His hand tugged the front of my shirt as he begged, "Put on Frank. I wanna hear him."

"Okay, I will, just lie down." I turned on The Way You Look Tonight and he threatened to get out of bed.

"That's Life," he demanded.

"Yeah this is life, Pop. This is what my life flunking out of med school looks like."

"No," he groaned, "The song. Play That's Life. I wanna hear Frank."

I flipped through his collection until I found the right one. Andrew sang along, laughing in between the lines, until he tried to get out of bed again. Half of me longed to hate him, but as he clung on to me and confessed, "I just wanted to see her. She keeps visiting me in my dreams." I just couldn't muster hatred toward a dying man.

I soothed his hair like he was a small child. "Mom doesn't live next door, Pop. You have to stop bothering Mrs. Rossinburg or they'll take you to jail for trespassing and disturbing the peace."

"No no. The girl. The little girl. She keeps coming to see me in my dreams. Julep told me to go find her. Is she still alive? I need to do this for your mother."

"What girl?"

"The girl, the girl. The little Georgia girl. Little Peach from Georgia."

"I don't know a girl named Peach. Lay down, Pop. Please. Before I call the cops myself and ask them to take you away. You and your imaginary friend from Georgia."

In mumbling drunken Italian he told me-in short-the cops could go fuck themselves.

"I agree with the sentiment, Pop, but the truth still remains. Lay down." He let me tuck him in and I waited until his eyes closed before I slipped off his shoes, and quietly left the room.

At the bottom of the staircase my step-mother Marta waited.

"I didn't know if he was alone," she said, glancing awkwardly toward his door. "Is he all right?"

"He's passed out. Where the hell were you?"

"I had to grocery shop. He seemed fine when I left."

"He's been fine for ten years. Being fine isn't his problem." I didn't wait for her response. I scooped up my bag next to the door where I left it and twisted the knob. "Stroud said next time he's getting locked up."

"What did Andrew do?" She asked clutching the cross around her neck.

"He was at Mrs. Rossinburg's house, again."

"Why does he go there? Even drunk . . . why would he ever bother Mrs. Rossinburg?"

I stared at her so she'd finally understand she'd never truly be, "Mrs. Trovatto".

"The letters on Mrs. Rossinburg's mailbox are chipping off . . . when he's drunk he thinks that's where Julep Rossi lives."

I couldn't even look at Everly when I reached her desk. Matter of fact, I couldn't speak to her either. I just rested my forehead against the butt of my hand and breathed through indignation.

"Having trouble with words again?"

I glanced up to see her shy smile.

"I feel like ten people shoved into one body sometimes."

"Hope you don't think that's going to change after they give you that big fancy degree."

I sat up straight. "Becoming a doctor has been the easiest part my life."

"So you're a runaway."

I shook my head laughing slightly. "There's a difference between moving forward and running away. I'm moving forward."

"Ginger chew?" She offered with a smile so damn sweet the ire began to recede.

"It sure as hell couldn't hurt, Everly Anne."

She handed me a candy, and then asked, "So what does hurt?"

Our eyes locked, and this was where the second star fell. "I was thirteen and it was Christmas Eve. All of my friends had green and red lighting up their houses, but I had blue and red. They told me my mom just stopped breathing. Cancer killed her on Christmas Eve. And now you fully understand my fight with just."

Everly Anne didn't say she was sorry. It was the only time someone skipped this part. It was then I knew she was selfless. Every time someone had told me they were sorry about my mom dying I felt like asking them but why? One time I did ask-and you can bet their answer-they just were.

Something I learned from my mom's death was that apologies were only meant to help the other person feel less awkward because really-fuckin' really-what do you say to a kid who just watched his mother die slowly in pain and without dignity over the span of five years? She's better off with God? That only works if you believe in such fairytales, and I was never that much of a child.

Everly Anne sat silent and composed. Her eyes listened and her ears absorbed. She was like a journal entry, comfortable and leading. I knew whatever I wrote down would stay with her. So I chose to be the black to her white, selfish and greedy. I took the time that was meant to be all about her and used it for myself. Her quietness didn't seem to mind.

"The worst part about a person dying is all the destruction it leaves behind. I miss my mother Julep every day, but sometimes watching the aftermath of what it's done to my father is worse. My mother's pain left with her, but his pain is infinite. And if I am the flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood, then his pain is also mine, isn't it?"

I asked a question and she answered despite my rhetorical intention.

"I would say yes. But I would also say that means the joy is yours too. The pain comes from the joy. So there must have been so much joy that once it's gone the world looks void."

"Then there isn't any hope for him . . . or me." I exhaled, in frustration. "Christ, what is it about you that makes me comfortable enough to fall apart, Everly Anne?"

She ignored my question. "Except looks are deceiving," she added. "You know the most beautiful thing I ever witnessed was a family releasing hundreds of red heart-shaped balloons the day their daughter was buried. They didn't hide. Everyone asked them what they were doing and why they wore red. What the red was all about. Every person was given an answer. They wanted their daughter to live on in a story. They didn't want to hide in black and cry in secret. They wanted her to live on in a way that couldn't be denied. You can't wipe someone out of a person's memory or a day etched into the world. It's impossible. But what you do with the memory . . . that is wholly up to you."

Secrets There was too much yelling and my fist couldn't knock. I wanted to speak to Timothy before class about changing some of my rotation hours, so I arrived thirty minutes too soon . . . at least by the goal of my original mission.

Both voices were familiar. Both voices wanted very opposite things. Everly screamed that she wanted to go see someone named Truscott. Timothy yelled that she was supposed to have stayed home today and needed to rest. Also, that he was in charge, she didn't know what she was talking about, how juvenile she was acting, and a string of other fatherly things. Everly's voice was more of a plea; begging with every protest.

I walked away from the classroom door, not wanting to hear or know anything else that happened inside of Everly's world.

The taste of that lie burned as I tried to swallow it down.