Lively

By Anna F. Marasco

Lively is sixteen the first time she watches her great-grandfather die. His final request was for his ashes to be scattered in Pearl Harbor, where he left his friends over eighty years ago. It's an easy wish to grant. That is, until Lively accidentally time travels to 1941 after chasing the ghost of a pilot through a museum. She falls in love with him, but learns she's not the only one with a mysterious past-Caleb has secrets of his own and time travel might be the only way for them both to survive. Lively has no idea how to get back to the present and times ticks closer to December 7th—the day that Caleb dies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Roan Press
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218247249

Book preview

Chapter One

I was sixteen the first time I watched my great-grandfather die. And every time I closed my eyes after that, his dying face remained, branded, on the backs of my eyelids. I’d never be as cool as Gramps. Even with his grandpa belly and his slicked motor oil hair he had more swagger than a willow in a tornado. I’d wished I had at least the confidence found in two of his greased-up strands of hair, but I’d have settled for even just one. I had come to accept that my life was unremarkable and would always remain unremarkable. That was, until my sister gave me the letter.

Lively! Izzy pounded on my bedroom door—a rhythmic slapping of her palm since she didn’t want to break her long acrylic nails.

Maybe if I laid unresponsive long enough, she’d lose interest?

Lively, open the door!

Lively’s not here right now. I mumbled against my pillow, words spilling out in a sleep deprived drunken slur.

She opened the door and her high heels clicked across the hardwood floor. Get up. She ripped my covers from my backside and cold air rushed the crack of bare skin between my pajama shorts and t-shirt. I dug my head under my pillow before she turned on the bedside lamp.

It can’t be time to leave yet, I said.

Gramps’s final wish was to join the men he’d left at Pearl Harbor in 1941. Creepy, I know. But we had to honor him. He was our Gramps. I’d do anything for him.

Izzy and I had been living with our great grandparents for almost as long as we could remember. Ever since our parents died in the house fire. I rubbed the scar on the back of my hand against my cheek. Many memories of my family were held in scars—physical reminders of the memories I couldn’t remember. Most days, I was grateful to have my sister. Today was not one of those days.

I rolled onto my back and opened my eyes a sliver. Izzy towered over me; her arms crossed around her lean body.

What the hell is this? She pressed the folded crumpled letter to my face.

Paper?

That’s not funny, Lively. Izzy never had much of a sense of humor.

I dunno. What is it?

"You should know. It’s a letter you wrote."

I don’t write letters. I write texts. Mostly single word texts. Only old people write letters.

Like Gramps.

Izzy looked seriously freaked. Hands clenched to fists, she paced small circles, huffing through gritted teeth. What, was she five? She was the older sister. She was supposed to deal with things maturely.

Well, it’s from you.

I sat up in bed, hugging my pillow to my chest. Izzy, what’s wrong?

She slapped the letter against my face. Read it.

I uncrumpled it and a single yellowed origami daffodil fell out. My breath fell from my lungs like the flower to the floor. Gramps taught me to fold origami daffodils—the only origami either of us knew.

You have to worry, he’d tell me as we’d fold the flowers, when my fat old man fingers can fold faster than you.

Perfection takes time, I’d tell him, smoothing the creases on my petals.

I picked up the daffodil and held it against my heart, like I might feel Gramps’s pulse through its paled gold. Both the letter and flower were frayed and thin, like they’d been carried in a sweaty palm for decades. I traced the back of the paper, watching my fingers bleed shadows across the page.

Read it, Izzy repeated.

Dear Izzy. I read the letter aloud, wiping the blur from my eyes.

By the time you get this letter—if you get this letter—I will be dead. But everyone dies, right? Is that what I should tell myself, that it’s my time?

If the movies taught me anything, it’s that it’s noble to die for love. Heroic, even. I’m no hero but I do love him. Is that heroic? Wow. Writing that makes it so real. I love him. I am in love. Everything about him sucks me into his gravitational pull. Being with Caleb is like that time when I was three and licked the electrical socket and felt sparks ignite through my whole body. I was so alive I was dead.

Whether I die or stay alive doesn’t matter. He dies. I saw him— I can’t think about that. You understand, right? That I have to save him? I couldn’t live with myself if I knew I didn’t try everything. He gives me hope, Izzy. And hope is just like love—weird. Both are terrifying.

