There are songs about the heart and poems about the heart and legends about the heart and facts about the heart. And, it’s true—the heart sings and speaks and tells its story. There are exact miles of arteries; there is the exact force of its beat. But the heart is also quiet. It is also a mystery. No one really knows how it goes on after being broken.
How does it happen?
No idea.
How do we endure?
No clue.
What Annabelle does know now: The word courage comes from the Latin word cor, meaning heart. The ba-bump of the heart leads to the next ba-bump. One step leads to another step. We go forward. Sometimes against our will, sometimes against all odds, we go forward. We have crossed the glacier, the dark land of grief. We have gone to the outer edges of our atmosphere and returned. The glacier and the dark land of grief will always be there behind us. The atmosphere will always be around us and above us. We’ll feel all of it there like a presence. What has happened will be a wind to fight against and a force that propels; it will be a guiding light in the blizzard, it will be a wrong turn. The trip across the glacier and through the dark land of grief is crooked and dangerous but sometimes beautiful. The voyage past the last edges of the universe is frightening and impossible but sometimes astonishing. Regardless—the steps, the ba-bump of the heart, push us to what’s next.
Annabelle feels these things right now, right this minute—the thump of her heart in her chest, her feet driving her forward. As Loretta steers her around Dupont Circle and down Massachusetts Avenue, Annabelle feels the wind, the force, the guiding light, the history, the story, the exhaustion and the grief and the triumph of the crossing.
Just keep going. Just a little farther, Kat says, or maybe that’s the Antarctic wind, or the whisper of space, or maybe that’s a gust through her own wolf-tree branches.
At Scott Circle, Loretta tells her to hang a right. Down Sixteenth Street NW, Annabelle runs. Her heart is galloping. She knows what this street is: her last one. And she knows what’s at the end of it.
My God, she cannot believe it. Everywhere she looks, there’s a postcard of an image that’s here-and-now real. Her heart goes a million miles an hour and her feet fly. She has forgotten the ever-present pain in her heel and her knee. She has no idea what she looks like, her small, thin self shuffling forward in her red tank top, her ponytail still bobbing, her lips cracked, and her skin so tan after these long weeks in the sun. She focuses only on what’s ahead, because there it is: Lafayette Square, President’s Park. There’s a statue in the center of a rectangle of beautiful red flowers. It is Andrew Jackson on a horse. The horse is up on its two back legs. Andrew Jackson tips his hat in the air.
Beyond him, Annabelle can see the White House. It looks astonishingly like the White House in photographs, but larger and living, and beyond that, there’s the familiar tip of the Washington Monument, looking astonishingly like the Washington Monument in the books. Goose bumps shiver up her arms.
She made it. Her heart and her legs have brought her to this new place.
Now, she hears the cheering. Go, Annabelle, go! You did it! Come on, Annabelle! They are chanting her name. Annabelle! Annabelle! Annabelle! She sees them—her people, her familiars. Her team. There’s a small crowd with them, on both sides of the street. Everyone is wearing red, and waving their arms, and jumping up and down.
Galloping now, too—Malcolm. Her Malcolm. He can’t help himself. He runs, full speed ahead, his knobby knees pumping like pistons, the back of his T-shirt flying out behind him. He smacks into her like a linebacker. She picks him up. He is almost her size now; he’s grown so much these past months. But he’s still her little brother, and so she lifts him and she sort of carries him, and it’s the most awkward finish, his butt practically hanging down by her knees, but it’s the best finish, because he’s her number-one sidekick.
There is a banner, and oh, it’s big, and oh wow, her mother is crying her eyes out, and so is Grandpa Ed. His glasses are off, and he’s rubbing his eyes, and it’s his victory, too. He’s been through so much with her. So many days and nights and miles in the RV, just the two of them. So many tins of anchovies, so much chainsaw snoring, so many tender offerings of water bottles and clean socks. So much silent, old-man presence, and loud old-man encouragement. Amid the shouting and cheering, she falls into his arms.
“Bella Luna,” he says.
“Grandpa. Thank you, Grandpa.”
“Thank you, Bella Luna. Thank you for keeping on, mia cara.”
“Thank God,” Gina says. Yes, Him too. Thank everyone. Thank Saint Christopher, protector of travelers, guardian against storms, holy death, and toothaches. Thank Grandpa Ed, thank Mom, who grabs Annabelle and squeezes her hard, thank Malcolm and Dr. Mann, and even thank Carl Walter, who Annabelle spots in the background, snapping photos. Thank Dawn Celeste and Luke, who is hugging her and lifting her right up off her feet. “You did it, Annabelle. You did it!”
“Sweetheart,” Dawn Celeste says, her cheeks flushed with happiness. “You are a champion! A big, damn champion!”
Thank Zach and Olivia, who are hugging her, too. Everyone is hugging her, holding her, lifting her. Her feet rise from the ground as Zach picks her up.
“You are a fucking survivor!” Zach says. Tears roll down his cheeks.
