The sky is blue and cloudless. It comes from nowhere, a fathomless beginning, and stretches up into something impossible. The clouds seem to be locked away somewhere today, much too tired to come out and say hello. The sky is just a backdrop, now, to a much grander scene: green pastures extending as far as the eye can see, broadening in both directions, with the occasional little house popping up every now and again. Trees rush by in erratic blurs, the sun playing hide-and-seek behind them. I watch from the window, resting my head against the cold glass. The gentle shudder of the train car is all that keeps me awake now. It couples so naturally with the infrequent blow of the whistle that I might never be able to separate the two in my mind.

It’s barely a four-hour train ride from Yorktown to Norfolk, but I find myself in and out of sleep anyway. These last three months have made me tired. It was late into June when I left home, now it’s September and I feel about a thousand years old. I probably look a thousand years old, too. Death has a way of sinking into you.

It started the first week in June.

Up until then, things were relatively normal. And if they weren’t, I had my friends to lean on. Everything seemed so much easier when there were five of us. Then there was the accident, and now there’s only four. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it happened; but most of the time I can never forget. Worst of all, the heavy feeling that I get in my chest, the one that swallows me up and locks me in, isn’t because I feel guilty for letting Daniel die, even though I do. The feeling is there because I feel like he left me behind. Like, somehow he managed to escape, but he didn’t take me with him. And that’s why my parents sent me away.

“It’s just for the summer, Amelia,” Mom said. “Grandma offered to take you in for a while, so you can take a break.”

But you can’t take a break from the death of your best friend. And I know the truth; my parents are scared for me. Or of me. I’m scared of me, too. The disturbing thoughts I’ve been having, joined together with the scars that have been appearing on my wrists, have kept me constantly on the edge, like a balloon that’s too full of air. And the nightmares. It’s all much bigger than I am. Much stronger.

So now I’m here, sitting by myself in a crowded train, watching the trees pass by on my way home. It isn’t long until I start to see some familiar buildings rising in the distance, and just before my eyelids can slide closed again, I hear the friendly voice of the conductor come across the intercom system.

“Five minutes to the Norfolk station,” he says. “We’ll be arriving shortly.”

I can sense the other passengers begin to stir, a few of them yawning and stretching, others turning to rouse their partners, but I stay perfectly still. Again comes the loud whistle, signaling this time that we’re approaching our destination. All summer I’ve imagined myself coming home, seeing my friends, and assessing how they’ve dealt with everything so far. Now I’m only praying that one of them is doing as poorly as me, cruel as it sounds.

When the train pulls into the station, my eyes immediately search for my parents’ faces. There aren’t many people on the platform, so they’re easy to find. Mom looks expectantly in my general direction, but she doesn’t see me. Her hair is pinned up in a blonde bun and she’s dressed in her best church clothes; through the window, she looks less like somebody’s mother and more like somebody’s wife. Dad stands beside her, bundled up in a new coat, his hands resting on her shoulders. They look nervous, is all I can think. For what, though?

The train squeals to a stop. All at once, everyone around me stands up, a flurry of voices speaking at the same time, but all saying similar things. I wait until most of them have cleared out of the crowded aisle before I get up, grabbing my duffel bag from the otherwise unoccupied seat beside me (where I placed it so that no one would sit with me), and take a look around. Four hours I’ve been on this train, and not once did I say a word.

“Goodbye,” I mumble, to no one in particular.

Then, I shuffle out with the remaining stragglers and find myself stepping down onto the platform. The station is indoors, fortunately, and like most buildings in Virginia, the walls are decorated with very imaginative graffiti. Many of my fellow passengers are still standing around, talking to the ones who’ve come to meet them, or looking lost, but most of them have moved on already. Too quickly, if you ask me. My feet carry me aimlessly until I locate my parents. Or until they locate me, more like.

Mom wraps me up in a hug before anything can be said, squeezing me and rocking back-and-forth the way that she does. I let my arms curve around her, reciprocating sentiment for the first time in a while. She smells like citrus and rain. And when it’s over, she holds me at arm’s length, searching my face with those blue eyes of hers.

“How was your summer, Amelia?” she asks. I can tell that this is one of those questions; the kind where your answer affects your outcome.


I think long and hard before saying, “Good.” I could have told the truth, but I have a feeling that my parents wouldn’t understand my position. They can barely understand their own, concerning Daniel and the accident.


The minute Mom lets go is when Dad steps in. He gives my shoulders a tight squeeze. “Long time no see,” he says, and again asks one of those pivotal questions. “How are you feeling?”


“Tired.” I smile.


“Then let’s get you home,” says Mom. “We want you to rest up before school starts on Monday.”

