Exit Stage Left Read online

  Exit Stage Left

  Patti Larsen

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 by Patti Larsen

  Find out more about Patti Larsen at

  http://www.pattilarsen.com/

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Cover art (copyright) by Christina G Gaudet. All rights reserved.

  http://www.christinaggaudet.com

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  Edited by Annetta Ribken, freelance Goddess. You can find her at http://www.wordwebbing.com/

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  Copy edits by Jennifer Wingard. Find her at

  http://theindependentpen.com

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  Prologue

  She sits at his death bed, holding his hand, limp and cold, already lifeless despite the slow, steading beeping of the monitor. Her thumb traces over the back, his skin so thin she used to be able to see his veins, blue tracery of spider-webbed life. Those are sunken, now, just his pale, pale flesh left behind. And his bones, jutting from what remains of him.

  They said goodbye long before he slipped into his final coma. Before this trip to the hospital when the doctors told him, sad and quiet, it would be his last. Even before the cancer came back and he had to start more treatments.

  They’d been saying goodbye for years. In the only ways they knew how. Soft kisses in the dark under the stars, on a blanket in the yard while his parents gave them space. Whispered conversations in the back seat of her car where they sat for hours, steaming the inside of the windows in the pouring rain. Texts and phone calls when they couldn’t be together, hugs and smiles and sweet silence only they felt when they could.

  And yet, this goodbye hurts her more than she expected.

  Because it is their last.

  She lays her head on his shoulder, feels the give of his weak body, the harshness of his breath. No life support. No heroic measures for the one she loves, a hero in her eyes already. Stronger than she will ever be.

  And when his chest rises for the last time, she stops breathing, too. Can’t hear the sound of the single strobing alarm from the monitor, his mother’s sharp cry as she falls over him on the other side of the bed, sobbing.

  The outside world means nothing to her.

  His soul is gone.

  And she is certain hers will never heal.

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  Chapter One

  I stuff a t-shirt into a tiny hole I find in the corner of my second bag and straighten up, lower back aching from hunching over for what seems like days. I think I’ve successfully crammed what consists of my life into two suitcases, a laptop bag, and a backpack I dug out from the back of my closet. High school leftovers, still with some old exams at the bottom, A’s circled in red.

  It feels like forever ago.

  My thumb skirts the daisy drawn in blue ink, the edges a little wobbly, stem stunted and crooked. His favorite flower. Mine, too. Though this one has its issues.

  Ian was always a terrible artist, though he tries.

  Tried.

  I cough, pretending it’s dust giving me the sniffles, and shove the remains of my graduating year into the waste-basket beside my small desk. I take a look around my room.

  Not much left. I’m not taking my comforter. Aunt Vonda already bought me a new one in her excitement to have me live with her, so that’s covered. Dad can put my books and old knick-knacks from when I was a kid in storage. When he gets around to it.

  If he gets around to it.

  Who am I kidding? I hike the backpack over my shoulder, already aching with the effort of lifting the massive bag, and clench my teeth together. If Dad even notices I’m gone, it will be a miracle.

  The first suitcase thuds down the stairs behind me as I pant to a halt and release the handle. It totters, overfull, and falls on its side, rocking on the rounded front like an upside down turtle. I’m out of shape, my body protesting as I dump the backpack and walk back upstairs for the rest.

  I stop in my room one more time. Catch my breath, lost not to exertion but to a wash of memory.

  I can clearly see Ian lying on my bed, thin body weak, but a smile on his face.

  Come here and kiss me, his phantom says, one hand hiding the shunt under his shirt so I won’t have to have the reminder. Because he is awesome like that.

  Until a year ago. When “is” became “was”.

  I have to get the hell out of here.

  My phone chimes with a text from Courtney.

  Hve FUN! :D Miss U.

  I don’t bother answering my one-time BFF, lugging the next bag out of my room, the corner catching on the doorframe.

  “Shit.” I jerk on it too hard, the bag pulling free so fast it loses balance, twists sideways. Takes my wrist with it. I release it and let it fall while I hike up my breath and refuse to cry over my hurt.

  Either of my hurts. Because it’s not just my wrist that’s aching.

  Dad’s downstairs. I hear him in the kitchen, right below me. Just like him not to help, not to even offer or acknowledge I’m leaving. I wipe at my nose with the shoulder of my t-shirt, finally able to breathe. Exhale. Inhale. Let my shoulders drop.

  Let Ian’s memory rest yet again. At least for a little while.

  Until something reminds me the love of my life is gone and I’ll never, ever see him again. Hold him. Whisper his name in his ear while his hazel eyes tell me he loves me.

  Rye, his lips say in my memory.

  It’s become so ordinary to torture myself. I lose time in the quiet of the hall. Dad drops something below, the sound of shattering glass shaking me free of Ian. I square my shoulders and swipe at my tears as my father curses and bangs a cupboard door shut, reminding me about the other reason I’m leaving.

  My phone vibrates again. Courtney.

  See U in the city? 

