Life Before (20 page)

“Jill, that’s nine days from now!”

“Well, I can’t exactly come back from the lake to stand at Pizza Works to listen to you refuse to come home.”

“That’s just mean.”

“It’s true. For all we know, Gary is in Mexico! You are ruining Infinite Summer! And you’re missing it. We’re supposed to be doing this together.”

“So, next Friday at nine is what I’m hearing from you.”

“Friday at nine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

T
WENTY-NINE

Only a really hard sleep makes me this sluggish. It’s an interesting dichotomy: being well rested but feeling like the walking dead. On my way to the kitchen, the knocking begins: quiet at first, then quite loud.

Too groggy to register any paranoia, I ignore it. It’s probably just that caretaker Curt mentioned. She’s coming this morning.

“It’s Kat,” she yells from the other side of the door.

There ya go.

I holler toward the kitchen, “I’ve got it!” Shit. Yelling in the house again. Before opening the door, I whisper loudly, “Sorry, Sophie.”

Kat looks like a lion. Not a lioness, but a genuine, big-cat lion. Her hair is that crazy naturally curly business that sticks out four inches all the way around her head. Her skin is a rich mahogany.

A John Lennon caricature is penned in Sharpie on her white T-shirt. Is she an artist?

She steps up into the house and is about half an inch taller than I am. Skin-tight denim shorts stretch across the tops of her long brown legs. She’s barefoot.

And radiant.

“Hello?” she says when I’ve stared too long. “I’m Kat. Are you Graham?”

Sort of.

In my desperate search for an appropriate thought, my pause stretches so long that I also need an excuse for being speechless.

“I’m sorry. With the name Kat, I was expecting you to have green eyes.” And something less than a smoking hot body, that’s for sure.

Kat glows with a beauty that painters try to transcribe from imagination onto canvas.

“Excuse me?” She steps around me and into Curt’s house.

That hair. Those legs. And like a dumbass, I’m standing here with my mouth hanging open. Curt didn’t tell me that Kat was young and hot. And it’s not a matter of opinion, either: clearly, she’s hot.

Just outside the kitchen door, I hear Curt and Kat talking about what Sophie will eat, how she’s been feeling, and what time Kat can expect Curt—us—home tonight.

Curt makes french toast for himself and offers some to Kat and me.

I scarf mine down while Curt debriefs Kat: whites are in the washer, lunch is chicken salad, count Sophie’s Rituxan pills because he forgot yesterday and the prescription is nearly due for a refill.

“She’ll want french toast. I’ll leave out the custard so you can make her a few slices, okay?”

Kat nods and finishes her breakfast. When we leave, she’s reading a textbook at the kitchen table. She doesn’t say good-bye.

Images of Kat—those legs, that hair—consume me during work. What was she reading? She was enthralled, like shut-out-the-world-immersed in a huge tome.

Where has she been hiding out since I landed in Burlington? What does she do when she’s not babysitting Sophie? And could I do it—whatever it is—with her? Who is she?

She is an almost total enigma who keeps my brain busy all day.

It’s a relief to obsess over something else, frankly. In my brain, Kat is this new, fresh person running laps around Gary and Gretchen and Mom, who have been on continuous loop for weeks.

It’s a nice change of pace … until the guilt seeps in.

I can’t just trade in Gretchen for Kat, but I can be friendly. I should at least be friendly. I hope she’s still at Curt’s house when I get back.

Curt works late on Thursdays—how can he keep this schedule straight?—but he lets me leave after eight solid hours of work.

And she’s still in the house, reading in the same space of this morning’s not-good-bye. What do you say to a smoking hot girl you just met? In a town where you might have to live for the rest of your life?

“Hi, honey! I’m home!”

Kat’s glare suggests I aimed too high. She goes back to her book.

“How was your day, Kat?”

“Fine, thanks.”

She makes no move to leave. Maybe she also keeps track of Curt’s wonky schedule.

I shake my white bag as little peace offering. “Want a sandwich from the deli? I brought Reubens.”

“I ate, thanks.”

Across from her in the breakfast nook, I plow through the first sandwich. Curt threw in some extra thousand island dressing, which is perfect for dipping the crusty bits. After chugging a root beer from the fridge, I start in on the second sandwich. My stomach suffers from refugee syndrome.

