Decision Time

 

 

A half hour after Mac’s awakening, Dad took me to a pizza place on Chestnut Avenue, not far from the hospital. Throughout the meal, I sneaked looks through the broken lenses of my sunglasses. What was left of them, anyway, which wasn’t much.

The magic was gone. Sandra Morton’s ghost was gone. And Better Bertie was gone, too. Losing Better Bertie hurt the most. I was on my own.

Better Bertie warned me that things were going to happen that I would not understand. But she also said when the moment was right, it would all make sense. This was the moment when everything made sense to me, inside the pizza restaurant with my dad, sitting in a booth by the window.

Here it goes.

Without Better Bertie nudging me to be a better person and to see people and the world differently, I would’ve never found the courage to go on the crazy-dangerous mission to rescue Cosmo from the axe murderer. Mac and Cosmo don’t reunite. Mac never wakes up from the coma. He dies. Howard and Mom break up, and Mom and I move back to North Carolina. The wound of Mac’s death and my role in it festers and burns and itches for the rest of our lives. Never completely heals.

And that’s why Sandra Morton engineered the entire deal with the hoodoo sunglasses and Better Bertie. I had to become a better person before I could be brave enough and decent enough and selfless enough to do whatever it took to save her son, Mac, and keep him in the living world, even if it meant putting my own life at risk.

Somehow, Sandra saw each puzzle piece ahead of time, and all the gaping holes that needed to be filled in if Mac was going to survive. And so she left behind her sunglasses so I would use them to find my higher self, to see auras and shooting stars, and other proof that the universe was paying attention to me and to Mac. But only if I kept my eyes wide open, and traced the lines of connection between people, places, and events, and even different years, like when I time-traveled in Room 555.

It’s a two-way relationship. Ignore the universe, and it might ignore you back. And it’s a trust issue, I think. Trust the universe, and miracles become possible. Including the absolute miracle of a sweet and mischievous eight-year-old boy coming back to life, in good part because of the boundless love of a dirty and stinky dog.

But it wasn’t simply about Mac waking up. It was about healing all of us: Howard, Tabitha, Mom, me, and even skinny-to-his-bones Cosmo. And Leon, who now had a dog friend to play with. Who knows, maybe Sandra Morton did some self-healing while she was in Altoona. I’d like one more chat with her, but I don’t think that will ever happen.

“What’s the story with those busted sunglasses?” Dad said after wiping tomato sauce off his mouth with a paper napkin.

I wanted to tell my dad every crazy, spooky thing that had happened to me, but I couldn’t—it was too soon. Besides, we had more immediate matters to discuss. Even though Mac was out of the woods, Dad still wanted me and Leon to return home with him to North Carolina. And a huge part of me wanted to go, but it felt like the selfish part.

Thanks to Mac coming back to life, Mom and Howard had an opportunity to save their relationship. A second chance to be happy again. How could I ruin that? If I left Altoona, Mom would leave, too. We were a package deal, so the better part of me knew I should stay. Plus, I really wanted to help Mac get back on his feet. So that’s what I told my dad, that I needed to stay in Pennsylvania for a while. Family members, current and future, were counting on me, and I was tired of letting people down.

“You sure about this, Peach Pie?” Dad asked.

“No,” I said. “But I need to do it anyway.”

My dad wasn’t giving up. He was a winning attorney, and he wouldn’t go down without a battle. I could tell he really wanted me to come with him, especially when he started using his cross-examination tactics. “Remember our phone calls and video chats, Bertie? You said Howard’s house was haunted. You told me you were seeing ghosts, did you not?”

I silently shrugged.

“Don’t just shrug, give me an answer,” he said. “Do you see ghosts, or not?”

“Ghosts? I wish.” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dad asked.

I didn’t want to lie.

Standing up, I gave my dad a hug. “It means I love you, Daddy.”

He hugged me tightly. I smelled his minty aftershave and the goop he puts in his hair. “I love you too, Fluffy Stuff,” my dad said.

My eyes welled with tears. In my heart I already missed him.