Chapter 1

chapter 1

river

Cemeteries are the greenest places in all of Scottsdale, Arizona. Even greener than the golf course at the nicest country club in town, which I only know because my mom worked there as a housekeeper when I was seven, and her boss used to let me eat ice pops from the snack stand at the thirteenth hole.

Ocotillo Ridge Memorial Park is no exception. There’s no red dirt here, no gravel. No dusty scrub or faded mulch. Just a clear stretch of brilliant green grass, water shortage be damned. The sea of green is broken up only by headstones and a smattering of flowering trees that lace the air with the gumdrop smell of acacia and the grape-soda scent of Texas mountain laurel. Dad loved those pendulous purple flowers, that sweet smell. It’s why I dipped into my GoFundMe money—the dubiously earned nest egg I’d vowed never to touch except in case of emergency—to secure him a spot here, so he could always be near those blossoms.

It’s the trees I focus on now, the way they glow in the morning light. I don’t focus on the way a priest is saying my father’s name—Jay San-TOS—and how it sounds all wrong on his clumsy tongue. The way substitute teachers used to say my name, indifferent, not bothering to understand the vowels or pronunciation, because in an hour, that name would no longer exist to them.

If I focused on how wrong it sounds, I would have to focus on how wrong all of this is. That my dad is lying there, in a cedar coffin, waiting to be lowered into the ground, instead of standing here by my side. That my mother hasn’t even called, let alone shown up for his funeral. That life as I knew it burned down to the ground just two weeks ago, when my house caught fire, taking everything with it—my guitar, my songbook, my diaries, my clothes, everything.

And most importantly, my father.

Because of the extensive damage, the fire department hasn’t been able to tell us exactly what happened, just that it was probably electrical. Everything in our house was so old and half-broken, it honestly could have been anything. And once the fire started, it blazed hot and fast; my dad didn’t even make it out of his bedroom. Everyone says it’s a miracle I survived. That I’m so “lucky” that I somehow made it out of the house to the front lawn, where the firefighters found me passed out from smoke inhalation. I have no idea how I did it; all I have of that night are smoke-addled flashes, nothing that adds up to “daring escape.”

And personally? I wouldn’t call any of this “luck.”

Through the fog that has enveloped me ever since I awoke in the hospital, I notice just how many people are here. I recognize most of them. Gertie, the owner of the diner I’ve worked at for years, presses a tissue to her nose. Teachers from Scottsdale Senior High School, where I’m a senior, as well as staff and students from Mojave Prep, where my dad coached football, stare solemnly ahead. His assistant coaches all stand in a line, wearing an impromptu uniform of slick jackets and ties; the players wear their varsity jackets despite the heat, their expressions grim.

Thank God Tawny’s here. My best friend in the entire world. And after everything that’s happened, sort of my only friend in the world. Everyone has been so kind and helpful, but Tawny McGill is the only person I can bear to be around. She’s also the last person alive, it feels like, who knows me inside and out, who knows what I need without me even having to say it.

My ex, Noah Pierce, is also here, though he has studiously avoided eye contact with me since he arrived with his father. It’s probably for the best, though, since Tawny would explode with protective fury if he got within five feet of me.

Next to the Pierces are a dozen guys from my dad’s regular Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, the “anonymous” part of the equation having long since fallen by the wayside after years of backyard barbecues or the occasional person coming up to us during our weekly breakfast at the diner to share that my dad had literally saved their life.

As I look into the sea of tear-streaked faces around me, at this crowd stitched together by my father’s love and support, I can’t help that little voice inside me that asks: But where is Dad?

It’s a familiar refrain from my life. Anytime I got up to sing, from my first concert at eight to my last one at seventeen, as I’d walk onto the stage, my heels echoing against old, scuffed wood, my first thought was always:

Where is Dad?

I would look out into the crowd, searching only for him. I’d find him: the mole on his left cheek; his thick, black hair; his dark, laughing eyes. He’d raise his hand, wave and wave. In that moment, I was a famous singer, a celebrity. I’d always wave back until Mom would tug down his wrist, embarrassed but smiling as she tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear.

Where is Dad? I think again. Knowing the answer breaks me.

As if noticing that I am about to fall to pieces, Tawny leans in and whispers in my ear, “I’ve got you, River.”