My brain suffers from insufficient data.

“What are you reading?”

Kat doesn’t look up. “
Microeconomic Theory
, Mas-Colell et al, second edition.”

“Why?” I read some dry stuff, but nothing that dry.

Finally, she looks up at me. “Graham, I need, like, twenty minutes. In twenty minutes, we’ll talk.”

Making like I need a snack, I look through the cupboards behind her and study the stack of books by her side. American lit, economics, and anatomy have almost nothing in common.

Not quite twenty minutes later, Kat slams the book shut and walks to the living room. I feel like a puppy following her down the short hall, but I can’t not. She opens drawers and digs between the couch cushions of my bed.

“Do you know where the remote is? I would love to just veg out until Curt gets home.”

“No idea.”

She finds it beneath the ottoman and deftly navigates the cable menus. “Thursday night! Do you watch
So You Think You Can Dance
?”

“Definitely no.”

“Sit.”

On the first commercial break, I get part of Kat’s story: she’s staying late tonight because Sophie had a really rough day, and she doesn’t want to leave until Curt is back, in case something goes wrong. Micro is one of the two classes she can afford, both time-wise and financially, at the university. The anatomy book is for fun.

On the second commercial break, she concedes, “I wasn’t quite smart enough to get a full ride, but I was smart enough to get some scholarships. I promised to work with Sophie as long as I’m in school, as long as she’s alive … so it all works out.”

“That’s a long time to wait for real life to begin.”

She flinches. “What do you mean, real life?”

“You know: when you’re done doing all the stuff you have to do before your real life starts.”

Kat says, “Uh, this is it.”

“This is what?”

“It’s my real life. I’ve been living it for almost nineteen years.”

The show is back on before I can rebut. This isn’t real life. Real life is in college and out of college, doing real things.

Isn’t it?

In the six seconds between the end of a routine and a judge’s critique, I can’t wait. “DVR has a pause button, you know. We could finish our conversation first.”

“I’m an instant-gratification kind of girl,” Kat says. “I like my TV in real time.”

She can’t be right. This isn’t real life. Not for me. Maybe this is a pause in real life.

At the next commercial break, I pounce. “I’m a little younger than you. What I meant to say was that life begins when you move out of your parents’ house.”

She scowls. “Okay, so from birth to, what, eighteen? If that’s not your life, what is it, exactly?”

“A prologue?”

Still scowling.

I can placate her. “Okay, I’ll give you that. Real life, okay. But what if you take a break from your life, go away for a while. Two weeks, maybe? You leave everything—your people, your house, your things—leave it all behind for a while. What’s that called?”

“It’s still life, Graham. It’s just your life in a different place. You take your life with you on vacation. You can slow down. You can abandon the sucky parts and start over, make it better, but all of it is your life. It’s yours.”

“No.” I shake my head wildly. Hiding out in Burlington isn’t part of my life story.

Kat says, “Don’t obsess over it. Forget I said it. Can’t we just enjoy?”

No, we can’t. If she’s right, then I’m wasting my life here. If I’m not hiding from anyone, then what am I doing holing up waiting for real life to begin? If this is real life, I need to get going.

I shake my head free of the thought and focus on the screen. Kat really enjoys introducing me to the show’s nuance. By the time Curt gets home, Kat has explained how auditions work, detailed the dancers’ life stories, and made an educated guess about who will win. It’s not my jam, but I’m learning. For instance, the dancing I saw in Times Square was called bone breaking and liquid. It’s almost as interesting as abstract impressionist art.

When Curt walks through the door, Kat becomes a different girl: all business, including many concerns about Sophie’s lack of stamina.

Long after she’s gone home, I can’t stop thinking about what Kat said.

Do I want to waste my life biding my time in Burlington?

Do I have a choice?

I need to get to real life as soon as possible. Or the thing formerly known as real life. Call it the next stage of my life already in progress.

For most of my life, I have focused on just getting through it. Get through the years we couldn’t afford the luxury of Dairy Queen. Get through emergency room visits. Get through another hole Gary punched in the wall. Get through Mom being pissed off that she tried to fix the hole herself and couldn’t get it right.

