She looked at her daughter, who looked like a sleeping princess, made young by her fuzzy new growth of hair. "No more secrets," she said-whispered, really. She would tell Tully everything, including the regret in her mother's letter. That would be her Christmas gift to her daughter. Dorothy would say the words at this bedside, begin from where she left off at the hospital. Then she would write it down, her entire story, so that Tully would have it all for her memoir, whatever she needed. There would be no more secret shame, no more running from the things that were her fault or the things that weren't. Maybe then, someday, they could heal.

"Would you like that, Tully?" she asked quietly, praying hard for an answer.

Beside her, Tully breathed evenly, in and out.

CHAPTER Twenty-seven

That year, winter seemed to last forever. Gray days followed one another like dirty sheets on a line. Swollen clouds darkened the sky, releasing intermittent rain until the fields turned black and viscous and the cedar boughs drooped like wet sleeves. When the first sunny days of spring came, green swept across the fields in the Snohomish Valley, and the trees straightened again, straining toward the light, their tips lime-green with new growth. The birds returned overnight, squawking and diving for the fat pink worms that poked up from the damp earth.

By June, locals had forgotten all about the dismal winter and the disappointing spring. In July, when the farmers' markets started up again, there were already complaints about how hot it had grown in the summer of 2011.

Like the flowers in her yard, Marah had spent the long gray months gathering strength, or finding that which had been in her all along.

Now, though, it was late August. Time to look forward instead of back.

"Are you sure you want to do this alone?" her dad asked, coming up behind her. She closed her eyes and leaned back against him. His arms curled around her, held her steady.

"Yeah," she said, and it was the one thing in all of this about which she was sure. She had things to say to Tully, things she'd held back, waiting for a miracle; but there was not going to be a miracle. It had been almost a year since the accident, and Marah was preparing now to go off to college. Just last night, she'd helped her dad with his street kids documentary-and the images of those poor lost kids with their hollow cheeks and empty eyes and fake bravado had chilled her to the bone. She knew how lucky she was to be here, at home. Safe. And that was what she'd said when her dad filmed her. I'm glad to be back. But still, she had something left to do.

"I promised Mom something and I have to keep that promise," she said.

He kissed the top of her head. "I'm really proud of you. Have I told you that lately?"

She smiled. "Every day since I got rid of the pink hair and the piercing in my eyebrow."

"That's not why."

"I know."

He took her hand and walked her out of the house and to the car parked in the driveway. "Drive safely."

It was a sentence that meant a lot more to her these days. Nodding, she climbed into the driver's seat and started the car.

It was a gorgeous late summer day. On the island, tourists thronged onto and off the ferry, filling the sidewalks of downtown Winslow. On the other side of the water, the traffic was typically bumper-to-bumper, and Marah followed the crowd north.

In Snohomish, she turned off the highway and drove out to Firefly Lane.

She sat in the driveway for a moment, staring at the gray Nordstrom bag beside her. Finally, she picked it up and went to the front door.

The air smelled fresh and crisp, of apples and peaches ripening in the sunshine. From here, she could see that Dorothy's small vegetable garden was teeming with growth: bright red tomatoes, green beans, rows of leafy broccoli.

The door opened before she knocked. Dorothy stood there, wearing a flowery tunic and baggy cargo pants. "Marah! She's been waiting for you," she said, pulling Marah into a tight hug. It was what Dorothy had said to Marah every Thursday for nearly twelve months. "She opened her eyes twice this week. That's a good sign, I think. Don't you?"

"Sure," Marah said in a tight voice. She had thought that a few months ago, back when it started to happen. The first time it happened, in fact, it had taken her breath away. She'd called for Dorothy and waited, leaning forward, saying, Come on, Tully, come back ...

She lifted the gray bag. "I brought her something to read."

"Great! Great! I could use some time in the garden. The weeds are bullying me around this month. You want some lemonade? It's homemade."

"Sure." She followed Dorothy through the scrupulously clean rambler. Drying lavender hung from the rafters overhead, scented the air. Bouquets of fragrant roses displayed in cracked water pitchers and metal pans decorated the counters and tabletops.

Dorothy disappeared into the kitchen and came back with an icy glass of lemonade.

"Thanks."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Marah nodded and went down the long hallway to Tully's room. Sunlight poured through the window, making the blue walls shimmer like seawater.