I don’t even know why I am writing to you. It’s not like you’ll ever see this letter. But I will save Caleb. Maybe I’ll die trying. I shouldn’t say that. In case you do read this. Next time you see me, I’ll be as old as Gramps. Hopefully with less back hair.

I wonder what happens if I die before I’m born—will I fade away like I never existed at all? Would you even remember me? Maybe I won’t ever see you again. Please know that I love you so much. I wish you were here, telling me everything is going to be ok.

It is all going to be ok, Izzy. My life, finally, death or not, is nothing short of spectacular.

Love, Lively.

I didn’t know how to respond, so I sighed a huh, and held my eyes on the letter. It was definitely old, but it was also definitely my handwriting. Words scrawled on the page in thick black ink half printed, half cursive, with bubbles for dots over the i’s. But I didn’t write it. I was sure I didn’t, well, mostly sure. What was it? Where did it come from? Who forged it? It obviously couldn’t be me. And who was this Caleb? Never in my life had I known a Caleb, let alone fallen in love with one. Ugh. It was too early for this. Part of me wished I had written the letter, wishing I might feel the things letter-me described.

Is this another one of Gramps’s jokes? It had to be. It’s the worst one yet! I flipped the page around, back and forth, upwards and downwards, looking for any clues.

It’s not his writing. It’s yours. What is it?

It’s a letter.

No shit it’s a letter, Lively! What does it mean? Why did you write it?

I shrugged, trying to hide the anxiety pulsing from my nostrils. My mess of hair falling across my face kept Izzy from seeing it. I don’t remember writing it. I tried to swallow but my spit got stuck on the growing lump in my throat. Izzy, how’d you get it?

Some old lady gave it to me; said she’d been keeping it for years. She said she knew you.

Well, the old lady’s crazy because I don’t know any old ladies other than Grams and she’s dead. I didn’t write this letter.

If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny. She tossed an envelope at me. Our address and today’s date were scribbled across the front in my frantic handwriting.

You don’t even laugh at funny jokes. Believe me, I wouldn’t put this much effort into something that’d piss you off. I tossed the envelope back and it fluttered to the ground. I flung the letter onto my bed and rubbed my hands across my head, snagging hair in the hooks of my bitten nails. My eyes finally adjusted to the light. Piles of clothes bordered my room. Izzy frowned behind her crossed arms and creased brow.

Izzy changed topics like she changed clothes—often and abruptly. This morning was no different. Have you packed? She changed subjects and wandered through my room, picking apart the mess with pinpricked pupils since she didn’t actually want to touch my things—she couldn’t tell what was and was not clean.

Uh— I ripped strewn underwear from my headboard. Just have to choose which swimsuit to bring. You know, making those important last-minute decisions. I gurgled a nervous chuckle disguised as a cough, mind still caught on the letter and daffodil decorating my bedsheets. How could Izzy redirect as if the conversation never happened?

Lively— Izzy’s tone was always serious, making it hard to tell when she was being more serious than her usual serious. We are leaving today.

I know, I know! I hated when Izzy nagged. Two years older didn’t give her nagging rights.

Izzy sidestepped over unfolded clothes spilling from my open bag. I see your packing skills still don’t exist.

Yeah, just like your boyfriend.

Why didn’t you pack last night? Izzy turned her head, ignoring my perfect insult.

Well, I got back from first aid class late. It became a real life first-aid crisis. This guy tripped and cracked his head open on the corner of the desk. There was blood everywhere. I stuffed a clump of wrinkled clothes into my bag.

I’m happy for you, I guess? Is that what you want me to say? I never know with you. Are you even going to tell me what happened next?

Well, the teacher cleaned it up and called 911 and stuff. I didn’t want to tell her I’d passed out when I saw blood spilling from the man’s head.

Lively, why’d you take a first aid class anyway? It’s not like you’ve ever had an interest in that stuff.

I just figured first aid might be handy in the wilds of Hawaii. I lied. I really only took it because this cute boy from school, Joshua Jeffreys, signed up and it was a good excuse to talk to him. Good excuse, but still didn’t happen. He sat next to me and I couldn’t even croak out a hi before face-planting linoleum.

I shook my head and knotted my shorts in my fingers, trying to push back the memory. Why did I have to be so awkward?

Lively. Lively. Lively! Izzy repeated my name several times. I barely heard her over my own screaming thoughts. You need to finish packing.

"I know, Izzy, I know. I sat on my duffle bag, ripping off strips of duct tape in an attempt to close it. I fumbled and flopped my fingers, hurrying to seal my belongings. Freaking Izzy stressed me the hell out! Can’t you help?"