  Yeah, right. And though Courtney might not really give a shit about what I’m doing, only wanting a place to crash when she and her posse come to the city on weekends, she is right. This is supposed to be fun. A new start for me. Away from home and the grief I feel living in Clifton, surrounded by Ian. Weighted down by my father’s disapproval and disdain for the last year.

  Off to New York and adventure.

  Twenty-one. Broken hearted.

  Moving on.

  I scowl at the suitcase and kick it firmly with the toe of my shoe.

  Whatever. Still, the small act of violence makes me feel better. I wrestle the big bag upright on its knobby wheels and roll it to the stairs. Man-handle it to the bottom, shoulder brushing the edge of a photograph. I gasp as the frame slips, releasing my hold on the suitcase. My fingers catch the edge of the picture, just saving it from falling, but at the sacrifice of the suitcase, which bangs and smashes its way to the hardwood floor below.

  But the photo is safe in my hands, now clutched to my chest. The sound of feet thud toward me. I look up from my mother’s smiling face to see Dad come to a halt, looming over my things.

  Scowling. As usual.

  “Riley, what are you doing?” His harsh voice is no surprise. He hasn’t said a kind word to me for years. Like I give a crap.

  I hang the picture back in its place, carefully leveling it by eye, hating to frown at Mom while I answer Dad but unable to keep anger fro
m my face. Funny how no matter what I do it pisses him off.

  I purposely push his buttons, wanting to strike at him for being a jackass and not lifting a finger to help me. “Nothing.” I feel the tension growing between us with that one word. He hates one word answers. It’s very satisfying to kiss Mom goodbye with my lips to my fingertips and then to her face before I turn and stomp my way to the ground floor. Refusing to meet his eyes as I shoulder my backpack, anger cresting, feeling suddenly frustrated and furious without knowing the main reason why.

  I don’t need just one reason. I have a million. The biggest one stands in front of me, arms crossed over his chest, face a dark cloud. His buzzed hair making him look old with nothing to soften the dark tan on his face, the frown lines around his eyes, the pull downward of his mouth. He towers over me, my fireman father, no hero in my eyes.

  Just a damned bully. Watching instead of helping.

  Asshole.

  “I don’t want to hear you’ve been partying and giving your aunt grief.” I almost laugh in his face. Suppressing the urge to strike out at him, knowing it’s not worth it. We’ve been on this ride before so many times I barely muster enough energy to shrug.

  Instead, I choose to jerk the giant bag I dropped upright and examine it. The last party I’d been to was with Ian.

  You know me so well, don't you?

  At least the suitcase hadn’t split, there was a bonus. I had to sit on it to close it, so luck was on my side.

  I walk away from my father, the rattle of the bag’s wheels loud behind me, drowning out the ominous silence. Still no help from him as I leverage open the screen door with one foot, grunting to pull open the heavy steel one. Manage.

  On my own.

  I guess that's a good sign, too.

  I teeter down the three concrete steps to the walkway with my life on a leash trailing behind me. The suspension in the back of my little hatchback groans under the weight of the bag when I finally manage to dump it into the trunk. Panting and sweating in the early June heat, I wipe at my upper lip, the beads of sweat. Great start to a three hour drive.

  Dad stands in the entry, almost blocking me. Really? Are we going to continue playing this game, today of all days? I push past him, flinching from the contact as his bare arm brushes mine, and into the house.

  Find my second bag waiting at the door.

  Finally, some help. And a clear sign telling me to get the hell out.

  I'm happy to oblige.

  “You’re going to look at colleges while you’re in New York.” Not a question. Like he thinks he can tell me what to do. But it’s the first time Dad’s said anything about what I’m doing, where I’m going. He barely responded when I told him Aunt Vonda—his own sister for God’s sake—invited me to come live with her, “For the change of scenery, pet,” she said.

  I hate the sudden intrusion, his show of interest. This flash of fatherly… whatever… he seems to think is appropriate after ignoring me my entire life. Since when does he get a say?

  Dad half-turns, the light behind him as I wrench the second bag to my side, snatch my purse from the side-table. Shoulder my laptop. I can’t help but glare.

  “That’s the plan,” I say, not wanting to start a fight after all, though I know one is brewing. I feel it in both of us. But I don’t have time to argue.

  I just need to go already.

  Dad must agree with me, because he doesn’t snap back. Just nods. But he holds his ground, doesn’t move. I’m about to bowl him over with my suitcase when he finally stands back, as if we’ve just been in some stupid standoff he’s choosing to let me win.

  He holds the door open for me.

  “See you, then,” he says.

  I hate him so much in that moment, my stomach heaves, tightens into a giant knot. The only thing saving me is the wide open door and the freedom beyond it. From Dad, from my memories.

  So why does it still hurt there is no hug goodbye from her daddy for Riley James?

  It’s not until I’m in the car, driving away, hands clenched on the steering wheel, I allow the sobs begging to escape to build in my chest and I finally let them out.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  The tears blur my departure as I turn from my old street and down the block. Pass Ian’s house. I said goodbye to his parents, Susan and Dwight, this morning already. But it doesn’t stop me from looking as I drive by, just in case.