Tully lay in her hospital bed, angled up, her eyes closed, her brown hair dusted with gray threads and curled riotously around her pale, thin face. A creamy coverlet was tucked up to just below her collarbone. Her chest rose and fell in a steady, easy rhythm. She looked so peaceful. As always, for a split second, Marah thought Tully would just open her eyes and give her that wide, toothy smile and say, Hey.

Marah forced herself to move forward. The room smelled of the gardenia hand lotion Dorothy loved. On the bedside table was a worn paperback copy of Anna Karenina that Desmond had been reading to Tully for months.

"Hey," Marah said to her godmother. "I'm going off to college. I know you know that, I've been talking about it for months. Loyola Marymount. In Los Angeles. Ironic, right? I think a smaller school will be good for me." She wrung her hands together. This wasn't what she'd come for. Not today.

For months and months, she'd believed in a miracle. Now, though, it was time to say goodbye.

And something else.

The ache in her chest was big and getting bigger. She reached for the chair by the bed and sat down, scooting close. "I'm the reason you crashed your car, aren't I? Because I was a bitch and sold that story to the magazine. I told the world you were a drug addict."

The silence after her statement dragged her down. Dr. Bloom had tried to convince her that Tully's condition wasn't her fault-everyone had-but it was one more thing Marah couldn't make herself believe. She couldn't help apologizing every time she visited.

"I wish we could start over, you and me. I miss you so much." Marah's voice was soft, uncertain.

In the quiet, she sighed and reached down for the gray bag on the floor beside her. She pulled out her most prized possession. Her mother's journal.

Her hands shook a little as she opened the journal, saw Katie's Story written in Tully's bold, scrawling handwriting.

Marah stared down at those two words. How was it possible that she was still afraid to read what was written on these pages? She should want to read her mother's last thoughts, but the idea of it made her queasy. "I promised her I'd read this with you when I was ready. I'm not really ready, and you're not really you, but I'm leaving and Dr. Bloom tells me it's time. And she's right. It is time."

Marah said quietly, "Here goes," and started to read aloud.

Panic always comes to me in the same way. First, I get a knot in the pit of my stomach that turns to nausea, then a fluttery breathlessness that no amount of deep breathing can cure. But what causes my fear is different every day; I never know what will set me off. It could be a kiss from my husband, or the lingering look of sadness in his eyes when he draws back. Sometimes I know he's already grieving for me, missing me even while I'm still here. Worse yet is Marah's quiet acceptance of everything I say. I would give anything for another of our old knock-down, drag-out fights. That's one of the first things I'd say to you now, Marah: Those fights were real life. You were struggling to break free of being my daughter but unsure of how to be yourself, while I was afraid to let you go. It's the circle of love. I only wish I'd recognized it then. Your grandmother told me I'd know you were sorry for those years before you did, and she was right. I know you regret some of the things you said to me, as I regret my own words. None of that matters, though. I want you to know that. I love you and I know you love me.

But these are just more words, aren't they? I want to go deeper than that. So, if you'll bear with me (I haven't really written anything in years), I have a story to tell you. It's my story, and yours, too. It starts in 1960 in a small farming town up north, in a clapboard house on a hill above a horse pasture. When it gets good, though, is 1974, when the coolest girl in the world moved into the house across the street ...

Marah lost herself in the story of a lonely fourteen-year-old girl who got made fun of on the bus and lived through her favorite fictional characters. They called me Kootie and laughed at my clothes and asked me where the flood was and I never said a word, just hugged my brown-paper-wrapped schoolbooks closer to my chest. Frodo was my best friend that year, and Gandalf and Sam and Aragon. I imagined myself on some mythical quest. Marah could picture it perfectly: an unpopular girl who sat out one night under the stars and happened to meet another lonely girl. A few chance words that night became the start of a friendship that changed both of their lives.

And we thought we looked good. Have you gone there yet, Marah? Followed fashion to a ridiculous place that makes no sense and still looked in the mirror and seen a cool, magical version of yourself? That was the eighties for me. Of course, Tully was in full control of my wardrobe ...

Marah touched her short black hair, remembering when it was pink and gelled ...

When I met your father, it was magic. Not for him-not then-but for me. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you can look into a pair of eyes and see your whole future. I wish that kind of love for you kids-don't accept anything less.

When I held my babies and looked into their murky eyes, I found my life's work. My passion. My purpose. It may not be trendy, but I was born to be a mother, and I loved every single second of it. You and your brothers taught me everything there was to know about love, and it breaks my heart to leave you.