All of Me

by Emily Duvall

  He gives a strained grin. “There’s nothing you can follow that with.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “About five blocks from here.”

  “How much did you buy your house for?”

  “Don’t ask me that question.”

  “Because it’s rude?”

  He laughs. “Yes. Why do you want to know anyway?”

  “I find housing prices interesting.”

  “Doesn’t mean you can ask whatever you want. How about this. If you ask me something I don’t want to answer, I’ll tell you it’s personal.”

  “Like how much money you make?”

  “Already breaking the rules. That’s personal.”

  “I’m joking.” I smile generously at him.

  “You’re terrible at jokes.”

  “I am not.”

  “No really, you are.”

  “Are you going to run with me, Caleb Allan, or sit and waste my time talking?”

  He hits my knee with his hand. “Let’s go, beautiful.”

  We run our usual path. Having Caleb run alongside me distracts me from thinking about Libby’s departure and Sara’s bloody arm. Heaviness sets in my heart when I think about her going, like someone stepping on my chest and pushing hard. I use that as fuel and keep going until it doesn’t hurt so much.

  We don’t stop until we reach my apartment building.

  Caleb leaves me there. “I’ve got work to do,” he says, giving a half-hearted wave and bolts in the opposite direction.

  Like that, he’s gone.

  Tuesday nights I attend a social group led by Doctor K. Tonight’s topic is Think First, Speak Second. I’m not paying much attention because I’m wrapped up in the conversation Caleb and I had during our jog. I haven’t been too impressed with friendships. I haven’t had many, but I think this is what it should be like.

  “Who else wants to share about a challenging situation this week?” Doctor K says.

  I raise my hand and I share the Sara/stitches/wine glass fiasco.

  “Have you communicated an apology to her?” Doctor K says.

  The other members of the group nod.

  “This wasn’t my fault.” No one seems to latch onto this fact and I make my case, feeling my breath quicken. “I tried to tell her I’m sorry, but she was too upset.”

  Doctor K tilts her head. She does this when she’s interested. “Did you realize Sara had been hurt?”

  “Not at first. She kept talking to me in a low voice and then she started shouting.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I wanted her to stop. I kept telling her to stop.”

  “Did you feel bad?”

  “I saw the blood. I yelled for help. I don’t think anyone heard me. People were talking loud and rushing around us.”

  “Even when someone does something that’s an accident, the other person wants you to be empathetic. Do you think Sara would like to hear from you?”

  Probably. “How would I know?”

  “If you’d been cut by glass, would you want someone to help you?”

  “I wasn’t cut by the glass.”

  Doctor K runs her hand over her belly. “The point is to show someone you care. Do you want Sara to be hurt?”

  “No, never.”

  “Writing a note might help her feel better about how she views the situation.”

  “How long does the letter have to be?”

  “There’s no limit.”

  “Four paragraphs?”

  “Don’t get caught up in the details.” She puts her hand over her heart. “Make sure your words come from here.”

  Not. The. Bloody. Heart. Again. It’s a muscle, people. The heart beats around one-hundred-thousand times a day. That’s thirty-six million, five-hundred thousand times a year (not counting leap years). It starts beating twenty-one days after fertilization and carries blood filled with oxygen through the entire body. The shape is a—

  “Maren.”

  My gaze snaps to Doctor K. “Yes?”

  “You can try with Sara, if you want. You can let her know you’re sorry.”

  “I don’t want to fail.”

  “You don’t always get a choice in that.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “To show we care.” Doctor K angles her head and looks across the room. “Shane, how about you? Anything new this week?”

  I leave from group with the task of figuring out this apology I need to write.

  Some people think I can’t read or write. This is not true. I read very well, and I scored perfect on all my tests in high school and on the college entrance exams. I’ve been reading since Kindergarten and I got special placement in the High Achievers Reading Club. I’m a bit iffy about writing. There’s more effort and room for error involved. There’s a million ways (not exaggerating) to phrase an idea or interpret a concept. The worst part is, there’s no real correct answer. Libby and I can write a paragraph on why the boosters on Countess Coins are important and we both can be right for different reasons. Where’s the logic in that?

