Only Mostly Devastated

by Sophie Gonzales

  Will closed the lid of the piano and swiveled around on the bench. I had a sudden flashback to an evening at the lake. I didn’t remember exactly when, or what we’d done that day. Only the sunset casting a lavender glow over the water, and dragonflies zipping past my head while I stood on the edge of the jetty. And Will had been treading water, his head and shoulders sticking out of the lake. Only in my memory he was smiling. In real life, right here and now, he looked apprehensive. Like he was worried I was going to hurt him. If the truth was a weapon, then maybe I was.

  “I didn’t want to make it weird,” he said finally. “Why bring it up if it’s going to be awkward?”

  Um, fucking ouch? Yep. The truth was definitely a weapon. Man down. “Why should it be awkward? Do you regret it?”

  We had a sort of standoff then. Both of us stared each other down, like whoever blinked was the one who actually had feelings. The one who could be hurt. Will caved first. “No. I don’t regret it.”

  “Then can we acknowledge it, please?” I jumped in, almost on top of his words.

  “Um, sure.”

  “Say you kissed me,” I said.

  Honest to God, he scanned the room like he was worried someone had snaked their way into it in the last thirty seconds without either of us noticing. “I kissed you.”

  “He whispers reluctantly,” I said.

  “I kissed you,” Will said, loudly this time.

  “Multiple times.”

  “Not as many times as you kissed me,” Will said, and I felt the tension shatter. There. This was the Will I knew. He was supposed to be the confident one out of us, not me.

  “I wasn’t keeping a record,” I said.

  “Take my word for it.”

  “I’m gonna have to.”

  He stood up and came over to me, without breaking eye contact. “I remember more than just kissing, by the way.”

  “Is that so?”

  Dear God, I sounded like a forty-five-year-old cougar. Is that so? Really? Send help, I could not flirt. Woah, wait, he’d taken another step closer, and another, and he was looking at my mouth. Blatantly staring at it. Suddenly all I could do was stare at him staring at my mouth.

  Then I was certain. He was going to kiss me.

  People say when you die your life flashes before your eyes. Well, in that very moment, my future flashed before mine. Will was firmly, firmly in the closet, and obviously not comfortable with this, or us, or what we’d had. Even if he was trying to kiss me right now, a minute ago he’d definitely checked an empty room for spies. He couldn’t be less chill about this.

  Argh, but right now I could smell him. So strongly. And even that made me dizzy, and weak, and honestly, I’d have traded my own grandma for the chance to kiss him now. If I kissed him, though, I’d taste him again, and I’d be right back at square one. I’d go home tonight floating and spinning out and squeaking, and I’d wait for him to text me. But he maybe—probably—wouldn’t. And he’d maybe—probably—be all weird at school tomorrow. Then there’d be me. Basking in the putrid glow of unrequited hell.

  For the last month I’d had control over things. We had a rhythm. It was calm. I couldn’t give that up. I couldn’t go back to desperately pining and hoping, only to be let down. Not even for a kiss from Will.

  Not even if I really, really, really, really, oh-fuck-am-I-actually-going-to-turn-this-down, really wanted it.

  So, actively kicking myself the whole time, I sprang backward. “You’re right,” I said. “I remember a lot of basketball. Anyway, can you give me a few minutes? I almost had this line.”

  I scrambled to pick up my bass and held it up between us, like it was garlic and Will was a heartthrob vampire. Keeping my stare fixed on my hands, I returned to playing like the last five minutes hadn’t happened at all. I did not look at Will. Nope, I did not.

  Until I did. Alas, he’d gone back to his chair, reading his textbook like nothing had happened.

  Except it was the right-way up this time. And he’d angled his body away from me.

  It’s an indisputable truth that one of the best things about holidays is getting to sleep in. Waiting until the sun rays drag you out of your coma, tossing around in bed a few times, maybe falling back asleep once or twice. Then rolling out of bed and down the hall to plonk in front of the television, phone in hand, cereal bowl in lap, with English class all but a faraway dream.