“We both do,” Tita Anna whispers from my other side, lacing her fingers through mine.

Tawny puts an arm around my shoulder, tucking me in tight. It’s the only reason I don’t fly apart. I stay there, in her embrace, through the rest of the ceremony, as the priest finishes his sermon, and then as person after person steps up to share their memories of my father, of the profound ways he touched their lives. Tawny stiffens next to me with each speech, turning herself to rock so I don’t break. She and Tita Anna do their best to form a barrier around me, but not even they can protect me from the end of the funeral, from the moment they lower the coffin—my dad—into the grave.

I’m not ready. I can’t. I turn my head and bury my face in Tita Anna’s black dress. Not yet.

As everyone files by us, murmuring rounds of I’m sorry, and he was such a great man, and I will miss him, I remain there, as still as the headstones surrounding us.

“We should go, love,” Tita Anna finally says, brushing my long, dark hair off my face. It feels like only seconds have passed, but a look at my watch tells me it’s almost noon, which means the ceremony ended an hour ago. Only Tita Anna, Tawny, and I remain, along with a cemetery worker who stands a respectful distance away, shovel in hand.

“Wait,” I say, suddenly frantic, searching for words to put to my impossible feelings. As much as it’s killing me to be here, the second I leave this cemetery, it will all become unbearably real. I cannot leave without my dad. I cannot leave him here by himself.

A hand finds my shoulder. Tita Anna. “He’s gonna be okay. We can come visit him whenever you want.”

“Can I get him a saguaro?” I ask, grasping at anything to hold on to for even one more second to make this moment less awful. There’s a little space to the right of the rectangular hole in the sandy earth, a spot for life in this place that holds so much death.

“Of course,” Tita Anna says, steering me gently toward the car. Tawny follows at my side, a comforting shadow.

While we’re walking toward the parking lot, someone’s phone buzzes and buzzes. I don’t realize it’s mine until Tawny nudges my handbag.

“Do you want to check that?” she asks me. “Or I could turn it off for you?”

“Oh.” I pull out my phone, which is riddled with notifications.

I swipe away the litany of I’m sorrys and If there’s anything I can dos in my texts, about to turn the device off, when a new alert from GoFundMe pops up.

Part of me is still a little embarrassed that a corner of the internet knows my entire sob story, detail after detail laid bare for anyone to see. But I can’t deny how helpful the GoFundMe money has been. We were constantly behind on bills, and it turned out that our homeowners insurance had lapsed. Which meant that after the fire, I had literally nothing to my name, no money to rebuild the house, nothing physical to resell, no safety net whatsoever. The second I voiced concern about paying my hospital bill, Tawny waved a hand impatiently.

“Don’t worry. It’s all taken care of.”

“But how?” I asked, bewildered.

She held up her phone, showing me the post she’d written on GoFundMe describing what had happened alongside a picture of me and my dad at the Prickly Pear, a local music venue where I often sang at open mic night.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I protested, but she just shrugged.

“It’s literally the least I can do, given…well, everything.”

For nearly two weeks leading up to the funeral and for days after, my phone kept buzzing with notifications. A five-dollar donation here. Seventy-five dollars there. Someone even gave five hundred. Some of the donations were from names I recognized, others from people in faraway states who had read about what had happened, and some of the donations were simply anonymous. Slowly, the total figure had ticked up, first into the hundreds, then the thousands, and finally, mind-bogglingly, into the tens of thousands. I was both blown away by everyone’s generosity and thoughtfulness, and sickened by the thought that I was profiting somehow on this horrible tragedy. When I said as much to Tawny, she just laughed and shook her head.

“Only you, River, could take something good and turn it sideways. It’s not your fault the healthcare system here is so expensive. Or that your parents didn’t have untold generational wealth. It’s not blood money—it’s a lifeline. Just take it and say thank you.”

So I did.

It takes a second now for the page to load, but when it does, I stop walking.

Tawny and Tita Anna don’t notice for a few steps. Then Tita Anna turns around and dashes to my side when she sees my face. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

I can’t speak, so I hold up my phone and show her and Tawny the GoFundMe figure. Suddenly, those digits have many more zeros. Many, many more.

Because someone has just anonymously donated two million dollars.