SURVIVAL KIT Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  JUNE - The Dress Made of Night

  1 - CAN’T GO BACK NOW

  SEPTEMBER & OCTOBER - The Promise of Peonies

  2 - ABOUT A GIRL

  3 - MY BEST FRIEND

  4 - HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

  5 - PRECIOUS THINGS

  6 - ALL AT SEA

  7 - NICE GUY

  8 - HOW IT ENDS

  9 - OVER YOU

  10 - FAN OF YOUR EYES

  11 - CAN YOU TELL

  12 - BETWEEN THE LINES

  13 - ONE OF THOSE DAYS

  NOVEMBER & DECEMBER - A Sound Track for the Holiday Season

  14 - HOCKEY WEEK

  15 - MY BABY JUST CARES FOR ME

  16 - ENERGY

  17 - TAKE IT HOME

  18 - I STAND CORRECTED

  19 - BOTTLE IT UP

  20 - PRIVATE CONVERSATION

  21 - BLUE CHRISTMAS

  22 - ARE WE FRIENDS OR LOVERS

  23 - FAMILY TREE

  24 - ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU

  JANUARY & FEBRUARY - A Crystal Heart

  25 - THE HEART OF LIFE

  26 - HARD TO EXPLAIN

  27 - COLORFUL

  28 - ARE YOU GONNA BE MY GIRL

  29 - MY HEART

  30 - LAST NITE

  31 - FALLING SLOWLY

  MARCH - A Box of Crayons

  32 - BEEN A LONG DAY

  33 - NOT YOUR YEAR

  34 - BETTER

  APRIL & MAY - Wishing on Stars

  35 - EVERYBODY

  36 - KIND AND GENEROUS

  37 - STARS

  38 - MIDNIGHT BLUE

  39 - DREAMS

  EPILOGUE - June 4 The Kite

  40 - ALL WILL BE WELL

  ROSE MADISON'S PLAYLIST

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALSO BY DONNA FREITAS

  Copyright Page

  This book is dedicated in memory of my mother, whose real-life Survival Kits inspired this story

  And to Frances Foster and Miriam Altshuler, two women whose presence, support, and encouragement these last years have been indispensable to my own survival

  JUNE

  The Dress Made of Night

  1

  CAN’T GO BACK NOW

  I found it on the day of my mother’s funeral, tucked in a place she knew I would look. There it was, hanging with her favorite dress, the one I’d always wanted to wear.

  ��Someday when you are old enough,” she used to say.

  Is sixteen old enough?

  After the last mourners left the house, Dad, my brother, Jim, and I began arguing about Mom’s stuff—What were we going to do with it? Who got what? Dad wanted to get rid of everything and I wanted it kept exactly as she left it. After the yelling and the sad, alternating silences became too much, I ran off. Suddenly, I was at my mother’s closet door, grabbing the cold black metal knob, turning it and walking inside, pulling it shut behind me, hearing the hard slam as I was eclipsed by darkness. I fumbled for the string to turn on the light and when my fingers closed around the knot at the bottom, I pulled. Tears sprang to my eyes with the illumination of the bulb and a wave of dizziness passed over me, too, and I collapsed onto the footstool Mom uses—no, used—to reach the higher shelves.

  That’s when I thought: this is a mistake.

  Everything around me smelled of her—her perfume, her shampoo, her soap. Looking up from my crouch, knees pulled tight to my chest, I saw how her clothes were just there, as if she were still here, as if at any moment she might walk in, looking for a pair of jeans or one of her teacher smocks, splashed across the front with paint splotches. My gaze fell across skirts that would never be worn again, blouses and light cotton dresses that would likely be given away, her gardening hats in a big pile on a low shelf, everything colorful and bright, like the flowers in her garden and the wild, rainbow collages on the walls of her classroom—all except for one dress.

  With my hands bracing the wall for balance, I stood up and waded through the shoes on the floor, shoving everything in my way aside, until I saw it: the dress made of night, in fabric that was the darkest of blues and dotted over with a million glittering specks of gold. My mother sometimes wore it for a walk on a summer’s night or to sit in the pretty wire chairs in the middle of her rose garden, where, when I was little, she would read to me under a flowered sky.