She pulled the silver tape across my bag. I don’t get why you still use this old bag when I bought you a new one.

I rubbed the frayed fabric below the silver stripes. Gramps got me this when we went on our first road trip. He’d always promise he’d take me on one every time he’d leave for his business trips. And finally, he did. Remember? He took us to the world’s largest ball of twine.

Gramps never went on any business trips.

Yes, he did. He would be gone for weeks. I was always scared he found a better family and wouldn’t come back. But then he did and he’d share another one of his stories.

You’re so weird, Lively. None of that happened.

I mean…I was definitely crazy, but didn’t think I was that crazy. I knew I was right. I had to be. It did happen.

Whatever. Sure. It did if you say so.

It was like Izzy was trying hard to forget Gramps. When he died just over a month ago, Izzy wanted to dispose of his leather chair. The one that still held his form in the cushion. The one where I’d heard all his stories for the first and last times. The one I’d watched him die in.

Lively, Gramps had said, leaning deeper into his leather recliner. He gestured an index finger for me to draw closer. Which story is it going to be today?

Don’t worry about the stories, Gramps. I twisted a curl of my hair, tightening it into a knot around my finger. Save your strength. There will be another time for stories.

Cancer sucked away his body, leaving him near unrecognizable. But it never stole his soul. If he saved his energy, perhaps he could stay with me longer—even just a little more time was more time spent with Gramps.

Humph. The sicker he got the more grumpy-old-man he became. His crystal blue eyes widened below folds in his skin. Time steals you away. Look at what it did to my hair. And my face. Time swam laps across my cheeks and replaced my skin with some old leather.

I gave him my usual eye roll. Come on, Gramps. You’ve told me all your stories.

He scratched stray nose hairs tangling with oxygen tubes stuffed up his nostrils. You’ll never hear all the stories. No story is ever the same, no matter how many times it’s told.

Ok, Gramps. What will it be today?

Did I ever tell you about drinking pineapple juice on the beach?

Yes.

His brow furrowed. I think it did. It was hard to tell behind his wrinkles that already furrowed his face. His nose pointed downwards, offering a glare over the rim of his glasses.

But please share it again.

I sighed and smoothed the last layer of duct tape on my bag. Gramps only shared stories that happened before the bombings. He never shared about the attack on Pearl Harbor. The house reeked of memories, that often replayed like ghosts, stuck in stale air.

All set. I shook the thoughts from my head and propped up my bag, turning to Izzy. A hint of gold flickered from under her sweater. You get a new necklace?

Gramps left it for me. He asked that I wear it when we go to Hawaii. She pulled out the chain and pendant.

Why are you hiding it?

"You do have eyes, right?"

I caressed the smooth gold chain in my fingers, working my way to the pendant. Why don’t you like it? The pendant was heavy and looked like a blunted key without teeth. The top was a star, golden with inlaid jade stones in the center.

Look at it. It’s a weapon, not jewelry.

But it’s from Gramps.

Then you take it. She took off the necklace and handed it to me.

I turned it over once more in my palm before placing it on my neck. I saved anything from Gramps. I collected his lost pieces like, somehow, when I found them all he’d return to me.

Did he leave me anything?

Not now, Lively. We have to go. Here. Izzy handed me my favorite faded gray sweatshirt. I threw it on in a single motion and flipped up the hood. Invisibility was my superpower.

Do you have Gramps? she asked.

I’ll grab him.

He waited patiently on the kitchen counter. I locked my fingers around the marble urn, stone cool on my skin. Yeah, I know. Human remains on kitchen counters equaled super gross. But I liked to talk to him like he was still alive. I didn’t have too many friends, and growing up in a small town people talked. Especially if your eccentric great grandparents raised you after your parents died in a house fire. And you talked to your grandfather’s ashes like they were the real person.

Sorry, Gramps. I duct taped plastic wrap around the urn. But you’re gonna have to hold your breath.

Chapter Two

We were stuck in a procession to hell—everyone kept their eyes on the floor, shuffling their feet and holding their breath as they passed through the scanning machines. Airport security made me remove my flip-flops. Maybe I did hide explosive lint between my toes.

I dragged my feet across the cold tile floor and across scratchy rugs, wondering how many fungusy bare feet had done the same walk into the full body scanner—the thing that violated without physical touch. I wanted to cross my arms across my body, to cover myself from pervy x-ray eyes. Instead, I held my hands above my head.