It feels like that’s all I’ve ever done.

But this is life. Now. And getting through it isn’t enough anymore. How do I take the reins?

T
HIRTY

Monday morning, after our long weekend working at the deli, Curt says Kat has a family emergency. “She’s stuck in New York, and I’ve exhausted my very short list of people who can take care of my ma. Can you?”

What’s wrong with Kat?

Calm Curt is on edge. “Graham, can you hang out with my mother today? Sorry, I’m desperate. I’ll pay time and a half what you get at the deli. Cash.”

“Sure?” What else can I say?

Curt throws together a couple sandwiches while he runs me through Sophie’s routine.

“It’s just a really bad day for her. Wasn’t expecting this.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, like a concerned father might. “Listen: her mobility is limited, so assist her with everything. Make her respect her own limits. She can’t stand up or sit down on her own. Her hands are useless, that sort of thing. I’m sorry I have to go, but Dad is doing estate stuff in Montana and it’s our annual health inspection.”

He explains Sophie’s complicated thirty-five-compartment pillbox and hands me a schedule. “I’ll be back when our manager comes on at four. Try to spend the day with her as much as you can, okay? Just … just call me if you need anything, okay?” He’s out the door before I can answer.

Fifty percent more pay and no toilet brushes? Sounds like a good deal to me, and how hard can it be?

Peeking into Sophie’s room, I find her lying supine in her bed. Well, sort of supine: her head is inclined on three pillows, her chin touching her chest. Morning sun floods through small bedroom windows. A dozen or so plastic prescription bottles litter her bedside table.

She could be dead, but for the rhythmic rise and fall of her cotton blanket. Why does she need a blanket when it’s eighty degrees outside?

Sophie looks like she’s dead. Mom looked like she was sleeping when I last saw her. Sophie is old and frail. Her face is like chicken skin—translucent and saggy. Mom was so happy and strong, with so much to do.

Mom is gone, but Sophie’s still here. It makes no sense.

At precisely nine-thirty, I shake Sophie’s shoulder to wake her. Her eyes snap open and she grabs my forearm to right herself.

Her voice is breathy. “Never. Never wake me by shaking. That is too much a jolt for me.”

“I’m sorry, Sophie, I didn’t know.”

Her face softens. “I know, dear. I just want you to know for next time. Calling my name should suffice, I think.” She tries to reposition herself but isn’t strong enough. “When will Curt be back?”

“Before four, he said.” I hand her the pill box labeled M
ONDAY
2. “This is your two-hours-before-lunch dose?”

Sophie tilts her head upward a bit, and between the two of us, we get the pill into her mouth and the water to her lips.

Now what? “What can I do for you?”

“I need to lie down for a spell,” she says, despite the fact that she has been lying down for hours. She closes her eyes, which is my cue to leave.

I surf the web for two hours. No sign of Gary, no new email from Gretchen, no chance of going home any time soon. At least I have books.

At 11:45, I take Sophie her lunch, complete with a straw in her cup, because I am a genius.

She’s right where I left her. “Sophie?” Raising the volume a little every time, I wake her on the fourth try.

“What time is it? When will Curt be back?” She is more hopeful than confused.

I offer my arm. “Around four, he said?”

Sophie holds tightly while I raise her to a seated position. She breathes slowly. “Graham, I am sorry about this, but I need to use the toilet.”

“Sure.”

“You know I need help to use the toilet.”

“Sure. My whole thing here is to help you get around.”

She enunciates pointedly. “I mean, I need help. With the whole … process.”

The idea settles in my brain very slowly.
Shit.
I am not equipped to deal with this.

I reach for Sophie’s elbow, but she jerks it out of reach.

“Grabbing my arm puts me off balance. When you’re helping someone—when you’re helping me—you let me take your arm and you shoulder the burden.”

I swallow hard. “Yes ma’am.”

She doesn’t walk so much as slide one foot at a time through the worn carpet. What the hell has happened to her in the last twenty-eight hours?

In the bathroom, Sophie says, “Let’s make this as painless as possible. Just look at my face.” To herself, she mutters, “This is why I hired a girl.”

She asks me to lift her dress, which is sort of okay. She holds onto my shoulders and asks me to pull down what she calls her knickers.