“You are.” She clasps Zach to her. They have been through so much together. And she and Olivia have, as well, and so has everyone who was there that night. The humidity is intense. Everything she is feeling is intense. My God, she is glad to be here. She is glad her heart and her feet have moved her forward to feel all of this.
“See over there? Reporters,” Olivia says. It’s true. People are taking her picture. There is a news van with a satellite on top. “Danisha Prince,” Olivia reads from her notebook, which she’s already pulled from her backpack. “From the Washington Post. She’d like to speak to you after you catch your breath.”
“You’re awesome, Olivia,” Annabelle says. “Look at what you’ve done.”
“Look at what you’ve done!” Olivia’s eyes shine with tears.
Gina shoves a bottle of water at her, and Annabelle drinks. It is the most delicious water she’s ever tasted. People are congratulating her. Strangers. They shake her shoulders and clap her back and ask her how she feels. It’s hard to take it all in. Her family and friends are wearing the red shirts, but so are these strangers. Run for a Cause shirts are everywhere. Thank her supporters, too. Aunt Angie and Uncle Pat, and her old bosses, Claire and Thomas, and the people from Sunnyside; her teachers from Roosevelt, her friends and their parents, her old neighbors, and so many people she doesn’t even know. Gina lifts Malcolm in the air next, and swings him in a circle.
“I am so fucking happy,” Gina says.
“Twenty-five cents, Mom!” Malcolm shouts.
What does she feel besides guilt?
Joy. She feels joy.
• • •
Her feet go forward and her heart ba-bamps that night at the celebration dinner at Morelli’s, where there’s a surprise. Her father has just flown in from Boston, and he’s wearing a dress shirt and jeans, and he looks like her father, not That Bastard Father Anthony. He looks like her father maybe because he’s been acting like one, with the notes and the calls and the support. He is shy. He hugs her hard. He smells like his old, same soap.
“Way to go. Way to go. I’m so proud of you, Peanut.”
She’s struck, because she hasn’t heard that name in years, the name he used to call her when she was a little girl, the name he’d use when she’d bring him her report card to admire, when they practiced her spelling words, when he’d cheer her on as she raced around the yard as he timed her with his stopwatch. She hugs him back. When they separate, he holds her arms, and looks at her in the eyes, and she looks at him, and they see each other. She gets that sense, that they really do see, and she is Peanut and she is the young woman she is now, and he is the lawn-mowing young father and he is the man who’s made mistakes and is trying to do better. He kisses her cheek. He sits down at the end of the table by Dawn Celeste and Malcolm. He compliments the waiter on the mostaccioli. It is maybe the beginning of something.
Her feet go forward and her heart ba-bamps the next day, too, as she walks down a red-carpeted corridor of the US Capitol. It ba-bamps hard. Senate is in session, and she meets her senators from Washington, who invite Annabelle to the State of the Union address in February. She gets her photo taken. She meets elected officials from Oregon and California, before being led to the south side of the Capitol, where she talks with the chair and vice-chair of the Gun Violence Prevention Task Force, who also invite her to speak as a panelist at their upcoming forum in December. There is a student group the next day at George Washington University. Annabelle doesn’t think she can do it. Grandpa Ed pushes her out. She walks up to a microphone, which is tilted too high. The faces look at her, and she looks at them, and then she is honest. She remembers that everyone has a story. That the people in the audience have likely felt grief and confusion and powerlessness.
Her feet go forward and her heart ba-bamps three days later, as she walks down the ramp to their airplane. Luke and Zach and Olivia have already left, and Grandpa Ed and Dawn Celeste are taking the long way home in the RV, via every national park they can hit until the trial starts, but Annabelle is flying home. Gina and Malcolm sit next to her. Gina reads the plastic sheet about the emergency exits. Annabelle closes her eyes and feels the liftoff.
Her feet go forward and her heart ba-bamps as she walks into her room at home that night. She is scared of her own house and her own room. She fears she’ll be transformed back into the girl she was. But, no. Bit hops around at her legs in joyous reunion, and she kisses him, and she holds her pillow to her face and smells its beautiful familiarity, but she is still the Annabelle Agnelli who ran across the country.
And she is still that Annabelle the next week, too, when she walks into prosecutor Seth Greggory’s office. Her feet go forward and her heart ba-bamps even as the Antarctic wind kicks up. She walks hard across the glacier and her extremities freeze. Crystals form on her eyelashes, or maybe they’re just wet from tears. Seth Greggory is firm but gentle. He grills her, as The Taker’s defense attorney will. He brings her coffee. He brings Gina coffee. They start again. And again. She must remind herself—as terrifying as he is and this is, Seth Greggory is on her side. He is part of Team Endurance.