What’s this? One of the guards asked, pulling my plastic wrapped Gramps from my satchel.

It’s an urn, I said, walking out of the machine and dusting off the dirty chill it left me with.

You trying to smuggle something?

Why would he even go there? Anxiety overflowed my body and leaked through my skin as sweat. Blood flushed my face in a hot flash. I blinked rapidly, my breath cutting me from inside my chest.

He watched the feeds from the x-ray machine, playing it back and forth, examining the cremains. Did they even allow ashes on a plane? I should’ve read the rules. Now they were going to arrest me. I was totally going to airport jail. I’d never survive prison. I held my breath and hoped that would hold my secrets. My mind always went to worse case scenarios.

Who died?

I felt my face go cold, sure I matched Gramps’s ashes.

The man’s blank stare formed a crease between his black caterpillar eyebrows.

My great grandfather.

Sorry for your loss. His voice was monotone like he’d said it a hundred times already in the past hour. He dropped Gramps back into my bag and I released the air from my lungs.

Are we done yet? A kid behind me whined to his parents. I’m bored.

I turned to the boy and he repeated his words. But instead of the boy, Gramps’s throaty voice echoed, dragging me back to one of his stories. One when he first arrived at Pearl Harbor.

We were bored. Gramps first shared this memory with me when I was twelve, a spark igniting in his eyes. Twelve-year-old me sat at on the floor next to his recliner. "There was nothing to do in Hawaii. It was like those deserted islands in the movies where people shipwrecked all the time. We were cheated being there. We thought we’d get to see action joining the Navy, get to go to Europe and fight their war. Nope.

Pearl Harbor was unlike any other base. He leaned back in his recliner and popped up the footrest. It was laid back. Hell, we never dressed in uniform and we’d bring our civilian buddies and girls on base to hang out, drink a couple beers, fix some planes, and play some good ol’ pranks on each other. No one cared, not even the officers. Nothing would ever happen, we thought. It was a forgotten place.

A forgotten place. I related to that. That was where I stayed after Gramps died. A forgotten place, pushed away from people and things I once enjoyed.

Lively! Hands yanked me around and Izzy pressed her nose to mine. Lively! You wandered off. What were you thinking?

I’m fine. I pulled away. I’m fine. Somehow, I went on autopilot and wandered to our gate.

Stay close, ok? She locked her fingers on my sleeve and joined the line to board the plane.

We wiggled our way to our seats. I wanted the window, but it came to a coin toss and I lost. Izzy must’ve cheated, but, whatever. It would’ve made more sense for her to sit closer to the bathroom. She had a small bladder.

I have to go to the bathroom, Izzy said from her window seat right when I sat down in the middle.

I rolled my eyes. We just sat down.

I have to go!

I stood up, hoping that action would be enough to encourage the man in the aisle seat to move. He didn’t.

Excuse me. I stood, nervously rubbing the scar on the back of my right hand.

He ignored me.

Hey, my voice rumbled from my belly, she needs to use the bathroom. I enunciated every syllable so he wouldn’t miss it. Heat from Izzy’s blushing face behind me burned the back of my head. She ducked and slid past me then the man, making a run for the back of the plane.

People still loaded, and the man beside me flashed a sideways look as he stood and reached at the overhead bins, searching for space to place the rest of his belongings. I tugged my sleeves down and covered the blemish on my hand and pressed my bag with Gramps inside tight to my chest, distracting myself with calming thoughts of Pearl Harbor, waiting in the aisle for Izzy’s return.

Oh, my goodness, a light shaky voice said behind me and I turned. A little old lady with a wide smile wobbled up the aisle. She had to be at least ninety. Her skeletal fingers reached for me and she tickled my mess of hair. Red lipstick smeared across her teeth like she ate it rather than applied it. Don’t you just look lovely, nothing has changed.

I flinched, stepping deeper into my row of seats and hugging Gramps tighter, hoping he’d offer protection. Do I know you?

You were always a fiery one. She wagged her finger at me, a giggle in her voice. That’s why I liked you.

Mom! A woman in her fifties or sixties, wearing a business suit and dark hair slicked to a bun, grabbed the old lady by the shoulders. Mom, you can’t just grab people like that!

The old lady released her fingers from me and I coughed a short snort at her daughter’s hypocritical statement.

