a/n— I just finished reading If I Stay and realized how nicely this would fit so I literally wrote out the chapter from the book and just changed minor details so I'm going to start out with I in no way claim to own If I Stay or anything associated with it. All rights go to Gayle Forman. Now. Now that we've cleared that up, enjoy this rude awakening for your feels.
• • •
Later that afternoon, I went outside with Gramps to help him collect firewood. He needed to split some more logs, so I watched him take an ax to a bunch or dried alder.
“Gramps, don’t you like Dad’s new clothes?” I asked.
Gramps halted the ax in midair. Then he set it down gently next to the bench I was sitting on. “I like his clothes just fine, Mia,” he said.
“But you looked so sad in there when Gran was talking about it.”
Gramps shook his head. “Don’t miss a thing, do you? Even at ten years old.”
“It’s not easy to miss. When you feel sad, you look sad.”
“I’m not sad. Your father seems happy and I think he’ll make a good teacher. Those are some lucky kids who get to read The Great Gatsby with your dad. I’ll just miss the music.”
“Music? You never go to Dad’s shows.”
“I’ve got bad ears. From the war. The noise hurts.”
“You should wear headphones. Mom makes me do that. Earplugs just fall out.”
“Maybe I’ll try that. But I’ve always listened to your dad’s music. At low volume. I’ll admit, I don’t much care for all that electric guitar. Not my cup of tea. But I still admired the music. The words, especially. When he was about your age your father used to come up with these great stories. He’d sit down at his little table and write them down, then give them to Gran to type up, then he’d draw pictures. Funny stories about animals, but real and smart. Always reminded me of that book about the spider and the pig—what’s it called?”
“Charlotte’s Web?”
“That’s the one. I always thought your dad would grow up to be a writer. And in a way, I always felt like he did. The words he writes to his music, they're poetry. You ever listen carefully to the things he says?”
I shook my head, suddenly ashamed. I hadn’t even realized that Dad wrote lyrics. He didn’t sing so I just assumed that the people in front of the microphones wrote the words. But I had seen him sit at the kitchen table with a guitar and a notepad a hundred times. I’d just never put it together.
