37 Things I Love (In No Particular Order) (13 page)

“What were you going to say?” I whisper. This time I see what I did wrong, but that doesn’t make it any better. “I’m listening.”

Cara shakes her head. “I used to think you were really strong,” she says. “But I don’t know anymore.”

She picks up her pencil again, and that is the end. Her hair falls like a curtain over her face, and there’s nothing I can say to bring an encore.

I can push away what she said. I can put it out of my mind and never think about it.

I could push it away altogether, except for this stinging under my skin and at the corners of my eyes.

*   *   *

I GO BACK
to the lunch table inside. There’s nothing else to do.

I listen as Abby snarks on the wrestlers. From time to time, she slings mild insults at Colin and me, too. We roll our eyes at each other when it happens, but we let her because it’s one of the things that makes her feel better at a time like this—if we are less than she is, and in a lot of ways we are. But not in every way.

I take Colin’s hand and squeeze it, because it suddenly occurs to me that maybe he’s deeply hurt by what she’s saying, like when she calls him pudgy or implies that she’s our only friend. Maybe that’s true enough for me, in the end, but everyone likes Colin. His misery is mostly self-induced.

He shoots me a pained look across our joined fingers, studies them a while, then slowly pulls free. He wipes his mouth and lays his dirty napkin on his empty tray.

“Here.” Abby shoves hers toward him. “Eat another piece of pizza, Colin.” She laughs. I hate her for a moment right then, on Colin’s behalf. It arcs through me with an almost physical pain, a lightning bolt illuminating everything that’s wrong with us.

“God, Abby,” I mutter.

Colin smiles sadly at me. He flattens his hands on the table like he’s about to stand up. Then apparently changes his mind, shoving the tray back toward her. Hard. Hard enough to startle her into a tiny, surprised leap as pudding sloshes over the edge of the tray and lands on her thumb.

“Hey!”

“Stop it,” Colin says.

Abby’s stunned into silence by his loud, harsh tone.

“Go with Dennis or don’t,” he says. “But don’t take it out on me.” Then he does stand up. I’ve never been so proud of him, watching him storm away.

I sit up straighter, tuning out Abby, who’s licking her thumb clean and musing in a wounded voice, “What’s his problem?”

I don’t bother to explain it to her. This isn’t one I can fix, for either of them. A second lightning bolt arcs through me.

Mrs. Scottie says the people you love best are the ones with the power to hurt you. Abby says mean things all the time, and they just roll off me, even if they’re true. The ache I’m feeling now has nothing to do with anything she’s said.

That’s how I know. For sure.

I was wrong about Cara. I can’t push away what she said. I can’t push her away, or walk away. I have to find a way to fix it.

27

BE FRIE / ST NDS

Being half of something is lovely … if you know exactly where the other half is.

BY THE TIME
I get back to the courtyard, the bell has rung and Cara’s nowhere in sight. Just as well, I guess. I don’t know what I was going to say to her anyway. What comes to mind is something along the lines of “I’m sorry,” but that seems way too simple. It doesn’t capture it all, what I’m feeling.

I sink onto her steps and drop my head to my knees. What I want is to tell her how bad I’ve screwed up, if she can even stand to hear it.

It’s me who’s wrong.

Now.

Back then.

Always.

I take slow, deep breaths, to calm my racing mind.

I remember so much now. Cara makes me remember. She doesn’t run from things, even the hard things. She doesn’t try to shove them deep and close the door. She doesn’t try to cover it with talk of boys and clothes, or booze. She simply lives it.

The memories roll through me like shockwaves. Unbelievable, how much I’ve put aside, forgotten. I remember how we used to run and play, how we used to laugh. Holding hands, all innocent and small. How good it made me feel. How much I would have missed her these past two years, if I’d let myself.

I remember stuff about Dad, too. I guess because all my memories related to Cara come from before the accident. When Dad was part of everything, not locked in a separate sphere.

“Ow.” I land hard on my side, falling off my brand-new two-wheeler for the dozenth time.

“Try again,” Dad calls from the top of the driveway. “You almost had it.”

I roll to my back and lie with limbs spread-eagled on the concrete, staring up at the sky.