  Tied to its hanger was a baby blue ribbon, done up neatly in a bow and pulled through a small, perfect circle punched into a brown paper lunch bag. Big, sloping letters in my mother’s hand marched across the front in blue marker strokes: Rose’s Survival Kit.

  My heart began to pound. Mom made Survival Kits for so many people during her lifetime—she was famous for them, but never before had she made one for me. I lifted the dress off the bar, the Survival Kit cradled in its midnight blue layers, and carried it out of her closet and down the hall to my room as if it were a body, gently laying it across the bed.

  “Mom?” I whispered, first to the floor, then to the ceiling, then through the open window to the grass and the sky and the flowers in her gardens, as if she might be anywhere. A light summer’s breeze snuck up behind me and caressed my cheek and again the word Mom expanded inside me, my attention drawn back to the Survival Kit that was just sitting there, waiting. The top of the bag was creased with a flap so sharp it looked as though she’d ironed it. My fingers fumbled with the fold, the crackle of the paper loud in the silence, when suddenly I stopped. My breath caught and my body shivered, and before I even glimpsed what was inside, I gathered everything into my arms, pressing it against me, and went to my closet. Gowns for homecoming and the prom vied for room among the stacks of folded jeans and sweaters and the cheerleading jacket I’d never worn. Quickly, I shut the dress away with everything else.

  I closed my eyes tight. Someday I would be ready to open my Survival Kit, but not yet. It was too soon.

  “Rose? Where are you?” Dad’s voice rang through the now empty house, causing me to jump, startled. I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone, that my father and brother—what was left of my family—were just down the hall.

  “Yeah, Dad?” I called back, taking a deep breath and trying to steady myself.

  “We need you in the kitchen.”

  “Okay! I’ll be right there!” I shouted, and did my best to shove all thoughts about the Survival Kit away from my mind.

  At least for now.

  SEPTEMBER & OCTOBER

  The Promise of Peonies

  2

  ABOUT A GIRL

  It was the morning of September 4. Summer was over, school had started again, and I was dreading the day. Exactly three months had passed since my mother’s death and already I’d learned to hate this date on the calendar, the way it relentlessly cycled around every few weeks, always looming ahead. I headed out the door to wait for my ride and I hadn’t gone two steps before I almost tripped over a body.

  Will Doniger was rigging sprinklers along the edge of the front walk and he looked up when the toe of my boot met his back, his eyes barely visible through his wavy hair. He didn’t say a word.

  “Sorry,” I told him, stepping aside.

  He gave me a small nod but that was it.

  Will was a senior at my high school and had been working in our yard as long as I could remember. He and I shared something important now, too: he lost his father to cancer, just like I lost Mom. But still, we never spoke to each other, so I walked around the rest of him and kept on going.

  Before my mother died Will had only cut the grass, but afterward he became a daily fixture at our house. He ran his father’s business, Doniger Landscaping—that’s what it said on the side of his truck—and we’d needed help with the gardens Mom left us
. Everything would have died or become overgrown without Will’s help—though I don’t know that I’d have said this to him.

  Before I reached the street, I glanced behind me. Will was staring off into the distance, every muscle in his body tense in the glaring sun. Words hovered on my lips, but my attention was caught by a bright red gerbera daisy that stood taller than the rest in a nearby garden. I reached out and picked it, raising it close to my nose, the long petals tickling my face. An image of my mother with a thick bunch gathered in her arms cut through my mind, and my fingers automatically released the sticky green stem as if it were covered in thorns. The flower fell to the ground, and I stared at it lying there. A car horn sounded. Chris Williams, my boyfriend of two years, pulled up in front of the house. I hurried to meet him, the sole of my boot crushing the red petals of the daisy against the brick.

  “Hey, babe, you look gorgeous today,” Chris yelled over the song playing on the stereo. “I like your hair down. It’s about time you lost that ponytail you keep wearing.”

  My hand hesitated at the door handle as I tried to call up a smile. Lately I shrank from comments about my appearance, and it took some work to remember that Chris was only trying to make me feel good. “Thanks,” I told him, taking a deep breath and getting inside. Before I had a chance to put on my seat belt, Chris stepped on the gas and launched into details about last night’s football practice, not even noticing me turn off the music, at least not at first.