School. The word used to bring me down in a matter of seconds, but now it strikes me as something to look forward to. I can see my friends again. It’ll be me, Rin, Nathaniel, Justin, and whatever version of normalcy is still available to us at this point. That’s what I want. But to think that Monday is two days away…


As Dad takes my duffel bag from me, I take a good hard look at the two of them. They don’t look any different from when they put me on the train at the beginning of summer; for one thing, Dad’s haircut is eternal. He’s what my mom calls “traditionally handsome,” with his black hair (which is more salt-and-pepper now) and hazel eyes. These are things I inherited from him, but I’ve got my mother’s face. Together, my mother with her blonde waves and big smile, they’re like a picture. Robert and Lydia Crane.

And their daughter, Amelia Crane, who is losing her mind.

I proceed to follow them out of the station, letting them ask their questions about how things were at Grandma’s and if I met any interesting people. The answers to both are short and simple. The upside to staying in Yorktown with your single grandparent is that you have a lot of time to get acquainted with yourself; over the past few weeks I’ve learned not to talk as much, because words always betray me. I’ve managed to keep myself together. Things should at least seem like they’re not falling apart.

The familiar blue civic is parked in the front row of the parking lot. Dad opens the passenger door for my mother while I slide into the backseat; the leather seats are comforting and remembered, smelling of the homemade cleaning solution Mom uses on them. Once we’re inside the car, Dad walks around to put my duffel bag in the trunk. Mom and I spend the next second or two in comfortable silence.

Then I ask, “What’s everyone been up to since I left?”

Mom must know that by “everyone,” I mean Rin, Nathaniel, and Justin, but for some reason or other, she says, “Same old, same old. It’s been a quiet summer.”

“Have you seen the Hans recently?” I push. Mr. and Mrs. Han are Daniel’s parents. We used to hang out with them all the time; I’m not sure if my parents kept the habit while I was gone.

Mom nods, cutting her eyes downward, the way she does when she doesn’t want to talk anymore. “They still come to church sometimes,” is all she says. I make a mental note that that must mean no.

Then Dad yanks open the driver’s door and falls into his seat. He smiles at my mom, and she smiles back. I wonder, as he starts up the car, if this is the way it’s always going to be now; all quiet words and sinking shoulders, walking on eggshells around each other. But neither of my parents looks disturbed or uncomfortable, and I wonder if this is how we’re meant to act. If when somebody dies, everyone gets quiet.

◌

The ride home is pleasant. My family has perfected the art of comfortable silence, dwelling in ourselves as we rode through the larger parts of the city, only interrupting it to ask small, simple questions, such as, “how is grandma doing?” or “have they finished building the apartments in Ghent yet?”

By the time we pull into our driveway, none of us have said anything for about ten minutes. I live, or exist, in a two-story house in the suburbs on the outskirts of Norfolk, as far as possible from the dangerous inner-city area. I’ve always thought the house was too big for my family, as there are only three of us to sleep in the five bedrooms, but we haven’t moved since I was four years old. It surprises me how quickly I’m able to get out of the car and up to the door; I used to hate being at home, cooped up inside with no siblings to harass or anything.

While Dad sets my duffel bag down on the front porch and fumbles with the keys, I shift back-and-forth on my feet. The second he pushes open the door and I feel the warm air from inside wrap around me, a certain kind of expectant calm washes over me. But I try to mask my relief with feigned and maybe a little overly-exaggerated nonchalance. Either way, I’m the first inside the house, stepping onto the recently polished hardwood floor of the vestibule.

“Welcome home, Amelia,” says Dad, as he begins to hang his jacket up on the coat rack.

“Thanks.” I take my duffel bag from him.

And I barely have enough time to hear my mother say “we’re glad you’re back,” because I’ve already turned and started to head towards the staircase. I run my hand along the banister as I ascend the steps; letting my feet perform the task they’ve done a thousand times before and lead me to my bedroom. I probably should’ve said more to my parents before I decided to disappear, but it’s too late now, and I wouldn’t have known what to say anyhow.

I throw my bag on my bed and close the door gently, pressing my back against the cool wood and resting there for a while. I’m home. Home, that which I’ve been looking forward to since I arrived in Yorktown at the beginning of the summer. My city, Norfolk, my house, my bedroom. My dumb drawings on the wall and purple satin bedding. My desk, covered in sketches and unfinished homework from last year. The blue walls and white ceiling fan. They’re all mine, every last one of them. I know it for a fact. But suddenly they feel like someone else’s. A horrible sort of sick sinks into my stomach. I was so excited to go back to my old life, but now that I’m home it feels like it’s all someone else’s. That I’ve just stepped into somebody else’s body… and nothing quite fits.

And I think to myself, not for the first time, that I’m supposed to be with Daniel right now. That I should have gone with him.