  Still, I put my thoughts in two different letters. One for Sara, and the other for Libby, to tell her how much I will miss her. I’ll never be able to get the words right face-to-face in either scenario, but this way, they can read for themselves.

  The door to my apartment is unlocked and my parents and Libby are sitting around the table. A large chocolate cake with dark, goopy icing is sitting on a platter in front of them. This is our own going away party without wine or other people.

  Dad greets me with a smile. “How was group, kiddo?”

  “Eh. Boring.” I point to the cake. “Libby’s favorite chocolate-chocolate.”

  “I’m not having a piece,” my mother says. “Mare, come join us.”

  I put my bag away and take a seat next to Libby. “Are you scared about living in a new city?” I say, taking the plate my mother offers.

  “A little,” Libby says; her voice is distorted as a few tears fall. “I’m going to miss this place.”

  Tears prick the backs of my eyes. “Let’s enjoy the cake. We can cry later.”

  She laughs and sniffles. “Mom, I want a double slice.”

  My father is a quiet man by nature. If he has something to say, he gets to the point. It helps that he’s an accountant. More times than not, a discussion of numbers has brought us together. He’s in a mood to remind Libby about what she should and should not do in the city. These are the items he lists.

  Don’t:

  Walk alone at night

  Take a cab (too expensive)

  Block the sidewalk

  Give anyone money/get scammed

  Do:

  Get a credit card protector

  Watch out for pickpockets

  Buy a hot dog from a street vendor

  Ask for directions

  The list seems decent. I haven’t been to New York, which brings up the idea I’ve been thinking about and decide to share. “I would like to visit Libby.”

  “We’ll figure it out after she gets settled,” Mom says, divvying up a sliver of cake for herself. “I’m sorry we can’t go with you, Lib. We should be there to help you get organized and check out the neighborhood.”

  “I’d rather spend a few days on my own.” Libby nods and stuffs another bite of cake in her mouth. “I want to get acclimated to the job.”

  Mom, who didn’t want cake to begin with, takes another, slightly bigger slice. “We haven’t talked about this weekend yet either.”

  “What’s going on this weekend?” Jogging on Saturday with Caleb and then a solid hour of Countess Coins. Hanging out at Libby’s. No, not hanging out. She’s not there, she’s moving.

  “Your father and I have to go to Florida earlier than expected. A friend of ours is sick. She’s in the hospital.”

  “Is she going to die?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We need to help her out,” Dad explains calmly. “Which means you’ll be alone.”<
br />
  Libby pushes her plate away. “I’ll stay through the weekend. I’ll figure it out.”

  “No.” Dad’s firm about this. He puts his hand on her shoulder. “You can’t. You start work this week and the movers have packed you up. You’re going.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I say to their faces.

  All three of them look at me.

  “I have my schedule,” I persuade. “You are afraid of things that haven’t happened.”

  “Maybe Charlotte and Caleb can check in,” Libby says reluctantly.

  “Nobody needs to check in on me. I want to wake up and not have you bug me about breakfast.”

  “Don’t be rude, Maren,” Libby says with a touch of hurt to her voice. “But maybe I’ve done enough. You know what? I will go as planned. No reason to stay here.” Her face is red, and her eyes are watery. She walks over to the couch and takes a seat.

  Tears fill my eyes. I see she’s hurt by my words and that hurts me.

  “I’m going to finish cleaning Libby’s kitchen,” my mother says, pinching the sleeve of my dad’s shirt. “Ryan, come with me.”

  I go over to the couch and sit next to Libby. We’re side-by-side and neither one of us say anything. I know she wants me to go first, and I hate how my words made her feel. “I’m sorry about the breakfast comment.”