I’m so sorry, the daughter said, she has dementia and thinks she knows people she really doesn’t. She guided her mother to their seats behind me. The ghost of the old lady’s touch ran chills across my skin.

Izzy returned and slid to her window seat. I plopped in the middle and the man next to me wormed his way back into his aisle seat smelling of tacos. Tacos sounded good. Where’d he get tacos?

You’ll never believe what just happened—

Not now, Lively. Izzy pinched the bridge of her nose.

We spent ten hours cramped on a stuffy plane smelling like a hotbox of farts and sweat, with babies wailing and men wet-snoring. My knees were like metal joints rusted in a forever-bent position.

Now I know what Grams felt like before she had her hip surgery. I said.

You’re so dramatic. Izzy reminded me of this often. So much so, I was deaf to it.

I leaned deep into my chair. How much longer?

According to the map, she traced her finger across the screen on the seatback in front of her, it looks like we’re a couple hours out. Take a nap and when you wake up, we’ll be there.

Ugh. I don’t know if I can last that long.

You sound like a zombie hungry for brains.

Don’t worry. You’re safe. You’d need brains for me to eat them.

The bump of our landing jerked me awake. My arm flopped and slapped taco guy. He glowered behind his pubic hair neck beard.

Sorry. I said, wiping a trickle of drool off my chin.

Aloha! The flight attendant was far too cheerful after a full day of travel. Her bright red lipstick stuck red streaks to her whitened smile—was that a requirement for red lipstick, or a theme of the flight? Welcome to Honolulu International Airport.

Excitement sunk through my skin and burned in my bones and I played back the weird letter in my mind. I touched my pocket, feeling Gramps’s daffodil and the letter crinkle at my touch. Gramps’s stories were on the other side of an air-locked plane door.

Even if I didn’t find myself like all those bullshit teen books told me to do, at least on this trip I might be able to find Gramps. And, at the very least, keep a piece of him alive. His memory drifted farther and farther away.

Izzy and I trudged off the plane and trekked through the gray jet bridge to our terminal. Faded terracotta tiles dully painted the walls. Once they might’ve been bright and colorful, but now they were dreary, chipped—lost glimmers of the past that people strode by without a first glance, let alone a second. Where were the locals waiting with flowered leis?

What, no leis? With a necklace of flowers hung around my neck, I could say I went to Hawaii and got leied. Score one against Hawaii. Why did the movies lie to me? This isn’t quite as spectacular as I’d pictured it.

No? Izzy fixed her hair using the reflection from the fire extinguisher’s glass. Any chance she got to stop and admire herself, she took it.

It looks old and smells like a funeral home. Where’s the colorful airport with jungles of huge flowers and trees and a glass roof and leis? I didn’t even get leied.

"You will never get leied." Izzy fluffed her dark hair. We didn’t look much like sisters, me with my light brown uncontrolled frizzy mane and green eyes and Izzy with her chocolate, nearly black sleek hair, hazel eyes and thick lips. She looked exotic like a tango dancer. I was invisible next to her.

Aren’t you going to fix yourself? Izzy eyed my outfit.

Why? I dressed like any normal day: black gym shorts, a worn (and stale-smelling) gray t-shirt (it didn’t start off gray. It started off blue? Maybe light blue? I didn’t remember) with holes in the armpits, and my old, gray hoodie, sleeves pulled past my palms. My hair that had once been tucked in a ponytail was tousled like a raven built a nest in it and I still had yet to find the bird.

You’d feel so much better if you actually cared about how you look.

I rolled my eyes and my head rolled with them. Izzy applied her pink lip-gloss that smelled of grapefruit and she smacked her lips. She was finally ready to complete our trek in finding a ride to the hotel.

Izzy grabbed the first taxi at the airport curb and opened the backdoor, pushing me in before she climbed in after.

This cab smells like pee. I rubbed my nose.

Then hold your breath. Izzy handed the cabdriver our hotel address.

Where are we staying again?

Izzy shrugged.

It didn’t matter if she knew or not. Neither of us had ever been on a plane, let alone to Hawaii. This was our devirginizing trip.

How long will it take?

Izzy shrugged again.

Twenty minutes, the cabbie yelled, his eyes piercing through traffic ahead. But it probably will take longer. Traffic hates you tourists. Then, he mumbled, I hate you, tourists.

I glared at the back of his head and hoped my thoughts burned a deep hole through it. He didn’t even flinch. It looked as if someone else had beat me to it, judging by his bald spot.

Izzy rested her cheek on