Page 3 of A Thousand Broken Pieces

“Anxiety attack again?” Rob said. I nodded, my hair rubbing against the loose bark that was scarcely holding on to its home. Rob was only in his thirties. He was kind and was exceptional at what he did. He helped so many people. Over the past four years I’d seen a myriad of teenagers come through the therapy center’s door and leave, changed, empowered, and able to function once more in the world.

I was simply broken.

I didn’t know how to heal, how to put myself back together again. The truth was, when Poppy died, all light vanished from my world, and I’d been stumbling around in the dark ever since.

Rob didn’t speak for a while but finally said, “We have to change tactics, Savannah.” The edge of my lips lifted as I saw what looked like a daisy form in a cloud. Ida loved daisies. They were her favorite flower. Rob leaned back against the tree beside me, sharing the wide trunk. “We’ve received some funding.” His words trickled into my ears one syllable at a time as the world, painstakingly slowly, began to stitch itself back together. “There’s a trip,” he said, letting that hang in the air between us. I blinked, the sun’s afterimage dancing in the darkness when I squeezed my eyes shut to banish its blinding glow.

“I want you to go on it,” Rob said. I froze and eventually turned my head to face him. Rob had short red hair, freckles, and piercing green eyes. He was a walking autumnal color palette. He was also a survivor. To say I admired him was an understatement. Punished as a teen for his sexuality by those who were meant to love him, he had fought his way through hell to reach freedom and happiness, now helping others who struggled in their own ways too.

“There’s a trip … I want you to go on it …”

Those delayed words filtered into my brain and my old friend anxiety began to reemerge.

“A small group from all over the States is going on a five-country journey. One of healing.” He rolled his head to look up at the clouds that had previously captured my attention. “Teens dealing with grief.”

I shook my head, every second making it more and more pronounced.

“I can’t,” I whispered, instant fear wrapping around my voice.

Rob’s smile was sympathetic, but he said, “I’ve already spoken to your parents, Savannah. They’ve agreed it would be good for you. We’ve already secured your place.”

“No!”

“You’ve already finished high school. And you’ve gotten into Harvard.Harvard, Savannah. That’s incredible.” Rob briefly paused to think but then added, “That’s Boston. Far, far away from here.”

I understood the subtext. I couldn’t function at home, so how on earth would I function in another state at college?

When Poppy died, I threw myself into my studies. I had to occupy my mind at all times. It was how I stayed above water. I had always been studious. I had always been the smart one. The bookworm. The one who talked of physics and equations and molecular structures. Ida was the loud one, the dramatic sister, the funny one, capturing all the attention—in all the best ways. And Poppy … Poppy had been the dreamer. She had been the believer, the creative one, the one with music and never-ending happiness and hope in her heart.

The one who would have changed the world.

When Pops died, I couldn’t face school anymore—people’s stares, the sorrowful glances, the spotlight that followed me around, broadcasting me as the girl who had watched her older sister die. So I homeschooled, and I graduated early. Harvard accepted me; I’d done enough to get in. But with all my schoolwork complete, my newly found time became my enemy. Idle hours spent reliving Poppy fading, her slowly dying before us. Endless minutes that gave my anxiety breathing room to strike, to draw out its advances like mercenaries toying with an easy target. I felt Poppy’s absence like a noose pulling tighter around my neck day by day.

“I know it might seem frightening. I know it’s something you might not believe you can do,” Rob said, his voice gentle and encouraging. “Butyoucan, Savannah. I believe in you.” I felt my bottom lip tremble as I met his eyes. “I’m not giving up.” A gentle smile. “We’re going to get you through this. We’re going to get you to Harvard this fall. And you’re going to thrive.”

I wanted to smile back, to show my appreciation for him even thinking of me, for never quitting on me, but nerves held me back. New people. New places. Unknown lands—it was utterly terrifying. But I had no fight left in me to contest it. And Lord, nothing else had worked for me. Four long years of individual and group therapy hadn’t been able to lift me back up or put me back together again. I was too tired to argue. So I turned my head again and stared back up at the sky. A large cloud rolled in, and I stilled.

It looked exactly like a cello.

I entered Blossom Grove to the symphonic soundtrack of singing birds. No matter the time of year, there was always something unearthly about this place. A slice of heaven placed down on Earth, a glimpse of the celestial, of peace. Or maybe it was just whose spirit rested here that made it so special. Protecting the place that she adored so much.

The trees were bare, the buds of the blossoms not yet ready to show us their beauty, winter keeping them at bay for just a little while longer. But it didn’t make the grove any less beautiful. I breathed in the fresh air that whistled through the brown branches until my feet led me to the tree that protected my best friend.

The white marble headstone shone like an angel in the lowering sun, dusk blanketing the grave in idyllic golden hues. POPPYLITCHFIELDstood out in golden writing, FOREVERALWAYSetched underneath.

I wiped some fallen leaves from the top of the headstone and sat down before it. “Hello, Poppy,” I said, already feeling my throat grow tight. I knew that for many, four years after the death of a loved one was enough for them to find their way back to some kind of life. To move on in whatever way they could. Yet for me, four years may have well been four minutes. It felt like only yesterday that Poppy left us—left Ida and me. Left Mama and Daddy andAunt DeeDee. Left Rune. The fractures that splintered through my heart were still open and unhealed.

Those four years had not changed a thing. A pause button had been pressed that day. And I hadn’t been able to press play since.

I pressed a kiss to my fingers, then placed them on the headstone. It was warm under my hand from the sun that always spotlighted in this grove, letting the world know that someone truly beautiful resided here.

I peered down and saw a photograph stuck to the bottom of the headstone. Tears pricked my eyes as I stared in awe at the stunning scene it boasted. The northern lights were captured perfectly in the picture, greens and blues soaring across a star-spattered black sky.

Rune.

Rune had been here. He always did this. Every time he came home, he would spend hours at Poppy’s grave, under their favorite tree. Spend the day talking to his only love, his soulmate, telling her about his life at NYU. About the apprenticeship he had secured with a Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer. About his travels around the world, visiting far off countries and sights—like the northern lights—that he would always capture on film and then bring home for Poppy to see.

“So she won’t miss out on new adventures,”he would tell me.

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