  The night before Thanksgiving I burrowed into bed all satisfied and eager, knowing I didn’t have an alarm clock the next morning. My biggest problem was deciding if I’d go for Cheerios or Cinnamon Toast Crunch. The last thing I remembered before drifting off was deciding I’d combine them both into a monster bowl, maybe with chocolate milk instead of regular.

  Three hours later, I was very rudely awakened. I peeked through bleary eyes into the pitch-black room, trying to piece together what was going on. Hand on my shoulder. Voice telling me to wake up. A voice that was not an alarm clock. Why did I have to wake before the sun, though? Wasn’t it Thanksgiving? Had I overslept somehow?

  “… hospital. Come on, grab a change of clothes. You don’t need to get dressed, you can sleep in Roy and Linda’s bed. Quick, Ollie, come on.”

  It was Dad. I staggered out of bed, and he thrust a shirt and jeans against my chest. I felt around for my shoes, trying to form a coherent picture of the situation in silence. Dad was muttering to himself in a panic, digging through my underwear drawer. “Jesus, Ollie, why don’t you pair your socks?”

  “Grab any two. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. You should fold your socks together. How lazy do you have to be to just shove socks in a drawer? You don’t even do the washing, or the drying. All we ask is for you to keep your room neat. One small request—”

  I rubbed the crust out of my eyes while I tried to catch up. Dad barely ever even came in my room. He’d never cared what it looked like before. “So what? They’re just socks.”

  “You’re eighteen years old now, Ollie.”

  “I’m seventeen.”

  He slammed the drawer shut so hard the pencil tin sitting on the bureau tipped over. “For fuck’s sake, Oliver.”

  Dad never swore. Never, ever, ever. I shut my mouth and sat back down on the bed, my cheeks burning. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out something was going on with Aunt Linda. Something probably worse than usual. “Who’s with the kids?” I asked.

  “Roy is. He needs to go to the hospital. We need to get you over there now.”

  “Wait, we’re not going?”

  “Use your brain, Oliver. It’s three A.M. in the morning. Crista and Dylan are asleep.”

  But I wanted to go with the adults. I didn’t want to be at home, not sure what was happening. Waiting for the worst. But arguing with Dad in this mood was like asking a wasp for a handshake. With some effort I forced my head to clear and collected the things I figured I might need for the day. At the last second, I turned back and grabbed my phone charger before following Dad downstairs.

  Mom was bustling around with puffy, bloodshot eyes, collecting magazines, fresh wipes, and blankets under her arm.

  “Get in the car,” Dad barked at me. Like I’d somehow done this to Aunt Linda. I started toward the garage, then hesitated. “What?” he demanded.

  “Um … uh … if I drive my own car, I’ll be able to bring Crista and Dylan to the hospital tomorrow if we need.”

  Dad stared me down like I’d said the stupidest thing in the world. I racked my memory to figure out if I’d done something to piss him off. Nothing came to mind.

  Thankfully, Mom came to the rescue. “Great idea, honey,” she said, pushing past me to throw her load into the backseat of the Honda. “You can follow us.”

  I trailed after her, still carrying my own small collection of stuff. Dad made a beeline for the Honda, telling me to hurry up.

  Mom shut the back door and flipped around, wrapping me in a fierce hug out of nowhere. “It’s gonna be okay,” she whispered. �
��Think positive thoughts for me. We need to combine our energy. We’re stronger together.”

  “Okay,” I said. But it was a lie. My brain was already preparing the show reel of horrors it liked to deliver in moments of crisis. Aunt Linda was already dead. Aunt Linda was alone in the hospital, crying for Uncle Roy with no one around. Aunt Linda’s body was under the ground with bugs burrowing under her fingernails to lay eggs.

  The drive to Linda and Roy’s house went by in a hazy fog. My body drove on autopilot while my mind floated somewhere near the car ceiling, chanting “doom, doom, doom” like it was in a trance. I guess I was. In a trance.

  Mom and Dad stayed in their car, and I swapped batons with Uncle Roy. Him to the hospital. Me with the kids. Team break.

  I felt super weird sleeping in Aunt Linda and Uncle Roy’s bed, so I dug through their linen closet until I found a blanket. I cocooned myself on the sofa, fluffing up the hard cushions as best as I could. Then I proceeded to stare at the ceiling. Like I was going to get any damn sleep now.

