Water Balloon (20 page)

"Hold it," he says. "What are you talking about?"

"When I wanted to quit—and I
really
wanted to quit—you said no. When I wanted my computer at your house, you said no."

"You're missing something, pal," he says. "I've been saying it over and over, but you're still missing it. We're in a new place now. We do not have the same kind of spending money we had before. I keep saying it's the economic reality of a two-household family."

He's right. He has been saying that over and over. And I never really bothered to think past the big Dad words. It just sounded like some excuse.

"Okay, so that's the Internet fee, fine. But about the twins—" And I feel stupid even saying that, because I don't feel the same dread about them now that I used to. What I want isn't to get away from them, but maybe to help them at least a tiny bit, the way I wish someone would help me.

I sit down next to him.

"I figured you'd want spending money this summer. To do things. I don't have a lot of extra cash. It's the economic reality—"

"Okay, I get it," I say, but I almost wish that I didn't.

"I want to tell you one more thing," he says, his voice low. He pushes my hair away from my face, the way he's done since I was three. "I'm sorry that you've been hurt by this. I want you to know that I'm hurting too. I miss the way we were. And I'll miss seeing you every day. I ache for that too. But I also know that I have to move on."

We sit there, all those words swirling around us. Whatever anger I felt has melted into sadness. And a little bit of shame.

He squeezes my knee and says, "I know you will find your way through this. I really believe that."

He waits a little longer before he asks, "Are you ready to go now?"

I am. So we do.

When we're driving past the old park, we get stopped at the endless red light. I look over to the park entrance where Leah and Jane and I used to meet on our bikes. There's no one there now.

We drive on.

In the morning, I'm still heavy with the sadness of last night. I grab Dad's dandelion tool and choose a new patch of lawn, near the holes I made last time, and I begin again. He made good progress with his various concoctions, but a few have come back. I stand for leverage, then reach in and pull out the remaining white root.

"Morning, Marley," Jack says.

"Hey, Jack."

"So what is it, exactly, that you're doing here? I've been watching you make holes in your dad's lawn for a long time now, and I'm not sure I'm getting it."

"My father is a dandelion hater."

"No shame in that."

"He hasn't had the time to deal with them." I think about the days when we worked side by side cleaning up the lawn, a perfectly nice time. Then yesterday I howled at him like an angry wolf-child and revealed myself to be a spoiled brat.

"Isn't there some kind of spray or something?"

"There is, but he won't use anything like that. He's organic." I say that word with something like ridicule in my voice, but I have no idea why, as I totally respect that part of my dad. I love that he's committed to organic gardening.

"Will you ever really be done? It seems like you make all these holes and then the next day there's just more weeds growing back."

"I know. But I'm starting to think that once you dig out the weed, there's at least a chance that something good will grow in its place."

He shrugs and smiles. "What time do you think you'll get to the game tomorrow?"

"I'm not even sure what time visiting hours are. What time are you leaving?"

"I'm going up early. I spoke to my brother. He's meeting us at the McDonald's across the street at four thirty. What're you doing today?"

"I'm not sure. What about you?'

"Some guys are getting together to practice for tryouts. I'm going to head over to my friend Justin's and play. Oh, here," he says, handing me the ticket for tomorrow's game. "I'll see you there."

"Thanks." The feeling I get when Jack reaches down for his bag, the sign that he's going to leave, reminds me of those stories Mom told about my mornings at nursery school, how I wrapped my arms around her legs.
Oh, please. Stay with me.

***

Dad spends hours at Home Depot. In the afternoon I find a fresh bagel—sesame, my favorite kind—from the best shop in town waiting for me on the table. Not quite a gesture, maybe, but it was nice of him.

He eats his dinner in front of the TV. I take two really long walks with Rig and finish reading a thick novel.

***

That night, Leah texts me.

Whats up?

Just hanging. U?

Not much. Hanging with Jane.

Ok. TTYL.

What happened at library?

Nothing. Gotta go.

I tried talking to her 4 u.

