I'll Be Here (24 page)

Here’s what I think: it’s not about another person.  It’s about liking yourself.  And today I think that I’m okay.

***

It is Friday, and after school I’ve agreed to work an extra day.  We end up staying late for a hysterical patient and Smirna and I don’t get to our cars until the sky is turning pink and purple at the edges and the outlines of the buildings look black in silhouette. 

Mentally, I’m running through a checklist of all the things that I need to do when I get home.  Shower.  Definitely shave.  My legs have sprouted a jungle of hair this week.  Makeup.  Hair.  Maybe I’ll even curl it with the larger attachment on my curling iron so that it falls in those thick, rounded waves. 

I’m not even sure what time to expect Alex, but when we talked last it was Wednesday after school and he said that he wanted to take me on a “proper date,” whatever that is.  I would think that a proper date includes dinner and the digital clock on the dashboard confirms that dinnertime is happening sooner rather than later. 

For the fourth time in the past ten minutes, I check my phone.  No messages or missed calls.  It’s a little weird that I haven’t heard from Alex, but he’d said that he would be busy for the rest of the week with school.  I’ve only texted him once.  I don’t want to be a nuisance.  The last thing I want is for him to think that I’m one of those needy, overwhelming girls that freaks out easily. 

Tonight I’m going to ask Alex to go to my prom with me.  It’s in exactly eight days.  There might not be enough time to rent a tux at this point, or maybe he can’t make it down from school next weekend but I’m going to ask anyway.

I stop at the red light at the corner of Osprey and Wilton Drive tapping the steering wheel impatiently.  I have to remind myself to come to a full and complete stop at the four-way intersection at the front of my neighborhood.  Inside the house my family is being crazy.  Jake bought Aaron some new dancing game for the game system and now they’re all in the living room following the dance moves of four neon-clad teenagers on the television screen.  Aaron is laughing.  They barely notice me breaking through the front door and disappearing into the bathroom.

Twenty-eight minutes later I’m sitting on one side of my bed staring at my phone.  It looks the same as it did one minute ago.  Metallic Black with a backlit screen.  No messages.  No missed calls.  I even try calling it from the house phone to make sure that it’s all in working order.  It is. 

I log onto the computer to see if there’s an email that I missed.  There’s not. 

By now I’m starting to worry.  I’m imagining all the things that could have happened to Alex.  I picture him at the bottom of a set of concrete stairs, his neck twisted at a bizarre angle.  Or trapped in the belly of a mangled mess of metal that used to be a car, his head lolling backwards, drips of reddish brown blood drying up on his cheeks.

Outside my bedroom window, the sky is a broken charcoal grey.  My empty stomach grumbles.  The last thing I ate was an apple right before I got to work.  That was around three this afternoon. 

I pick up my cell phone and my heart fires off rapidly.  The line rings five times and then Alex’s voicemail picks up. 
Sorry you missed me.  Leave a message.  I’ll either call you back or I won’t. 
I end the call without leaving a message.

Another two minutes go by and now I’m pacing an orbit around my bed.  I call again determined to leave a message. 

I push my shoes off and shove them under the bed with my toes.  Alex’s voicemail beeps, which is my cue to speak.  I think that I can do normal if I try.  “Hey, it’s Willow.  Call me back.”

Did that sound alright?  I’m not sure.  If Alex
is
hurt and he’s at the hospital and he gets his phone back from one of the nurses, what’s he going to think if he listens to his messages and all he’s got from me is one lousy, blasé message about calling me back?

I call again.  This time, I let the anxiousness seep into my voice. 

“I’m uh… I’m really worried about you.  I’m sure you’re fine, but you haven’t called and I don’t know if you’re on the road or what.  Just please call me back, okay? Okay.”

***. 

            In the morning I wake up on top of the blankets, stiff from sleeping in the wrong position, my body still clothed in my “proper date” outfit, the pockets of skin under my eyes coated in mascara sludge and my lip gloss pooled crusty chunks at the corners of my mouth.  At least I’m not wearing any shoes.  They lay peeking out from beneath the dust ruffle of my bed exactly where I left them last night.