Annabelle’s feet go forward and her heart ba-bamps, ba-bamps, BA-BAMPS three weeks later, when she walks into a courtroom. She remembers the muscles in her calves and the strength in her thighs, and she remembers the heat of the farmland and the slope of the mountains and the miles and miles she’s crossed. She remembers her strength. She tries to, because there are his parents, Nadine and Gavin, and there he is, The Taker—his hair is different, and he is wearing a suit and tie and, dear God, dear God, it is that tie he wore to the winter dance, and this is awful, awful, but Annabelle looks at him. She looks right at him, and she answers the questions about him, even though the microphone is tilted too far up and even though she’d been throwing up from stress all morning. She says the names of the people she loved. Kat Klein. Will MacEvans. And she looks right at The Taker, right at him, because he hasn’t won. He needs to know he hasn’t won. Her heart has. The way it keeps on beating, the way it survives in spite of how it’s been destroyed—it has won.
“What shall we do tonight for dinner?” Gina asks as they get back into the car after Annabelle’s awful two days of testimony are over. Grandpa is already heading home, to call Dawn Celeste with the details. It’s just the three of them.
“Dick’s,” Annabelle says.
“Really?”
“Really.”
They drive up. There is the orange Dick’s sign, spinning around on top of its post. They order burgers and fries.
“You’re not going to take off again, are you?” Gina asks.
“Hmm. My knee is feeling better. . . .”
“Awesome. I’ll come, too,” Malcolm says.
Gina socks him. “I hate it when you guys gang up.”
They eat in the car. Annabelle loves eating in the car. Outside, there are customers in line ordering food. The air smells like fall coming, plus French fries. There are no intoxicated guys trying to grab her. There are just people with their stories, getting dinner.
The muscles in Annabelle’s legs and arms are hard as baseballs again. Her voice is still rising from where it has been under her surface for so long. But her feet are planted. Her heart still thumps along in her chest.
“Too bad Bit isn’t here. He loves French fries,” Malcolm says.
“Even though they make him fart,” Gina says.
“He could sit on your lap, Annabelle,” Malcolm says.
“Non mi rompere i maroni,” Annabelle says. She learned this from Grandpa, of course.
Translation: Quit being annoying. Literal translation: Don’t break my chestnuts.
• • •
Her feet go forward and her heart ba-bamps when she must see The Taker once again, at his sentencing hearing. She does not look at him when she makes her statement. She looks at Judge Samuels, as she describes the ways her heart has been broken. She speaks about its shattered pieces, and the way it must go on beating, in spite of being wrecked. She summons the strength and the anger from the miles and the crossing and the people she’s met. It is the hardest thing she’s ever done, harder than running 2,700 miles. She is exhausted and spent when she sits down. Even her fingers are too tired to tap. When Gina wraps her arms around her, Annabelle closes her eyes and remembers Will’s arms around her like that. They were lying on a blanket at Green Lake one spring day, and her head rested on his chest, and she could hear his heart thundering. She sobs when the judge sentences The Taker—Daniel Wainwright—to two consecutive life sentences.
• • •
Her feet go forward and her heart ba-bamps as she walks along a wooded trail. It is January, a new season, a new year. It’s cold out there. It’s not Endurance cold, not Antarctic cold, but a crisp, lovely, blue-chill cold. She breathes it in. Her lungs say thank you. Her muscles are happy to be outdoors again. She’s been spending lots of time inside, inside classrooms and auditoriums, inside the little office in the new apartment she and Olivia share. They have a lot of work to do. There are a lot of people to talk to. Now, she tilts the microphone herself before she speaks. Now, she looks into the faces of the people in her audience as they look into hers.
But today, it is a forest-and-damp-earth afternoon. Out in nature, her anxiety rests, breathes a sigh of relief. Since her body has healed, she’s been going on short daily runs again, and she’s in good shape. Luke, well, he’s another matter.
“Slow. Down. Please. Annabelle,” he puffs.
“I can’t wait to see it.”
“It will still be there even if we slow down. My cramps have cramps.”
There’s a clearing. They stop.
“Voila,” Luke breathes.
Oh, that wolf tree is ugly all right. It is no one’s idea of beautiful. A stumpy, gnarled beast, alone in a wide area of open woods.
“Look right there. You can tell where the lightning has hit.” Luke points.
She sees it. There’s a distinct black gouge, the mark of a terrible moment in its life.
“Oh wow,” Annabelle says.
“But look. Look up.”
New growth spurts out from the top. It is winter and there are no leaves, but it is clearly still alive. “It looks like Malcolm after Mom cut his hair.”
No. Actually, it’s astonishing. God, she loves science and nature. That tree is ruined but not ruined. Rooted, in spite of the storms and the ice. There are no real words for it, so she’s silent for a while, staring in respect and awe.
“I told you. Beautiful, right?”
“Yes.” Yes, most definitely.
Annabelle Agnelli gazes up, up past the tree now, into winter-blue sky. She imagines that she can see 2,700 miles up into the atmosphere. She imagines that her love can rise farther than that, much farther, up into the universe, into unreachable places, and to unreachable people. Kat. Will. Her breath puffs clouds into the air.
It’s getting cold. It’s colder when you stand still. Luke cups his hands around his nose and exhales hard to warm it. “It’s freezing out here. You ready to go?” he asks.
The chill wind presses, and her eyes are watering, but there is still so much more beautiful stuff to see.