  It’s funny how you can spend weeks, or months, or sometimes even years preparing yourself for a nightmare that’s more “when” than “if.” Then just when you’re fooling yourself that you’ve accepted the world’s end, and you’ll roll with the impact when it hits … suddenly, it might be hitting, and you’re not rolling. You’re collapsing, sitting where you stood, totally overwhelmed by a loss you were never really ready for.

  How could I have thought I’d cope with losing Aunt Linda? The reality of it all made me feel helpless. My life stretched out in front of me, made up of hundreds of thousands of hours, which were made out of millions of minutes, which were made up of billions of seconds. And right now, each second pinned me down like rubble. I’d have to somehow get through all those billions of seconds without Aunt Linda being alive anymore.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  13

  I woke up to three missed calls and a text. My stomach plummeted, and I steeled myself to open the message.

  Thursday, 7:16 AM

  Linda’s doing okay. Bring the kids

  when you can.

  Okay.

  Okay was good.

  I moved through a bubble, getting the kids up, dressed, and fed. Neither of them had a clue their mom was in the hospital, it turned out, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to frame this. In the end I just kind of minimized it, passing it off as a minor blip, sounding as chirpy as I could. Which was a hell of an effort, considering I’d had about four hours’ sleep by my estimate. Luckily for me, the kids didn’t seem suspicious. They were too busy chattering about what they wanted to have for Thanksgiving dinner. How Aunt Linda had promised she’d do the potato gratin with bacon pieces, and that they could have a glass of Coke if they were well-behaved.

  Shit. I hadn’t even thought about dinner. Someone was going to have to break it to the kids that Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t likely to happen today. That someone was not going to be me, though. I’d been the bearer of enough bad holiday news. In fact, I decided then and there that I wasn’t going to contribute to making this day suck any more than it had to for them. So when Crista wanted to put on her Elsa costume, complete with teeny little kitten heels, even though it was forty freaking degrees outside, I let her. And when Dylan wanted a banana smoothie as a “special” breakfast, he damn well got a banana smoothie. Who cared, at the end of the day? Life was short.

  At the hospital, Aunt Linda was lying in bed, propped up by stiff white hospital pillows and the bed itself, which was raised at one end. She was missing her headscarf. Even though she’d been going through chemo for a while now, her scalp wasn’t totally bald. Instead, a few short wisps of the curls that used to tumble down her neck were left behind. Also, her face was totally clean. She never, and I mean never, went without makeup. Even if it was just eyebrows and eyeliner. Bare like this, she looked capital-S Sick.

  My parents were side by side on the ugly floral love seat, and Uncle Roy slumped in the chair by Aunt Linda’s head. When he noticed us come in, he gave the kids a tired smile and held out a hand.

  Crista and Dylan went straight to the bed. “I thought you were doing chemo?” Crista asked in a voice so small I died a little.

  Aunt Linda’s smile was even more exhausted than Uncle Roy’s. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Elsa. I felt a little sick while you were sleeping, so we came here to get me better. Don’t you worry a bit.”

  “Does it hurt?” Crista pressed.

  Aunt Linda and Uncle Roy exchanged a quick look, then Aunt Linda shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle. But, Little Miss Munchkin, excuse me. Where is your coat? It’s freezing out.”

  I held up the kid’s carryall. “Got it. Sneakers, too.”

  “I don’t want sneakers.”

  “Elsa wears sneakers after she’s done parading in those heels,” Aunt Linda said.

  “She does not.”

  “Believe me, she does. Elsa would need to take a Tylenol on the hour to wear those things all day. The blisters alone … And don’t get me started on the practicalities of walking on ice in pumps. Aunt Catherine tried it once. Ask her how that turned out.” Aunt Linda winked at Mom, who burst out laughing.

  “That’s a story for when you’re older,” Mom said to Crista. “Much older.”

  The rest of the morning was relatively quiet. The kids took their iPads off by the wall and sat on the ground, tearing through movies and games without complaining. I couldn’t imagine myself being that well-behaved when I was little, but then, these two weren’t regular kids. Dylan probably couldn’t remember a time when Aunt Linda wasn’t sick, and if Crista could, it’d be hazy. The hospital was like an extension of their home these days.