My tongue tastes like melted pennies and disappointment.  Leaning over the bathroom sink with my hand cupped, I take a deep drink of hot tap water and swirl it around my mouth before spitting it down the drain. 

After a quick shower, my hair dries around my shoulders in mass of tangles as I slip into a pair of worn jeans and a soft t-shirt.  I don’t bother with make-up.  That would be fighting a losing battle because there’s no way that concealer would even work to get rid of the dark circles that are under my eyes this morning.  I am out the front door before anyone notices that I am up or gone.

Then I’m sitting in my car at the Quick Stop on White Shell Drive.  I’ve gathered my thick hair in a messy coil and secured it with a large-mouthed clip that I found beneath the passenger’s seat of my car.  I also discovered a half-eaten roll of Sweetarts, a ticket stub from a bad movie that I saw last November with Taylor and Allison, and a Xeroxed diorama of a cathedral in Spain.  Go figure.

The radio plays out in the background but I’m not really listening.  White Shell is a major road and cars are whooshing by even this early on a Saturday morning.  It takes a dozen passing minutes for me to decide but then I’m turning the wheel and checking my mirrors and pretty soon I’m parking my car at the curb in front of Alex’s house.  I don’t see his car but it could be parked by the garage which is actually hidden from the road at the back side of the house.

            On the front stoop, I hesitate, pondering the implications between ringing the doorbell and knocking.  There’s a potted plant to my right that could use a little water.  It’s even got one of those stained glass watering globes poking up from the dirt that’s supposed to make watering easier, but that’s dry too. 

There’s a brass knocker declaring
Faber
just below a crescent moon window.  I lift it up and let it fall.  The sound isn’t what I’d hoped for so I use my knuckles this time, knocking three rapid hollow beats against the white wood. 

            I see the top of a head framed in the window, and then Brooke is opening the door and she looks surprised and sorry all at once.  Her eyes are a clear blue.  My gut clenches tight.

            “Is he okay?”  I ask before the door is even all the way open.

            Brooke’s mouth hangs open like she is going to say something but then she doesn’t.  Uncle Danny would call it “catching flies.”  She reaches out for my hand and gently pulls me forward. 

“Oh, Willow honey, come in.” 

And it’s the way she says it that I know with certainty that Alex is fine and his not answering my calls or coming to my house last night has nothing to do with him falling down stairs or getting crushed in his car.

            We’re sitting in two upholstered chairs in the familiar sunroom.  I haven’t been here for nearly two years but it’s the same as I remember.  Only the family photographs have been updated.  The one on the mantle used to be of a twelve year old Alex proudly displaying a fish in front of his bare chest, his face triumphant, his dark hair a mess of wind, salt, and sun.  Today the frame boasts a photo of the same boy, now a young man, in his graduation cap and gown.  His arm rests on a low brick wall, the tassel of the cap dangles in front of eyes the color of calm water, his smile is a challenging secret for the camera.

            Brooke offers me tea.  I ask for water, though I’m not sure why since I’m not at all thirsty.  My skin feels too warm against the cold tempered glass that she sets in my hands.  I wonder how red my face is. 

            She sits back down and clears her throat.  Alex looks so much like her.  I can see it in the eyes and the chin and the straight nose.  And the hands.  This is incredibly awkward. 

“I promised Alex that I wasn’t going to get involved in this mess and I haven’t even told your mom but, Willow, I care about you and the look on your face is too much.” 

She shifts her weight and I see that the chair she’s in is a bit wobbly like the legs aren’t quite even. 

“Alex thought that he was going to have an awful week finishing up some work and studying for an exam, but on Thursday morning his professor moved the exam back and Alex decided to take advantage of it and come home early.  I assume that was mostly to see you.”  There’s a note of accusation in her voice.  She fingers the glass in her hands.

            “So, he drove home and when he got into town, before he even came home to drop his bags off, he decided to surprise you after work.” 