Oh no. No she didn't. NO!

I told you not to.

Doesn't matter. She doesn't wan

That text comes through cut off. And then—

This is Jane.

I turn off my phone fast, like it's a bomb.

Why would Leah .. I'm panting. Why am I panting?

Why would Leah do this? Why did she have to turn our slightly messed-up two-person friendship into some kind of Leah and Jane thing? She promised not to do this.

The very far reaches of the farthest part of the back of my brain know that Leah just gave me the answer to a question I haven't yet had the nerve to ask: Do I try to work things out with her?

I cannot trust her. At all.

I liked her once.

We used to have so much fun.

But I do not like her now.

So why haven't I already walked away from Leah in a big and final way?

The answer, once I find it, is awful.

I don't want to be alone.

I don't want to be the girl with no one to sit with in the cafeteria.

It's a horrid, lonely truth.

I want to ignore the question that's lined up right behind it: What kind of person pretends to be friends with someone just to save herself from being alone?

I don't know the answer yet, but I'm scared the answer is me.

***

Grandma lives pretty far away, and the hospital is near her house. The drive is long and familiar and boring. Dad listens to a news radio station because he wants to hear all the traffic reports. I beg him to put on one of my CDs, but he doesn't relent until we've been in the car for way more than an hour. It's as painful and boring as fishing, only without the good, open air.

I spend way too much time thinking about that awful text from Leah, and that one from Jane. I work up the nerve to check if they kept texting me after I turned my phone off. No. Nothing.

Dad stops for breakfast at a diner, and we talk about the Yankees and he somehow gets me to agree to go fishing with him next weekend. I'm so scared that he's going to do the
I listen
Dad routine and ask me to talk about my anger, revisit all the things I said Friday night. He doesn't. Maybe he's relieved at not having to go near all that stuff again today. I know I am.

***

The hospital itself is kind of depressing, which isn't altogether surprising, since it's a hospital. It's smaller than I imagined—a square yellow brick building surrounded by asphalt parking lots.

Dad talks to someone at a desk in the lobby and we're directed through a maze of hallways that seem longer than the building looked from the outside. We find the elevator and ride up to the fifth floor. When the doors open, an awful smell greets us. I don't even want to think too much about what it is, but it's truly horrible. We walk down the hall toward room 517. Dad steps in first. There's an empty bed near the door, then a curtain. On the other side of the room, near the window, there's Grandma, sleeping.

Her mouth is open and kind of drooping. As we walk in, closer, I can see that there's an IV tube connected to the top of her hand, where it's taped on. And a whole horror show of beeping, lit-up machines attached to different parts of her.

Mom is sitting in a big chair on the other side of the bed, looking up at a TV. "Deb," Dad says, and she stands immediately. She hugs him quickly and then rushes over to me and pulls me to her in a big hug. It reminds me, in a flash of hug-memory, of when she said goodbye, and all the nervousness I felt at staying with Dad for so long. It feels so good to be wrapped in her arms.

"I was scared you were going to look all different. I feel like I've been here forever. You look the same. I'm so glad."

It's comforting to think I might be the same person I was, even if I can feel the changes grinding away. She steps back, out of the hug, and reaches out and takes my hand.

"How's she doing?" Dad asks. He puts his hand on Mom's back. I hadn't thought about this, but I've heard that families come together when in crisis. You see it all the time in movies.

"She's improving. She's going to be fine. I kind of freaked out about all the blood she lost, but they say it often happens. It was just so hard to see her like that."

Dad has so much compassion in his eyes.

"They're saying she might be able to leave by next weekend. They're not sure if she'll go to a rehab place or home. She couldn't stay by herself yet at her house. I'll stay up here with her for a while either way, and see how she's doing, if that's okay."

"Of course," Dad says. "Marley can stay with me an extra week, or however long."

I walk over to the bed. I wish Grandma were awake, so we could talk. I wish she felt better, that she didn't look so much older than she did the last time I saw her, just a couple of months ago.