  “Hey, I was listening to that,” he protested after a while.

  I didn’t respond, just focused my attention straight ahead.

  “Someday you’re going to have to start listening to music again,” he began, hesitating a moment. “Your mother wouldn’t want you to live the rest of your life in silence.”

  “But it makes me so sad,” I whispered. “Let’s not do this today, okay? Please.”

  Chris sighed. “Fine,” he said, and we continued on our way to school. He tapped the steering wheel lightly with his thumbs, as if a song still played and he was drumming to its beat, eventually getting back to his story. “So then I passed the ball to Jason—forty yards—it landed straight in his arms, and I was thinking, I just hope we can do this again at the game on Saturday. I wish you’d been there yesterday to see it.” He glanced over at me. “Babe?”

  I nodded, pasting another smile to my lips, and he went on talking.

  Football was a big deal in Lewis, and Chris Williams was the quarterback, so he was the center of it all. He was that guy at our school—the star athlete, the homecoming king, the boy every girl dreamed of dating. Chris was sweet, he was beautiful, he was the life of the party, but most important he was mine. When he picked me out of everybody else to be his girlfriend my freshman year, I just smiled and said “Absolutely, positively yes.” Wearing a football player’s letter jacket was about the coolest thing a girl could wish for in a town like ours, and the fact that I was lucky enough to have the name Chris Williams stitched across mine made me that girl. I was even a cheerleader.

  But that was before my mother died.

  Since then I’d quit—the partying, the cheering, and much to Chris’s chagrin, having sex. My body felt soft, vulnerable, like one great wound all over. Sex would be wrong, impossible even, and it had become a huge source of tension in our relationship, this wall I’d put up between my body and his. I used to like it, but now I almost couldn’t bear to be touched. The only thing I’d managed to hang on to from my former life was my title as Chris Williams’s girlfriend. If I wasn’t careful, I’d lose that, too.

  When Chris stopped at the next red light, he leaned toward me, his lips grazing my ear and traveling down my neck, and I shivered but not in a good way. I could tell he wanted me to kiss him, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn my face toward his. Instead, I stared straight ahead, frozen, as if I didn’t notice him there, until the signal turned green and he was forced to pay attention to the road again. The expression on his face was grim at first, and I felt awful for rejecting him, but then it softened.

  “I’m sorry, Rose. I forgot it was the fourth today. How are you feeling?”

  The fact that Chris remembered the anniversary hurt my heart. “I don’t know,” I said finally, and reached across the seat for his hand, wanting to show I was grateful. “I’m okay. I guess. Thanks for asking.”

  “Is it four months?”

  “Three,” I corrected, and he wove his fingers through mine, squeezing tight. We spent the rest of the ride in silence and soon we were turning into the school parking lot. Chris drove down the long row of cars closest to the front entrance, and sure enough, the best spot was waiting for him. The star quarterback in Lewis got certain perks, and he pulled into the space like someone accustomed to special treatment. Chris got out immediately, but I just sat there, not moving, noticing how the sun gleamed a bright streak across the metal hood of his SUV and wishing I was one of those girls who could cut school without a care.

  “You coming?” Chris bellowed from outside.

  “Yup,” I mouthed, and turned the rearview mirror my way for a quick look. Sleep had eluded me again last night and I hoped the eyedrops erased enough of the red so that no one would comment. I pushed my arms through the sleeves of Chris’s jacket, so big it swallowed my body, appreciating how it made me feel covered up and hidden away.

  Chris knocked on the windshield to hurry me, his blond hair almost white in the light. As a couple we were like a photo and its negative, his features bright and colorful, skin tanned and golden, and mine a series of dark and pale hues from head to toe. When I got out of the car, Chris immediately wrapped his arm around my shoulders, shielding me from the prying eyes and sympathetic stares of others. When physical contact felt protective, I welcomed it, and only when it felt like an advance did I push it away.