“Get up, kiddo. One more time.”

I’m stuck. Frozen. Scrapes on my knees and shins, the pads of my palms sore from catching myself over and over.

My face cools as Dad steps between me and the sun. “Baldwins don’t give up.”

I look at him through his shadow. “I’m not giving up. I’m thinking.”

“Thinking’s allowed,” he says. “But once you know what you want, then you have to get up and do it.”

The bell rings, again.

I snap out of the daze, realizing I’ve skipped my entire fifth-period final exam review. Great. Just what I need.

I drag myself back into the hallway fray. I pass her in the hall as I’m making my way to class.

“Cara.”

She sees me and turns her head away, as I’m weaving among people, trying to get to her. The bustling crowd swallows her up.

*   *   *

AFTER SCHOOL
I catch Colin at his locker. His eyes are a heavy pink behind his glasses. I’ve seen this before, and he always calls it allergies, but today I think maybe he’s been crying. He gathers books into his backpack, and we share a slow look. I don’t know exactly what it means, but it feels as if we’ve come out on the other side of something.

“I blew it,” he says.

“No, you did good.”

“She hates me.”

“Nah,” I say. “You’re really not hateable.”

After a moment of staring at his shoes, Colin smiles. Cuffs my shoulder.

“Frankly, she’ll probably like you more after this.”

Colin’s smile fades. “Why do girls always like the jerky guys?”

“You’re not a jerk.”

He sighs. “I know. That’s the problem.” He sets off down the hall. I follow him around the corner.

Abby’s kneeling at her locker, swiping at melted green Jell-O blobs with a fistful of paper towels. From the level of cursing going on, it’s clear that she’s graduated from embarrassed to offended to fully pissed off.

She sees us approaching. “I need more paper towels,” she snaps.

Colin sets down his bag and goes toward the bathrooms. Watching him retreat, I wonder if things can really fold back to normal just like that, like nothing ever happened.

“This is hideous,” Abby says, thrusting the garbage bag she’s filling into my hands. “Yuck.”

Molding the bag’s mouth open, I find myself thinking about what it means to really be someone’s friend. To hold back her hair while she vomits, to help clean embarrassing Jell-O out of her locker? To forget the mean things she says because you understand why she says them?

I’ve been there. I’ve done it.

How about to glue yourself to a car seat and refuse to move because your best friend needs you? I can’t think of a more recent example from Abby.

I couldn’t even tell her what’s happening with Mom, about Dad. I hate the feeling I’m left with, knowing that.

Colin appears on the hallway horizon carrying a stack of fresh towels, moving slow. I realize he’s taking his time, instead of rushing headlong to Abby’s aid, which tells me things are not the same, after all. Everything has changed.

“When we were in sixth grade,” I say, “for my birthday you got us those necklaces. Remember?”

Abby gazes up at me. “Yeah, I remember. BE FRIE.”

“ST NDS. Do you still have yours?”

“Of course.”

The knot in my stomach relaxes, but only a little. “Here.” Kneeling beside Abby, I reach for the wad of paper towels in her hand. “I’ll help you.”

I have to try everything.

28

Not Knowing

The gap between the happening and the finding out is so, so sweet. But you don’t know that until after.

I’VE NEVER NEEDED
Dad more than I need him now. The nuclear bombs that exploded on me today left bitter fallout, and there’s no one else I can tell this story to.

I ride the bus anxiously, glancing up at every stop.
Are we there yet?
My heart is full and pounding, and there’s a lot I have to say.

I’ll tell him about Abby and the wreck she made of today, thanks to the wrestlers and the Jell-O. I think I’ll tell him about Cara, too, because I really don’t think we’re over, or else why is she still on my mind?

I don’t know how much I’ll tell him about Mom, though, because I wonder if it hurts him to hear what she’s thinking, what she’s told me.

*   *   *

“HI,” I TOSS,
as I slide past the round nurses’ area at the center of the ward.

The nurses in the station gaze up at me as one. They smile silently, almost softly, and it makes me trip a step, but I press on. Sometimes I stop and chat with them, but right now I’m intent on getting to Dad.

