible at the bottom.
Background: The subject of the photos remains a topic of intense speculation, given the author’s relationship to the source material. The flash has erased all meaningful details, but the medium is what makes the pieces remarkable. In standard photography, long exposure would make it possible to achieve the desired effect of motion, but the Polaroid’s fixed shutter speed makes the illusion of movement all the more impressive.
Estimated Value: Not for sale
All works currently on display at the Modern Museum of Art exhibit In Search of the Real Addie LaRue curated by Beatrice Caldwell, PhD, Columbia.
New York City
September 5, 2014
I
This is how it ends.
A boy wakes up alone in bed.
Sunlight spills through the gap in the curtains, the buildings beyond slick with the aftermath of rain.
He feels sluggish, hungover, still caught within the dregs of sleep. He knows he was dreaming, but he can’t for the life of him remember the details of the dream, and it must not have been very pleasant, because he feels only a deep relief at waking.
Book looks over the mound of the comforter, orange eyes wide and waiting.
It’s late, the boy can tell by the angle of the light, the sounds of traffic on the street.
He didn’t mean to sleep so long.
The girl he loves is always the first to wake. Shuffling beneath the sheets, the weight of her attention, the soft touch of her fingers on his skin—they are always enough to rouse him out of sleep. Only once did he wake first, and then he had the strange pleasure of seeing her, knees curled up and face tucked against the pillows, still beneath the surface of sleep.
But that was a rainy morning just after dawn, when the world was gray, and today the sun is so bright he doesn’t know how either of them slept through it.
He rolls over to wake her.
But the other side of the bed is empty.
He splays his hand over the place where she should be, but the sheets are cold and smooth.
“Addie?” he calls, rising to his feet.
He moves through the apartment, checks the kitchen, the bathroom, the fire escape, even though he knows, he knows, he knows, that she is not there.
“Addie?”
And then, of course, he remembers.
Not the dream, there was no dream, only the night before.
The last night of his life.
The damp concrete smell of the rooftop, the last tick of the watch as its hand found twelve, her smile as she looked up into his face, and made him promise to remember.
And now he’s here, and she’s gone, and there’s no trace of her left behind except the stuff in his head and—