  We walked toward the entrance. In my peripheral vision I saw Kecia Alli, one of the cheerleaders, sitting on the trunk of her car, and immediately I felt guilty. We hadn’t spoken in months—not since I’d quit.

  “Hi, guys,” called a melodious voice over the loud morning chatter, and for the first time today I smiled for real. Krupa Shakti fell into step with us, my best friend in the whole world.

  “Hey, Krupa,” Chris said, holding the door open to let us both through. “You’ll be there on Saturday?” He meant his football game.

  “Yes. For the first five minutes only, as usual,” she replied.

  Krupa was not a sports fan. The school paid her to sing the national anthem during football season, which she did only for the money—she was saving for Juilliard and getting out of Lewis as fast as her vocal cords could carry her. Krupa was tiny, but she had the biggest, most powerful and insanely beautiful voice I’d ever heard, as if someone had placed the singing capacity of a three-hundred-pound woman in the body of a ninety-pound girl.

  “Maybe you can convince Rose to come with you this time, even if it’s only a few minutes. That would be a start. Right, babe?” he said softly into my ear. “Five minutes?”

  My heart sank. My moratorium on football games was the other source of tension in my relationship with Chris lately. I had painful associations with the football stadium. The moment that split my life in two—when I found out Mom was in the hospital—I’d been at cheerleading practice.

  Krupa must have read the panic in my eyes because she answered Chris before I could. “Maybe Rose will come with me another time,” she said. Then to me, “See you at lunch?”

  “Always,” I agreed, and Krupa waved goodbye, turning left toward the locker we shared. Chris and I continued down the hall until we arrived at the door to my Spanish class. He looked down at me and smiled. Hard as I tried to pretend things were fine, every part of me felt stiff and uncomfortable and wrong, and so when he leaned down to kiss me, I wondered if my lips felt as cold and frozen to him as they did to me.

  3

  MY BEST FRIEND

  With over three thousand students, Lewis High School was huge, and its tw
o-story building meandered for what felt like miles. It had more wings than I’d visited and you could probably make it to senior year without seeing some people even once. Chris was typically at my side when I navigated the halls, but Tony Greco, his best friend and a linebacker on the football team, a veritable giant at well over two hundred pounds and six foot three, currently held the role of walking me to the cafeteria to meet up with Krupa for lunch. Tony would be terrifying if it weren’t for his puppy-dog eyes and the fact that he was such a sweetheart.

  “So, Rose,” he said, his voice low and deep, as we each grabbed a blue plastic tray from the stack. “When are you going to put in a good word for me with your friend?” His body was stooped to accommodate the rails we pushed our trays along since the metal came barely above his knees.

  Tony had been asking about Krupa since Chris and I first started dating. The thought of Tony and Krupa together always made me want to laugh since he was three times Krupa’s size, but I refrained. “You know she doesn’t date athletes,” I reminded him.

  “Someday she’s going to change that rule,” he said, the look on his face sincere.

  “For your sake I hope so,” I said. Before we parted ways, Tony toward the burger station and me toward the sandwiches, I tried to offer at least some small bit of hope. “I am sure if Krupa did date athletes, you’d top her list.”

  Tony placed a massive hand on my shoulder. “You’re nice to me,” he said, and leaned down to kiss the top of my head before loping off. People automatically cleared a path without his having to say a word.

  The cafeteria was especially crowded, and half the time allotted for lunch disappeared while I waited in line to get my sandwich and Coke. With my tray balanced across one arm and trying desperately not to spill my drink, I wove in and out of the people milling about, pretending I didn’t notice that most of the occupants at the cheerleaders’ table were staring at me. Finally, I found Krupa, the one person in the world who made me feel safe now that Mom was gone, the friend who reminded me that there was still something of the old Rose left and that maybe she wasn’t gone for good after all. The little tin cups that contained her mother’s homemade Indian cooking were spread out in front of her like shiny round toys, and she speared a tiny tree of cauliflower covered in a yellow sauce, popped it in her mouth, and went for another. The delicious smell of curry hit me and I immediately regretted my boring sandwich choice. My mouth watered as I placed my lunch on the table and slid into the other chair, nostalgic for the time when my mother used to pack me yummy things to eat at school, too.