I hurry down the hall, but things seem out of place—an extra cart in the hall, a couple of orderlies looking large in pale green scrubs. A blank white gurney.

Mom’s sitting in the chairs at the end of the hall, across from Dad’s room. I draw up short. Has she come to lecture me some more? Or to see if this is really where I still come most days, even though she’s told me over and over again that maybe I shouldn’t?

“What do you want?” I blurt.

Maybe she’s just come to visit.

Mom opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Then her face shrinks into a hideous crumple, and I want to reach out to be sure she doesn’t fall over. But I’m too far away.

“Sweetheart,” she says, “Daddy’s gone.”

29

Carmen

She always knows what to say and what not to.

DASHING FORWARD
, I push past Mom and burst into the familiar room. Dad is on the bed, as always, but everything has changed.

The machines have been unplugged and pushed aside.

The sheets that cover him have been stripped away, his wasted legs exposed. Gown tucked neatly. Hands folded, stacked upon his stomach. Laid out for viewing, I can’t help but think.

The antiseptic smell, stronger and fresher than usual, assails me. Something has been cleaned. Something of what happened has been wiped away.

Carmen stands near the foot of the bed, unfolding a sheet in her hands. She spreads it over Dad’s feet and turns, waiting. Waiting to catch me as I fly in and throw myself toward Dad.

“Oh, baby,” she says as I reach out and touch his still skin. I jerk my hand back. Carmen reaches for my shoulder, but I flinch away.

“What happened?” I turn toward Mom, in the doorway, watching, and I realize. I realize what she must have done. “What did you do?” I shout. “How could you? You promised!”

Mom stands exactly still. Her expression is one of perfect, utter shock. “Ellis, no—”

“You just couldn’t wait to do it. You killed him!” I scream. I scream at her for long moments, and she just stands there underneath it. I want to run up and hit her, but she is like a wall of stone, and I know it will have no effect. Or maybe I do start toward her, because suddenly Carmen’s solid arms lock around my waist, holding me back.

When I’m spent, I sag against the nurse. “You killed him,” I murmur.

Mom glances at Carmen, desperate. “Tell her. Please tell her I didn’t—”

“It has to be you,” Carmen says over my shoulder.

Mom catches my eye. “He had a stroke,” she says, tearful. “There was nothing anyone could’ve done.”

I don’t believe her. She reads it in my face. She crosses her arms over her chest and retreats from the room.

“Don’t lie to me!” My scream follows her, accusing her again of this most horrible thing. But she’s lying. She has to be. Because he couldn’t just … go. He wouldn’t.

“She killed him,” I whisper, when the door has swung shut with Mom on the other side, escaping down the hallway.

“Do you really think so?” Carmen says, still holding me tight. Lifting one hand, she gathers my hair behind my neck.

Maybe my sudden silence says something. Maybe it says everything.

“How did he die?” Carmen says.

“A stroke,” I whisper, feeling the truth of it settle right in the middle of my disbelief.

“You gonna be okay if I let go?” Carmen says, squeezing me before she relaxes her grip.

“Yeah,” I say. As big a lie as anything.

“Why don’t we give you some time alone with your dad.” She pulls the sheet up to Dad’s waist, strokes my hair once, then steps into the hallway.

The door closes, and then it’s us alone. As usual. I turn to take another look and feel my heart begin to rot.

That’s when I know.

It was never going to be okay to have to say good-bye.

30

Hot Drinks

There’s something about the warmth sliding down your throat.

MRS. SCOTTIE BREWS
us a lot, a lot of tea. Mom and I sit across from each other at the kitchen table and sip it silently.

The seat that was Dad’s seems emptier than ever.

Mrs. Scottie chats about the weather and her canasta ladies while she bustles around, unloading and loading the dishwasher, always keeping the kettle close to a boil on the stove.

We haven’t told anyone else yet. I look at Mom and know—in the way that you just know things sometimes—that this is because we’re not ready.

For the calls, the flowers, the sudden stream of people in and out of the house.

Or maybe we’re afraid. The thing is, we’ve already had the casseroles. The cards. The banal condolences that you must accept with a nod and a smile. We had it all two years ago, and maybe it doesn’t come around again. Not for the very same tragedy, once removed.