Prologue
This is the last time I go to the railroad bridge. It’s farewell and a new beginning. Somehow, it suddenly seems as if all the significant moments of my life took place at dizzying heights. I still remember the day I met you up here.
I can almost feel the warm spring wind on my skin again, even though it is so cold today.
I arrive from the east side, just like back then. And again, I leave my backpack at the edge of the bridge and continue the lonely walk in the middle of the tracks. The rotten wood is dusted with freshly fallen snow that looks like powdered sugar. I hear the crunch of my footsteps and breathe in the cold, damp air. Willow River roars beneath me, and in its roar, I discover some of my anger.
Yes, I’m angry with you. Infinitely angry. But not just that... Part of me is also full of love. Full of gratitude. I pull the band with the black crane from my wrist and inhale deeply.
“Don’t cry a river for me, baby”—you would say that to me now, and I would smile. Because, like a lot of what you said, it can have multiple meanings. My heart is so heavy, but it is also light.Opposites, baby.
I dangle the origami bird over the abyss on my index finger. Origami will probably never be my thing, but you said you should always let something symbolically fly every time you don’t jump. So, I bought extra jet-black paper from Mrs. Wilson’s craft store and made the crane. Okay, it’s pathetic, but you can’t see it.
If you hadn’t come then, I would have jumped.
I’m quite certain. So, you saved me, even if you say it was the other way around.
For a moment, I stare into the void. The river sounds calmer now, almost as if it were constantly whispering your name with every bubble of its whitecaps.
Ri-ver. Ri-ver. Ri-ver.
The ribbon slips gently from my finger, and the crane tumbles down endlessly. Since it is so tiny in this vast natural setting, I don’t see it swallowed by the dark blue waters.
It’s just gone.
Just like you.
That’s it. Naturally, I’m crying now, even though I promised you I wouldn’t. I gently touch the white swan on my other wrist, feeling the paper like a caress.
I miss you, Riv.
There will never be a day when I don’t think about you. About you and that magical summer full of love, beautiful words, and dark secrets, but I’m still leaving now.
I have to do it.
A whole world is waiting for me.
Chapter 1
As if spellbound, I stare down from the second story at our freshly mown lawn and the blooming white rose hedge.
Sometimes, I want to jump. It’s Monday, my bedroom door is locked, and I’m sitting on the windowsill as usual, my fingers clinging to the frame. Something tempts me, urging me to let go and watch myself fall. I don’t feel anything, and that scares me every time. My heart doesn’t pound, nor does my pulse quicken, possibly because the distance to the ground is not high enough.
I wouldn’t die. Probably not. More likely, I would break my back and not only be mute but also paralyzed.
My mom once said everything comes in time to those who know how to wait. Actually, those weren’t her words but Leo Tolstoy’s. I don’t know if the writer ever actually had to wait for anything; all I know is that he was orphaned at the age of nine. When Mom left our family, at least I still had Dad.
How lucky!I think sarcastically.
“Kansas?” my brother’s voice echoes impatiently from downstairs. He’s certainly already in the kitchen with everyone else: Dad, Arizona, and James. And I’m certain Arizona was the first because, for my dazzling sister, the hands of time can’t turnfast enough; she’s like a tornado that sweeps over everything, no matter what chaos she leaves behind.
“Hurry up! I’m leaving in ten minutes, with or without you!” James shouts, annoyed.
I sigh. I hate taking the bus because it makes me feel even more out of place than I usually feel. Thankfully, I already missed the bus this morning. I know I have to go to school. I can’t possibly pretend to have a stomachache again because Dad didn’t buy it the last three times in the past week. My absences now exceed the permissible limit, but my stomach actually hurts thinking about Kensington.
Discouraged, I slide down from the windowsill. I would love to barricade myself in my room. It’s the only place I feel safe.
I glance around the room, my eyes wandering over the pink floral wallpaper, the curtains with the pale yellow suns, and the corner shelf with my children’s books. Next to it, newer books are stacked in several columns almost up to the ceiling—fantasy stories and fairy tale adaptations.