When I hugged her I felt muscles in her back and arms. She has a . . . a density she never had before. Aza’s body was always made of glass, and her brain was made of sharpened steel. Now her hair smells of salt and ozone.
Her skin smells like the ocean, which—we’re inland. But there’s stormy weather outside. Maybe something’s blowing in from somewhere. Maybe she has new perfume.
Aza hasn’t ever worn perfume before. She can’t wear it because it makes her choke, and no one anywhere near her can wear it either.
I know this. She knows this. Why aren’t we talking about this?
“Come on, Jason Kerwin. You didn’t really think I died,” she says. “You’ve been hunting for me. You’ve been tracking things in the sky, haven’t you? Weather patterns? What did you find?”
My confusion must show on my face.
“You promised you’d always find me,” she says. “So that’s what you’ve been doing, right?”
I take a moment.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I heard a rumor,” she says.
“From who? Where’ve you been that you’ve been listening to rumors? Where have you been that there were people to whisper rumors to you? And if you WERE listening to rumors, why did you let me think you were dead?”
I guess I sound a little overwrought.
Her eyes widen. She seems less sure suddenly. More lost.
“I promise I’ll tell you everything. But we can figure it out together. I need you to help me until we understand.”
Once, Aza Ray got bronchitis and passed out in my car. When she woke up in the hospital and learned that I’d carried her through the doors, she was mortified.
Even in the ambulance, right before she died, when she found out that I’d given her mouth-to-mouth, I could see the horror on her face.
We all knew how she felt about invalid blankets. I had a hospital hoodie custom-made for her, with a million pockets, zippable sleeves to let the phlebotomists in, and IV cord portals, so she wouldn’t have to be wrapped in a blanket to stay warm.
But she’s never asked me to help her before.
“All right then, tell me how to figure this out, Aza Ray.”
Am I playing games now? Maybe she has some sort of brain injury. How can I even assess it?
The coroner’s report—I have a PDF, scanned from a hard copy stolen by janitorial staff—was clear. Her body degraded quickly. The coroner was both surprised and dismayed. The report wasn’t fun reading.
Adolescent female, aged fifteen years. And 360 days, I added, in my head, to the world.
There was no reason for him to do a full autopsy. We knew what happened. He didn’t have the skills to do the kind of analysis someone with a disease like hers needed anyway. Same way no one here had the skills to keep her alive.
Her lungs went to a lab dealing with rare disorders. The rest of her got cremated. I haven’t seen any of those reports yet. It’s only been four weeks. There’s probably tissue still in a freezer somewhere. I can’t really think about that.
Aza sighs, and then stretches, arching her back, yogic, a new kind of fluidity to her movements, a new kind of grace. I’m reminded of a bird again, unfurling its wings. Aza pulls something out of her jeans pocket. She hands me a fat sheaf of folded papers, and I start shaking, because I wrote them. I attached them to the balloon I sent up on the day of her funeral.
“I acquired your apology list. It was really long.”
Acquired? She digs in another pocket.
A much smaller piece of paper. She hands it to me.
I open it. And it’s the note I gave her for her birthday. Creased and rumpled and refolded and stained. In the corner of it there’s a bite mark, and I know where it came from. Aza, nervous, fidgeting.
The bite mark wasn’t there the last time I saw it, because the last time I saw this piece of paper, I put it in her hand. I knew I wasn’t getting any more chances. I curled her fingers around the note so she’d have it where she was going. There are all those parentheses. All those brackets.
My body floods with some nameless emotion.
“Okay,” I say. I can feel the crying I didn’t do in the last four weeks rising up in me, and now that I maybe should be done crying, it rushes out of my eyes and runs down my face. “Okay, Aza,” I manage between sobs. “Okay.”
It’s like she’s never seen anyone cry before. I try to mop myself up using my own T-shirt.
I go into the kitchen, put my face under the cold water tap, and try to get myself under control.
“Have you been home?” I say from underneath running water. “You have, right?”
“Not yet,” she says. I turn quickly and she’s right behind me. I didn’t even hear her come in.
She runs her fingers under the water, flicks it out from the sink, and laughs. Then she looks at me, tilting her head.
“Why not?” I ask.
“You can’t tell my parents I’m here. Or yours.”
“But, your dad,” I say. “Your mom. They think you’re dead.”
I have my phone out of my pocket, and I’m showing her the number, but she takes it and puts it on the table, a little hard, a little bit point-making.
“Do you trust me?” she says. “Then listen to me. I need you to tell me what you found out while you were looking for me. I need you to tell me everything. It’s important. Objects, data. Whatever you found. Did you find something, Jason Kerwin?”