Waiting (9 page)

Zach.

Oh, Zach.

I turn and hurry away.

They say time
heals.

When?

It’s been months now and I see my brother in everything.

Instead of going
to class, I hide in the library back in a corner where the school librarian caught Jason Easton smoking weed. I stay there, heart burning, wishing my brother would come back and hold me. Just one more time. That’s all I’d need. Just one more.

Or—

I can almost not think it—

my mom.

I’d love a hug from my mother.

After a few bells ring, I make my way out of the library.

Taylor will hug me. And I think I know what class he has, too.

The hall’s empty.

The floor reflects the overhead lights, and as I pass classroom doors, I can hear the buzz of students’ voices or teachers speaking.

It smells weird in here. Like dirty shoes or Fritos.

“Zach,” I say. “It could be easier.”

But is that true? I’m not so sure.

If my mother loved me still, would this horrible time in my life be better?

I would still ache, right?

I would still miss him.

It would still feel as though part of me left when we buried him, right?

And then I know: It would be easier. Because of Daddy.

He doesn’t do it often, but if he just touches my shoulder, I feel like I’m not alone.

Without meaning to, I’m running.

Just a touch.

I tap on
the window. Faces turn toward me. But not Taylor. He’s writing something from the board into his notebook.

The chair next to his is empty. Zach’s chair. My brother’s chair.

They retired his football jersey.

Did they retire his chair, too?

He’s everywhere but here.

Wait, that doesn’t make sense.

I tap on the glass again, and Mr. Crowe strides over and swings the door open. “Yes, London?” How does he know my name?

I’m mute.

Taylor glances up. His face changes when he sees me, and he’s on his feet and walking to the door. No one says anything. Do they all know? They all must know.

Everyone knows how it happened but me.

Wait, I know the how, not the why.

Wait again, I do know the why. . . .

I’m shaking.

Taylor brushes past Mr. Crowe.

“Hey,” he says. His hair looks so blond.

“I miss him,” I say before the door even closes behind Mr. Crowe, who has left us here. “And there’s no one to tell.”

“You can tell me.”

He folds me
close, pulls me right up to his chest. We stand there and I want to cry. I want to cry but I can’t.

Before,

when Zach was alive

and then gone

gone

I cried so long so hard so much that I couldn’t breathe through my nose and my eyes were almost swollen shut.

Now there is nothing for Zach but my broken self and not a thing to repair it.

In the car
Taylor says, “Talk.”

And so I do, while he drives.

I start when we were little:

how Zach would babysit me and squeeze my guts out when he held me on his lap,

how he found me when I went to sleep in a closet and everyone thought I was lost,

how once, when I was sick, he gave me his very favorite Matchbox car (a big deal, seeing we were in Africa at the time and hadn’t brought that much from the States).

I tell everything I can think of.

My mouth dries out. My eyes sting. Taylor drives and drives.

“Remember what a bad surfer he was?”

“Remember how he couldn’t sing at all?”

“Remember how he loved Rachel?”

The remembers go on until my head aches.

We drive along the beach. There aren’t that many birds, and the water looks like oil on the sand as it rolls up in waves. Oil with bits of lace.

There are some things I don’t say.

It’s not
all
good.

No one is
all
good.

His unhappiness, I mean.

Taylor knows, Taylor knows, must remember, though he never says anything about it.

After the beach,
Taylor and I drive to his house. No one’s home.

I know where his room is and go there. Through the front room, down the hall on the left, past two doors (the bathroom, a closet).

I stand in the doorway. It’s dark in here. The shade’s pulled. A crayon width of light shows around the window covering.

(Has his mother caught something from my mom?)

Taylor snaps on the light.

His room is so neat.

Fully clothed, I climb into his bed, pulling the covers to my neck, turn my back on him, adjust his pillow under my head.

He’s quiet.

On the wall nearest his bed is a picture of Zach on the football field, Taylor and a few of the other players gathered close. They won that game. I snapped the shot of the few of them, and Taylor printed it because, he said, “I can see a bit of your finger, London.”

He was so corny.

Is he still?

After a moment he flips off the light and the room goes gray. I hear Taylor pad across the carpet. He pushes me over a bit, then lies on top of the blanket and wraps his arm around me. I can feel his breath in my hair. His knees are bent behind mine. He’s pressed close. Does my hair stink?

“I miss him too,” he says. He pulls in a big gulp of air and is quiet.

I jerk awake
when Mrs. Curtis says, “Who the hell are you in bed with, Taylor?”

I feel him kick awake. He sits up, fast. “It’s just . . . ,” he says, and his voice is deeper than normal. “Mom? What are you doing here?” He gets up.

“I live here,” she says. “And I’m home from work.” She’s mad.

For some reason I can’t quite move. I’ve slept so hard I’ve drooled on Taylor’s pillow. I smear my hand on the pillowcase, then try to flip it over.

“Is that you, London?”

“Yes.” I try to get out from under the covers, but I’m stuck.

Mrs. Curtis is across the room in a few strides. She takes my face in her hands. Her palms are so cool I close my eyes. “Hey there, girlie,” she says. “I’ve missed you.” She untucks me, pulls me to my feet, and hugs me so close I think I can stand here forever in her arms.

When I get
home that night, Daddy waits, arms crossed over his chest. He stands on the porch, right by the swing that I once flipped out the back of when Zach pushed me too high. I was fourteen. He laughed for hours over that. We hadn’t been in New Smyrna but a few days.

Taylor takes my fingers in his hand. “We’re still here, London,” he says. “We’ve been trying to tell you so.” He clears his throat. Looks at our hands. “I want to be with you.”

“Heather?” I say. “What about Heather?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

No. Okay, no.

“I lost so much,” I say. It feels like the ghost of my brother crowds the front seat of the car. My father stands on the porch, waiting.

My father hasn’t waited . . . “He hasn’t waited for me in months.”

Taylor says nothing.

“My mom, she doesn’t really talk much anymore.” I can’t believe those words come out of my mouth. I’m embarrassed by them. The deal is, I want to say, “Doesn’t talk much to
me
anymore,” but my head won’t let my mouth admit that fact.

Taylor brings my fingers to his lips. He talks over them.

“Just remember, I’m here, okay? I can keep waiting.”

As I walk
up to Daddy, I can see he’s not waiting for me.

Not really. Yes, he pats me on the back as I pass him, but he doesn’t follow me into the house.

“You hear from your mom, London?”

I stop, my hand on the doorknob, backpack hanging from a shoulder. An almost warm breeze rushes past, ruffles my hair, moves on. Tonight’s almost comfortable. And the sky threatens a late rain maybe. I glance back at my father, hoping he’ll look me in the eye. Lightning splits the distant horizon. He stares away.

“What do you mean?” He knows she doesn’t speak to me. I’ve heard him asking her to. I’ve heard her silence at his request.

“She hasn’t come home today.”

Okay. Okay then. “Where did she go?”

He doesn’t answer, and I turn away. I’m numb inside. I’m ice. I’m raw. I’m cruel, unkind, alone, alone,

alone.

When the best
part of a family dies, everyone falls apart.

I close the
front door with a soft click.

How long will he stand out there?

Will he come in and check on me?

Will he remember I’m inside?

Where has she gone?