  The adults rotated between trying to keep Aunt Linda company and going on their own phones while Aunt Linda napped. Her naps weren’t really deep sleeps as much as they were an inability to hold her eyes open for more than ten-minute stints. A part of me wondered if she wouldn’t prefer for the rest of us to leave her the hell alone so she could really rest for once. But then, it was Thanksgiving. You couldn’t abandon your family on Thanksgiving, even if they really, really wanted to be abandoned.

  At around eleven, the kids started whining a little— which, in their defense, was an impressive stretch of good behavior. After some not-so-subtle pleading looks from my parents, I led the kids downstairs to run in the hospital gardens. I set myself up on an ornate wooden bench underneath a shockingly red sugar maple so I could keep an eye on them, and hopped back on my phone.

  Snapchat was pretty much an endless stream of people cooking and showing off about it. Yay, pumpkin pie ready to go, hashtag blessed, hashtag clean eating, hashtag loljks. To be honest, it was weird to see people going about their day like normal. Like, because my Thanksgiving had gone to hell, it should somehow grind to a halt for everyone else, too.

  Nothing from Will. Which was fine. He had his own life. He was probably busy with his family, and his friends, and music, and laughing, and corny games.

  Totally, totally fine.

  “Ollie, can we have a selfie?” Crista popped up out of swear-to-God nowhere, peeking at my phone over my shoulder. Dylan, as usual, stood on tiptoes at her side. Crista bounced backward. “Can you show everyone my dress?” As she spoke, she shucked off her thick overcoat. Beauty was pain, after all. “Hold on, hold on. I’ll tell you when to take it. Get ready.”

  I brought Snapchat up and switched it to front facing, holding the phone as high as I could to get the other two in. Crista was crouching on the ground. “I’m ready.”

  “Okay, go.” Crista shot up at that moment, flinging sunset-colored leaves in the air. I took the picture just as the leaves started showering us. Dylan cackled in the background, swatting at the leaves as they fell, and Crista threw a handful at his face, shrieking.

  I captioned the picture “better than pumpkin pie,” which was maybe a lie and definitely petty, and sent it out to everyone but Wil
l. If Will spoke to me, I wanted it to be because he was thinking of me, not because I prompted him. Apparently, despite how platonic we’d become, I still cared about being chased. Hashtag pathetic.

  My phone buzzed. Will? Be Will, be Will, be Will.

  It wasn’t Will. It was a message from Lara. Hah. I think I know those kids.

  Even though Lara and I had reached a kind of truce, talking outside of group situations still wasn’t a normal thing for us. I’d added her to the Snapchat list, yeah, but I’d also sent it to about a hundred other people. After a moment trying to figure out if she was trying to set me up somehow, I sent back, They’re my cousins. A minute passed, then she replied. No shit? They used to go to my church.

  “Ollie, I’m hungry.” Dylan appeared at my side again, his puppy-dog eyes gazing up at me.

  Right. Yeah. It was lunchtime, wasn’t it? I considered offering to take the kids to McDonald’s or something, then I remembered Aunt Linda might not still be awake by dinner. Whatever we did for lunch was probably going to be the Thanksgiving meal for the day. We’d have to make do. I grabbed Crista and Dylan and hit up the hospital cafeteria, as well as a hallway vending machine. By the time we got back to Aunt Linda’s room we were armed with french fries, hot dogs, hash browns, lasagna, Hershey’s chocolate, a few peanut butter cups, a real slice of pumpkin pie (the last one the cafeteria had left) and bottles of Coke (Dylan insisted).

  Luckily, Aunt Linda was awake, so we were able to pool the haul in the center of the bed. Crista and Dylan clearly thought the lunch’s contents were the biggest stroke of luck they’d ever come across.

  Mom raised her eyebrow at me. “No vegetables?” she asked as she reached for a hot dog.

  “Good luck finding any.” I shrugged. “I think this is the hospital’s profitability plan. Don’t provide anything with vitamins, so visitors get sick and need to come to the hospital. Then their visitors get sick, too. It’s a vicious cycle.”