Darby Hill and see Gabe’s parking spot in front of the azalea bushes empty.
I slam out of the van, heart beating in my throat as I start toward the front steps of the house, but before I can reach the veranda, Deborah opens the door. Her cheeks are red and blotchy and wet, but she isn’t crying, and she doesn’t say a word when I step onto the porch and ask her if she’s okay.
She simply stares at me with this strange empty, lost expression for a long, long minute, a tense, strained, terrible minute that makes me feel like I’m going to lose my coffee and toast right there on her elegant doormat.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, when the silence gets to be too much. “Has Gabe been here? He said he was coming to talk to you and Mr. Alexander.”
“He was here,” she says in a flat tone. “Here and gone.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Where did he go?”
“Aaron came home for lunch and found Gabe passed out behind the wheel at the end of the drive,” she says calmly. “It looks like he lost consciousness right after he made the turn.”
My hand flies to cover my mouth, and my stomach cramps tighter, forming a sick knot at the center of me. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have taken no for an answer. I should have made him let me drive him.
“Is he okay?” I finally ask. “Can I see him?”
Deborah licks her lips, and swipes an invisible hair behind her ear, taking what feels like an eternity before she answers. “Aaron took Gabe to the hospital, while I called our friend Mary, who works in emergency. She had everything ready for them when they arrived. She promised me it would be fine.”
I nod, fighting to swallow past the lump in my throat. “So is he okay? Have you heard from the hospital? Can we go see him?”
She lifts her right hand, revealing a black cordless phone I hadn’t realized she was holding. “Aaron called ten minutes ago. I thought he was going to tell me they were coming home.”
I shake my head, feeling the truth bearing down on me like a runaway train, but I don’t want to believe it. Gabe was fine just a few hours ago; he was better. He said he felt great. I don’t want to accept what I know is coming, don’t want to hear Deborah say another word. But I can’t stop her. I can’t stop her any more than I can stop autumn from coming, or death from putting his fingers wherever he likes, whenever he likes, even all over this perfect summer day.
“He’s dead,” Deborah says, brow wrinkling delicately as fresh tears fill her eyes. “My boy is dead. It’s too late.”
Her words hit me in my core, in my gut and my heart and every part of me that has lived harder since Gabe came into my life. They hit and a second later my knees hit the hard wooden boards beneath me, but I don’t feel that pain. That pain is too small to register now that my entire world has become pain. There is nothing left to breathe but pain, not a shred of hope or light anywhere to be found.
I rock back and forth on my knees, arms wrapped tight around my shoulders, fighting for breath, too fucked up even to cry. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. My cry is wordless, soundless, a miserable silent wail that only the banshees can hear.
My grandma used to tell me stories about banshees before she died. She was first generation Irish, and still had so many beautiful, dark, mysterious stories to tell. She was the first magical person I ever met in my life. Gabe was the second.
And now they’re both gone. Forever.
Forever. He promised to love me forever. Somewhere out there, wherever he is, he is still loving me, I know it. It isn’t enough to banish the pain—not even close—but it helps me pull in a breath, and then another, and finally the tears break through and begin to fall.
I cry and cry. I have no idea how long, but gradually I become aware of the fact that Deborah is still standing in front of me. I look up, to find her staring down at me with an expression of such
I slam out of the van, heart beating in my throat as I start toward the front steps of the house, but before I can reach the veranda, Deborah opens the door. Her cheeks are red and blotchy and wet, but she isn’t crying, and she doesn’t say a word when I step onto the porch and ask her if she’s okay.
She simply stares at me with this strange empty, lost expression for a long, long minute, a tense, strained, terrible minute that makes me feel like I’m going to lose my coffee and toast right there on her elegant doormat.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, when the silence gets to be too much. “Has Gabe been here? He said he was coming to talk to you and Mr. Alexander.”
“He was here,” she says in a flat tone. “Here and gone.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Where did he go?”
“Aaron came home for lunch and found Gabe passed out behind the wheel at the end of the drive,” she says calmly. “It looks like he lost consciousness right after he made the turn.”
My hand flies to cover my mouth, and my stomach cramps tighter, forming a sick knot at the center of me. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have taken no for an answer. I should have made him let me drive him.
“Is he okay?” I finally ask. “Can I see him?”
Deborah licks her lips, and swipes an invisible hair behind her ear, taking what feels like an eternity before she answers. “Aaron took Gabe to the hospital, while I called our friend Mary, who works in emergency. She had everything ready for them when they arrived. She promised me it would be fine.”
I nod, fighting to swallow past the lump in my throat. “So is he okay? Have you heard from the hospital? Can we go see him?”
She lifts her right hand, revealing a black cordless phone I hadn’t realized she was holding. “Aaron called ten minutes ago. I thought he was going to tell me they were coming home.”
I shake my head, feeling the truth bearing down on me like a runaway train, but I don’t want to believe it. Gabe was fine just a few hours ago; he was better. He said he felt great. I don’t want to accept what I know is coming, don’t want to hear Deborah say another word. But I can’t stop her. I can’t stop her any more than I can stop autumn from coming, or death from putting his fingers wherever he likes, whenever he likes, even all over this perfect summer day.
“He’s dead,” Deborah says, brow wrinkling delicately as fresh tears fill her eyes. “My boy is dead. It’s too late.”
Her words hit me in my core, in my gut and my heart and every part of me that has lived harder since Gabe came into my life. They hit and a second later my knees hit the hard wooden boards beneath me, but I don’t feel that pain. That pain is too small to register now that my entire world has become pain. There is nothing left to breathe but pain, not a shred of hope or light anywhere to be found.
I rock back and forth on my knees, arms wrapped tight around my shoulders, fighting for breath, too fucked up even to cry. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. My cry is wordless, soundless, a miserable silent wail that only the banshees can hear.
My grandma used to tell me stories about banshees before she died. She was first generation Irish, and still had so many beautiful, dark, mysterious stories to tell. She was the first magical person I ever met in my life. Gabe was the second.
And now they’re both gone. Forever.
Forever. He promised to love me forever. Somewhere out there, wherever he is, he is still loving me, I know it. It isn’t enough to banish the pain—not even close—but it helps me pull in a breath, and then another, and finally the tears break through and begin to fall.
I cry and cry. I have no idea how long, but gradually I become aware of the fact that Deborah is still standing in front of me. I look up, to find her staring down at me with an expression of such
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