At this point, Brooke is looking at me like I’m supposed to understand where this story is going.  I don’t.  I don’t get it.  I’m confused as hell and I’m about to tell her so when all of a sudden it happens.

            I do understand.

            I do get it.

            Thursday.

            Dustin.

            Pizza.

            The big picture window with the glaring sun and the perfect street view.

            I stand up but then I have to sit down again because I don’t feel right.  My face is hot.  Brooke says something but it doesn’t register.  I think she’s talking about Dustin and asking me a question but my brain is going in a different direction.  I’m thinking about Alex and I’m wondering what he saw and of course it’s all a mess.

            “I should go,” I say and this time when I stand up I stay up on my feet.

            Brooke follows me to the door, her hand lingering in the crook of my elbow.  I turn to her before I leave and I give her a hug and I wonder briefly if she notices the wetness brimming in my eyes or the way that my hands are trembling.  She stands in the open doorway and watches me as I move down the front steps and over the lawn to where my car is parked.  When I get to the car, I wave.  She is leaning against the threshold of her flat house.  She waves back. 

            With a shaky breath I turn the ignition over pull out into the street.  In front of me the world is wide and silent and I can see all around.

Be obscure clearly.

~E.B. White

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“I have bougainvilleas!”  She throws open my bedroom door with this falsely cheerful, swaggering look on her face as if this exclamation should make sense to me.

            Blink.

            Blink.

            I roll over and try to block everything out, but my mother is in my room, twisting the window blinds to the open position.  It’s far too bright.  And loud!  Mom is shuffling the papers on my desk and talking animatedly about flowering plants.  Aaron is at her heels, chirping in excitement.

            Every so often—no one knows exactly what sets it off—my mother gets the gardening bug.  She dons a straw hat and floral printed gloves especially for the occasion and sets about getting dirty, mucking up the earth, all in the name of “communing with nature.”  Two years ago there was a plan to grow lavender and then to infuse it into soaps and candles to sell at a friend’s shop.  Unfortunately, none of the plants grew. 

About this time last year, my mother (based on knowledge acquired from an undetermined origin) decided that our soil was perfect for vegetable growing.  She enlisted Jake and me for two straight weekends to help her start the garden from seed.  Four, ten by ten wooden garden boxes were built between the house and the back edge of the lot.  We filled them with dirt and seeds and water and then we waited.  We birthed exactly six ill-formed tomatoes, thirteen green pea pods and seven scraggly carrots from the season-long venture. 

            Today, the entire family has been recruited.  Aaron has been given a small shovel and the task of burying tiny seeds from a paper pouch into evenly spaced indentations in the earth.  Jake is just outside the wooden garden plots planting the aforementioned bougainvilleas along the short retaining wall bordering our yard and the neighbor’s yard. 

Mom’s pants look like they’re made from a potato sack and I remember that she bought them from an online retailer during her all natural clothing kick.  Jake has on the rubber sandals he normally wears for beach walking.  We could be the poster family for an au naturale commune. 

            I try not to remember that it’s Saturday.  Prom Day.  This week moved by in a strange sort of way for me.  Some parts went so slowly that I would find myself spacing out into nothingness and when I came back to earth I’d have forgotten what I’d been doing.  Like I’d stand in the kitchen for five minutes wondering why I had a fork in my hand before I remembered the food sitting on my plate growing steadily colder.

             Other parts of the week moved too quick for me to catch up and I would be barely able to breathe—my chest squeezing painfully like I’d run too fast for too long and was paying the price for it. 

            Even my dreams were strange.  I’d wake up sweaty, trying to grasp something real just beyond the plane of knowing.  These moments shook me up so much that I couldn’t fall back asleep so I’d spend tedious hours in the dark thinking about Alex and what a mess I’d made.

            Laney tells me to call him and get it over with.  Colleen suggests texting—a technique that she claims was invented by someone with a deep-seated fear of rejection.

            I have explicitly forbidden Laney from contacting him in any way and she looked at me with this sympathetic expression that made me want to barf, but she nodded her head. 

            I’m sick.

            Alexlessness is a disease that I’ve acquired.