Waiting (13 page)

Oh, how Mom worried over him.

We left and got shots and took antibiotics and Zach got better, but no one else lived, including those two little girls I played with every day, those little girls with the brown hair and Chiclet teeth.

That night, after
all that dying, after hearing what had happened,

I lay in a real bed with a light sheet and a real pillow.

Facedown.

Crying.

And this is true.

Swear.

Jesus touched me.

I felt His hand rest right on my back,

between my shoulder blades, and I felt so much better

because I knew those little girls were with Him.

I just knew it.

With a touch.

I only told
Zach about that.

And he believed me.

Believed in me.

Like always.

We were like
those twins, Zach and me. As close.

He was my hero, my best friend. Always believing, always talking, always there.

Zacheus.

Unlike my mother
now.

Unlike my father.

My Zach always believed in me.

Here’s the thing
about Jesus’s broken heart.

How much did it hurt?

Sometimes

Sometimes, I’m sure I know.

Somehow, I can’t
believe it, I fall asleep on Zach’s grave.

And I dream.

In this dream Mom’s there. And it’s my old mom. She’s smiling, so that’s how I know it’s the old her. “I love you, London,” she says. I hear her voice. See her reach to pet me. Her hand never connects to my face, though I wait for her touch. Stand there. Wait.

I wake up, roll onto my back, still waiting for that touch from my mom. The marshmallow clouds have gone dark.

Stormy.

It can’t be that late, can it? Where’s the sun?

I’m hungry.

“And lucky,” I say to Zach, “that fire ants didn’t find me here and eat me up.”

“You okay?”

I scream, sit, go dizzy.

It’s the groundskeeper. An older guy, dark hair going gray.

“Sorry,” he says. He keeps his distance. “I knew you were alive. Saw that you were breathing. You see everything out here. You okay?”

I nod. “I think so.” I clear my throat. “I’ll go.”

“Stay as long as you like,” he says. “You’re safe here.”

He gets into an old blue truck that probably used to be the color of the sky.

Drives off with a tilt of his head to me.

He might be an angel. I don’t know. He might.

I have a
few dollars in my pocket, but I quit my cell phone a long time ago. Just let it die in my bedside table drawer. I couldn’t face all the text messages, the calls, the are-you-okays?

(No! No, I wasn’t okay! Got it? I WAS NOT OKAY.)

My angel’s “You okay?” is different.

I close my eyes.

Am I getting a little better? Healing a little? Aching less?

I stand, look back at the grass to see if there is a print of my body `(there is), and walk on out of the cemetery, checking all the while for the groundskeeper, who I don’t see again.

So, not too
far away is a 7-Eleven.

In the bathroom I see I have grass-mark dents all over one side of my face. My mascara’s smeared. Did I cry in my sleep? I have cried while sleeping plenty of times.

Awakened with tears streaming down my face.

I use a paper towel and brush at my teeth. I would try the soap but decide against it because it’s bar soap and someone has left black scum on what used to be a white bar.

“Don’t be ridikerus.” I can almost hear Zach say the words. He always said that. “Don’t be ridikerus. You don’t brush your teeth with soap, no matter how your mouth tastes, London.”

Does he say ridikerus still?

Does Zach say it to God? To Jesus? To someone else but not me anymore?

I leave the bathroom, which I can all the sudden really smell, and walk into the store. There are a few customers, including a grandma-type lady who shepherds around two little kids, a boy and a girl, who ask in tiny voices for this treat or that.

I’ve not eaten all day and I realize I’m hungry. Outside,
the sky turns darker and the wind picks up. The clouds race away from the beach. A bit of salt smell from the ocean tries to sweep away the odor of strong coffee and hot dogs when someone opens the door, but the food smells win out.

So I buy an all-beef Big Bite Hot Dog. Just looking at the crinkly thing on the rolling grill makes my mouth water, and after I pop the wiener into a bun, I load on the ketchup, mayonnaise, and relish. I get a fountain Coke, too, adding lots and lots of vanilla, making sure I save some change, because I don’t want to walk all the way home. Gonna have to call someone for a ride. I’ve walked so far I feel like I need a hip replacement.

When I step outside, a gust of wind blows garbage across the parking lot. I am so hungry, I’m shaking. But I take small bites of the Big Bite. Enjoy every bit. Sit there on the corner of the sidewalk and eat the best hot dog I have ever tasted. Sip at the vanilla-y Coke. Then, when I’m licking my fingers, I breathe deep through my nose, closing my eyes, wonder who to call.

Daddy?

Mom?

Zach?
(Ha! Another joke. One that makes my stomach clench. Makes the all-beef Big Bite Hot Dog lurch.)

I think about Lili and Jesse.

And then there’s Lauren.

But I can only seem to remember Taylor’s number. So that’s who I call.

“Come get me?”
I say. I stand at the phone booth missing its phone book.

“Yes,” Taylor says, even though I can hear he’s doing something else, can hear a bunch of people talking.

Someone laughs.

“You can wait, if you want.” A horn behind me blares, kids (no, they’re older than I am, a car full of guys) pretending that I’m in their way. Or something. “If you want, you can come later. After your thing.”

“I don’t want to come later. You home?”

I tell him where I am. Pretend to not see the guys (four of them).

“Okay.” He doesn’t say good-bye.

I hang up the phone. Turn.

“You need a ride?” one guy says.

I shake my head.

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

The wind blows drops of rain onto the sidewalk, and everything, just like that, smells dirty and hot, though the wind is cold and I wish for a jacket.

Then the rain seems to disappear, and even though the storm is heavy in the air around me, I sit still, crossing my arms. I can wait.

I will wait.

And if it starts to rain, why, I’ll hop back inside and see who’s gracing the cover of the
Enquirer
.

I wait awhile
before I start walking home.

Against the traffic so I can see Taylor’s Toyota.

The weather’s holding, so why not? And, anyway, it seems to be taking Taylor a long time to get here. Was he at a party? With another girl?

Maybe I should have called Jesse.

I should have.

But I don’t know his number. Can’t remember Lili’s. Or my mother? What about my mother?

That thought sits in my stomach with the all-beef Big Bite Hot Dog like a joke. It’s cold, the idea of my mom not wanting me anymore.

Did she ever?

I walk, head down, the unhappy breeze pushing me along.

The rain is hesitant now. There were those few drops at the 7-Eleven, a few every once in a while, and then there’s that car of guys. They drive past, circle around, pull in front of me. Did they wait for me?

There’s no sidewalk, and I feel my heart start to pick up.

It’s not dark. The sun still has a way to go to dusk even.

Still, everything is so gray out here. Maybe my eyes are failing. I think grief makes your eyes stop working as
well. For sure, colors aren’t as bright and the sun isn’t as warm and . . .

“We’ll take you home,” one guy says. He has a nice smile. He sticks his arm out the window, reaching for me,

as I hurry past the Cadillac-size car.

Without meaning to, I hunch over a little farther, then stop and straighten, because doesn’t hunching mean I’m scared?

And I’m not scared. Not really. He has a nice smile.

“Help me, Jesus,” I say.

The sky opens up then.

I’m past the car full of guys.

Hurrying.

The rain comes down fast. Hard. So hard it hurts, stings.

“Well, thanks for that.”

“Come on!” More than one of them call.

“Someone’s coming for me,” I say.

I feel like I’m in a bad commercial. The rain commercial, and when I get home someone will hand me some hot tea and my hair will spring into perfect curls.