Page 18 of A Thousand Broken Pieces

I stared at Ida’s message. My pulse raced at that obvious suggestion.

ME:

Maybe

IDA:

Keep me informed on the climb! I can’t believe they have you scaling mountains!

I smiled at the memory of Ida’s messages as I drank in the idyllic view before me. She was such a romantic. Always seeing the good in people. Then I immediately thought of Poppy. She would have said the same about Caeltoo. Poppy was a helper. She would have taken one look at Cael and would have made it her mission to help him, help him through the pain he was so clearly feeling. She did that for me so many times growing up.

For a moment, that thought filled me with a heady kind of lightness, remembering her that way. How much she’d adored her family. How intensely she’d loved us all, loved the world. How much she’d loved Rune—right until her very last breath. But like on most days over the past four years, that happy thought soon turned into the gut-wrenching memory of seeing her on that bed, looking out of the window, broken and frail, death looming over her, breathing labored.

Any heat the climb had brought to me was quickly washed away by a spear of ice chasing down my spine. With shaking hands, I pushed my water bottle away and closed my eyes.

Just once … justonce, I wanted to think of her and not feel beaten, not feel bruised. I wanted to remember her as she used to be—perfect, joyful, full of life. Not sick or sad or fighting to remain positive when there was nothing but tragedy awaiting at the end of her story.

Remembering her on her deathbed haunted me. It would wake me up in the middle of night. And every time I awoke, for a split moment, I would always believe I’d only had a nightmare and that Poppy was in her room, safely tucked up in bed.

Then I’d remember, and I’d lose her all over again. I lost her repeatedly, each morning when I woke and had to be reminded that she was gone. Every significant moment that happened to me, I would want to tell her. Every song I knew she’d like, and she wasn’t here to hear it. Every piece of classical music I heard, and picturing her with her cello, eyes closed, head swaying, completely lost to the melody.

For four years, I hadn’t watched an orchestra live. That was Poppy’s stolen dream, and it felt like it would be a betrayal to watch one. I could barely listen to classical music without crumbling.

It was one of the worst things, I thought, when you lost someone. Having good news to share, and for a second—just one borrowed second of peace—being excited to tell them. Before reality inevitably crashed down, and you were reminded that you would never tell them anything again. And the goodnews you wanted to share suddenly didn’t seem so exciting anymore. In fact, it felt like a stab in the chest, and you no longer looked forward to anything significant happening to you ever again.

A loved one’s death wasn’t a onetime thing that you had to endure. It was an endless cycle. A cruel Groundhog Day that burned away at your heart and soul until there was nothing left but scorched flesh where they once had been.

I shook off my hands when they began to tremble. I inhaled slowly, deeply, the cold air reminding me of where I was. The uneven earth beneath my feet crunched on the icy mud. I needed to walk. To move. To cast off this gutting feeling that was closing in. I almost fell to my knees in relief when Gordon began to lead us on.

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