Still, seeing her, I feel something inside of me—something that is wound very, very tight—begin to relax a tiny bit. Somehow I knew this; I was right. I really did need to see her.

Mom sits back in the chair on the other side of the bed. "But she's really okay?" I don't know why I need to keep hearing her say it, but I do. Just like I had to come to see her in person.

Mom nods, her eyes looking into mine. My truth meter is locked in. She really is fine.

I grab the bag I packed for my mother and show her all the stuff I brought. When I pull out the plastic bottle of jasmine spray, she smiles at my father. "Thank you, Robert," she says. "That was really thoughtful."

Dad gets all awkward, silent.

My grandmother's eyes flutter a little, and then she opens them. She sees me and smiles, a sweet, slow smile. I take her hand and squeeze it.

"Hey, Grandma," I say. "It's so good to see you." It is. With her eyes open, I can see she's still her.

She smiles, a little loopy from sleep. "Marley Eden, honey," she says. I smile back, even though her speech is painfully slow. "Thank you for coming, sweetheart." Her hand is so warm, soft, just like it's always been. I squeeze it again, so relieved to be with her, to hear her voice. She squeezes my hand right back, weakly. She looks around the room a little until her eyes land on my dad. "And Robert. Thank you too. I'm glad to see you here."

He gives that awkward nod, but then smiles at her. Everyone loves Grandma.

She just looks at us for a while. We all smile at her, all three of us. She's only awake a little while. Most of that time she's smiling.

The relief is as palpable as a pillow, and I'm so thankful that we're all here together.

Dad gets lost on the way from the hospital to Yankee Stadium. He's not a get-lost kind of guy—he's too careful with maps and route planning to allow it to happen. But when he gets off the Major Deegan Expressway for a shortcut he took about a decade ago, we spend the next twenty-five minutes cruising the Bronx and testing out his cursing vocabulary. Eventually he finds a familiar road and gets me there.

"You have your cell phone in case you can't find Jack or you need me for any reason."

"I do. I'll be fine."

"It's my job to very nearly fall apart when I leave my daughter by herself at a ballpark in New York City."

"I won't be by myself." I grab my bag. "Don't expect me right after the game. Jack said his brother's going to take us out for dinner first."

"I remember. Have a great time. I'll be listening to the game on the way home, so don't try to run onto the field or anything."

"Yeah, that's so me. I'll see you, Dad." I shut the door and step out into the madness that surrounds Yankee Stadium.

It's pretty late—the game has already started—but there are still tons of people walking around the outside of the stadium. People walk fast, seem to know where they're headed. I follow the crowd into a gate, go through something like airport security, and then start looking for our seats. It's not as easy as it is in, say, a theater. This place has hundreds of levels and gates and sections, ramps and elevators and escalators, with people walking in every direction. I finally figure out where I need to be—out past the foul pole in left field. I walk up the small aisle, row D, E, F. There's Jack, sitting in row 10, seat 6.

"You made it," he says.

"I did."

"How's your grandmother?" He stands to let me by.

"Okay. Not like out-of-bed great, but she's going to be fine." I sit and look around. "Wow," I say.

I'd been to the old stadium when I was little, and I've seen the new one on TV a ton, but this is my first time here. It's hard to believe all these people—tens of thousands of people—are all here to watch nine guys play a game against nine other guys. The place is literally vibrating with excitement. People are stomping their feet, shouting at the pitcher, and all at once, everyone stands and starts clapping. I look at the scoreboard. There are two outs, and the count is three and two. The crowd is looking for a strikeout. Before I can even focus on the field, find the pitcher and home plate, the crowd erupts with cheers. The people in the rows ahead of us are all slapping high-fives. An inning-ending strikeout! Everyone sits back down.

Jack reaches beside him and hands me a hat. "I got you this." It's a Yankees hat, a newer version of the one my dad wears.

"You got me this?"

"You already have one?"

I laugh. "No, not at all. It's just, that was so nice of you. Thank you."