I wish I could say that everything panned out fine. I wish I could write the end of my own book, but it doesn't really have an end. In a fantasy, I would have ridden off into the sunset with John holding my hand. This isn't a fantasy. Fantasies are reserved for people who believe in fate, who believe in happy endings. I don't believe in either. I believe in reality and consequence.
In reality, I faced the consequence of leaving Sandy Creek by being unconscious all the way to the airport. I missed the sunset and awoke in a steady downpour as we coasted over a pothole at 80 miles per hour while Nate snored in the backseat between my cousin and sister. Needless to say, John wasn't too happy when I criticized his wretched driving and proceeded to chastise him for putting me in his car in the first place.
"What's the problem?" he barked. "I reclined the seat for you. And I bandaged your arm, even though you were pathetically girly about it the whole time and screamed whenever I touched the wound with the gauze. I gave you Domar to kill the pain and put you to sleep, and this is the thanks I get."
I felt the need to render his masochism sterile so I punched him in the face, which didn't do much for his driving or disposition. He pulled over and yelled at me for a while and then tried to kiss me to squash his guilt after he remembered that Domar can cause irritability. I shoved him away and didn't speak to him the rest of the ride. How's that for romance?
I'm writing this on the airplane, a cramp in my right hand coupled by a splitting headache and a bandaged left arm. I pretended to be mute when the flight attendant asked what caused the injury, because I've been trying to get back to the whole honesty policy thing. I think my mother would be proud, not only for that virtue but also because I kicked the crap out of a bunch of guys who helped to kill her.
At the same time, I feel a sense of shame at what I've done. I used to be a nice girl. Okay, maybe not a nice girl but at least a girl who'd never handled a weapon before. I almost wish I could return to my naiveté, but at the same time I'm happy that I've survived the past few weeks. Not many people can walk out of a Rocky-esque fight scene unscathed. Well, not that I actually walked out of it, I mean, John had to help me since the fall helped to resprain my ankle. And being shot in the arm kind of eliminates the adjective of 'unscathed', but still. I did a decent job at remaining sane, at the very least.
And I didn't get my happy ending. So what? I didn't really expect to. I don't think I'm the type of girl to be satisfied with rainbows and birthday cake endings. Nothing in my life has ever been perfect, not even love, and I think that's better. Perfection is boring. I live for intrigue and agony, as morbid as it sounds. What would I be without the dramatic problems and tumultuous events?
John nudges me in the arm. "The plane is landing soon, Meg. You might want to put that away."
I ignore him, disobediently clicking my pen. He sighs. "Don't tell me what to do. I hope the kids' flight went well." We watched Jim and Sabrina board a plane to Orlando in driving rain before we even bought our tickets. We wanted to make sure Gregor wasn't around to tamper with their flight. I had made it clear to John that my family was my utmost concern before I could leave with him, and he conformed.
He complies with my demand but ignores my concern, staring beyond me, out the window, as midmorning caresses the side of the plane with dewy clouds. "You never told me why were coming here, Mac, of all places."
"It's where our mothers met," I answer, remembering Zeke's letters with a sort of shrill, childish longing. It's a peculiar feeling, as the adult quality that has overtaken my life of late has begun to absorb me. What is this strange immaturity? I'm only sixteen? Right, I forgot. "It's where this all began."
"But…."
"Just trust me, John," I murmur, pushing my hair out of my face. Suddenly affectionate, he reaches for my hand, stroking my palm with his thumb. I find myself grateful for his presence, recognizing that I had planned to do exactly this but completely alone. I've realized that most of my life I've spent alone, up until a few weeks ago when I found an entity that accompanied my soul like a puppy dog. I couldn't get rid of it, not even when I broke up with John, and even now that our relationship is still squashed I have something new in my soul. I'm not sure if it's love, but whatever it is, it's not leaving anytime soon, and it gives my body a certain electricity. "Just trust me."
"Hypocrite," he mutters playfully, his eyes tired. I tuck away my tray table as the plane descends. I look out over the barren runway. "You hate to trust me."
"But this is my adventure, John," I explain. "I call the shots. You're just the tumor that I can't get rid of."
He laughs but says nothing else. We disembark the plane with Nate trailing silently behind us as the sun rises to its noon mark above. The heat is sweltering but a breeze blows over the stump of land and washes the sweat from our faces. The terminal is crowded, filled with foreign-tongued strangers and tourists. John understands every word, I can tell by the ponderous look on his face. I'm not concerned for myself. I trust him, in the most abstract sense of the word, in the same way that I trust myself.
Trust is a lot like fate, I realize as we hail a taxi cab. You can't see it, and nobody really knows if they exist. You have to rely on everything else you have, everything that's solid, to bring about the tiny pinpricks that prove an expression of the element. I think of one of my first serious conversations with John, when we discussed emotions. Every intangible word, every vague definition is the same, I decide. You can't see trust, but you can feel it. I can feel myself leaning towards John, I can feel my confidence heightening. It's with a strange sadness that I feel every grief, that I feel Dag, my mother, Zeke, slipping from me. I'm replaced with a new misery, but it's one that is a sickening comfort. They're only feelings, only memories, after all. Just because I don't feel sadness anymore doesn't mean that I'm empty. I feel their presences in the way I move, in the ethereal qualities they gave me, in the indistinct things they taught me. Dag gave me love, my mother gave me honesty, and my grandfather gave me wisdom. I've been shaped, I've been molded into a representation of everything I used to tiptoe around. I shouldn't be afraid of feelings, I realize, because they only show a hazy mirror of the rest of the world. Knowing something and feeling something are one and the same, but feeling something and doing something are different. I refuse to let feelings hold me back again.
With my actions dictated by my mind, I take John's hand, surprising him. He kisses my forehead as we step into the cab, Nate hopping in behind us. In my other hand, I finger the inscription my necklace, hungry to read the mysterious words but setting the desire away for when I can be alone. As we pull away from the curb, I feel unafraid for the first time in my life, at a time when I should be at the pinnacle of apprehension. I'm not afraid because those who know themselves have no reason to be afraid, in the same way that those who know themselves have no reason to believe in fate. I know myself more than ever before, and fate will be only a distant thought in the back of my mind. No supernatural force will control my life, no Organization will dictate my morals.
My future is my own, possessed by a thudding in my heart that keeps my alive. I won't be afraid again, because fear is the abstract that silences my heart.