  I shouldn’t be so upset about my dad. I have parents, in Ian’s. The most amazing people I’ve ever met, who love me still. They were the ones to encourage me on this crazy journey.

  “You need to find yourself,” Susan said the night she and Dwight sat me down to suggest it. “Ian wanted you to live, Rye.”

  It was a long time before I wanted to. But they were right. I really do have to go.

  I wave despite knowing they aren’t aware I’m doing it, blow them a kiss. Deliberately take Elm Street past the cemetery. Park and breathe before scooping up the handful of daisies I stole from the neighbor’s yard and slam the car door behind me.

  Ian’s grave is close to the road. His family one of the oldest in town. It means I don’t have to go far to reach him.

  The stone is really beautiful, black marble. He picked it out six months before he died.

  “I can’t leave everything to Mom and Dad,” he said as he ran his hand over the sample in the showroom. It grossed me out headstone places had a showroom, like they were selling cars or furniture, not markers of death. I wanted to leave, but his smile held me, as usual. His casual acceptance. And the way Ian made me laugh as he draped himself over the headstone, making his so-called zombie face.

  I crouch in front of the real thing, wishing I was back there with him now. That I could rewind time and hug him again. Kiss him. Find a way to stop the leukemia from coming back. No superpowers appear, just like no miracle did for him, despite the drug trials and herb treatments and endless chemo and radiation.

  An old, dead bundle of daisies lies to the side, my last offering, nestled lovingly beside the giant pile of flowers Susan tends so carefully. So sweet of her not to discard my meager attempt at keeping Ian company. I do the job for her, tossing the brown mess aside, settling the new bundle where the old had lain.

  I pinch off a daisy head and tuck it behind my ear, just like Ian always did.

  “I guess…” I fight for words, trying to think of something clever, because Ian would love that, but failing. “I’ll see you.” Dad’s words.

  The wind picks up. It blows over me in a soft breeze, ruffles my hair, kisses my cheek. Gone as quickly as it came.

  One more tear escapes, trickles down my cheek. I snuffle, wipe it away.

  Press my lips to his headstone. “Love you,” I whisper.

  My car waits for me, low in the back, the inside baking with heat when I slip inside. My iffy air conditioning gives me a break and pumps out a blast of cold before settling on luke-warm. The frames of my sunglasses are hot against my skin, but they hide the red rims of my eyes and make it easier to believe, when I don them, I really am going on an adventure.

  And not leaving my heart behind.

  Classic tunes fill the car as I blast the stereo, the only reliable part of the whole car, pumping Queen and Meatloaf and Mom’s favorite ABBA over and through me, the pounding bass vibrating my seat as I sing at the top of my lungs to clear my head.

  Works wonders. I barely flinch as I drive past the park where Ian and I used to hang out when he couldn’t go far. And the coffee shop where we drank endless cups and talked and laughed when it rained.

  Every “where Ian and I” flies by until the highway beckons.

  As I pass the “Thank you for visiting beautiful Clifton, New York,” I choke. I can’t help it. Bark out one last sob, tearing at my chest, making my eyes burn, my lungs heave as my diaphragm protests.

  And then it’s over and I’m merging into traffic.

  This is going to be awesome, you know. His memory sits in the sea
t beside me, an apparition no stranger to my times alone. I glance at him, nod. Knowing it’s crazy to cling to him like this but missing my best friend so much I just can’t bring myself to release him.

  Not yet. And maybe not ever.

  A sign tells me it’s 186 miles to Manhattan. I push the gas pedal down and commit to my new life even as my make-believe Ian smiles in the passenger seat beside me.

  I pull over and stock up on chocolate and chips at a gas station, buying all of Ian's favorites because they are mine, too. Munching and singing—hearing his voice clearly butchering every song just like he used to—I start to feel an odd sensation in the pit of my stomach. But it’s not until I pass a giant line of tractor trailers and catch another sign I realize what I’m feeling.

  117 miles to go.

  It’s excitement.

  The realization startles me. Am I? Am I really excited to leave home, leave Ian, everything I know? But no, not everything. He’s beside me, isn’t he? My lips pull into a smile as Heart sings, “Barracuda,” on my stereo. Ian’s favorite song, the sound of his phantom’s voice bellowing the words at the top of his lungs, so loud I laugh.

  I can do this, then. Knowing he’s coming with me after all. I’ve packed his memory, the moments alone I can imagine. He’s still here, just like one of my t-shirts. I feared leaving Clifton behind, because I’d spent most of my life doing everything I could to keep Ian with me.

  No complaints. I put my entire life on hold to make sure we had every moment together possible. My best guy friend since kindergarten when he was first diagnosed, my boyfriend since tenth grade, still suffering around short bouts of remission. Three years out of high school spent first taking care of him the best way I knew how—by being at his side as long and as often as I could—and shelving my own dreams.

  Suddenly, knowing my guilt at abandoning him doesn’t have to mean he’s gone. The possibilities are endless. Maybe I will check out schools. Make new friends. Make a new life.