  She sits up a little and wipes a sniffle.

  “I can get my own breakfast.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why do you come in here every morning and suggest stuff I don’t like? Aren’t you tired of that discussion?”

  She brings her red-rimmed gaze to mine. “Yeah, I am, but there’s so much more to meals. You even used to like to cook different things.”

  “Frozen waffles are good.” I smile. “Why can’t you trust that I know what I like?”

  “I do.” She wipes away a tear. “Your routine is as much a part of me as it is to you, which is why it’s hitting me tonight, how much everything will change. The truth is, I’ll miss this place.”

  “Maybe you should get your own routine?” I say it like this is the best idea ever.

  Another tear plops off her chin and she laughs. “You’re probably right.” She wraps her arms around me and hugs me like she won’t let go. Her hold is strong and familiar. “I told myself I wouldn’t cry.”

  “You’re already crying.” I pat her shoulder and we hug. The problem is, I cry too.

  ***

  Before I wake up in the morning, Libby and my dad are halfway to New York.

  My mother is waiting for me in the kitchen and she wastes no time with her agenda. “I’ve been talking to your father,” she says like she’s about to spring a horrible idea on me. I can tell it in her tone. “There are communities—housing options where people want to make connections with other people who need more social interaction. They’re a new concept for adults like yourself—”

  “No.”

  “I’m only mentioning it as an option. Maybe you could meet new people—or someone from your group would live there and you would have friends.”

  “I would leave my apartment and move into a strange place with people I don’t know?”

  My mother twists her hands. “Well, when you put it that way.”

  “This is where I am staying.”

  She turns her back to me and puts her coffee mug under the Keurig and makes herself a cup.

  My mother drinks three cups of coffee every morning. She’s done this for approximately twenty years. I think the odor smells like compost and one time, a girl in high school, Sophia Baker, dared me to drink a cup. I had one of my top three meltdowns on that day. I remember it because my parents and I sat in the principal’s office. They were crying. I know I shouldn’t have broken the glass on the trophy cases in the hallway with a baseball bat that I found in gym teacher’s office, but I had so much energy. Caffeine is on my list of substances to avoid. My hands flap hard. My heart beats against my chest like it might pop out. And I break things.

  I start my first morning without Libby toasting my Eggo waffles and drinking my orange juice. Technically, this living-alone-thing doesn’t count with my parents coming over for breakfast before they get on the road.

  “So,” my mother says, inhaling her coffee, “do you have any questions?”

  “How do you know if you’re in love?” I say, breaking apart the waffle.

  My mother is in shock. She rounds her hands over her mug like it’s a lifesaver. “I meant about being by yourself.”

  “No, and I would rather talk about love.”

  Her lips roll together slowly, as if recovering. “Are you in love?”

  Caleb Allan comes to mind with a bolt of emotion. The pit of my stomach feels vast and hollow. My thoughts are loud like the city. The way I think about Caleb is different than with any other man. “I don’t know. Did you know the median age for marriage is twenty-seven for women and twenty-nine for men? I’m going to be twenty-six in three months.”

  “You are.” Her smile wanes. “You’ve come so far. Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”

  “Yes,” I drag out the word. “But we’re talking about love and marriage.” I concentrate. “Am I supposed to get married? If so, I don’t have much time to find someone. I don’t have any guy friends to introduce me to their friends. Charlotte suggests I try online dating.”

  She reaches over and puts her hand on mine. “You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to put yourself out there like that and there’s no pressure for you to get married. Some people never do. You have a great job and you have us. You don’t need more.”

  “What about the online thing?” I repeat myself.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. People pretend to be someone they’re not and you’d have to meet strangers out at restaurants. No, there are better ways.”

  “How do I know if I’ve never tried? I have my social media accounts. I’m friends with 321 people.”

  “How many of those people do you really know?”

  “I know their status. What else matters?” All this talk of dating has goosebumps creeping up my arms. I would like a husband and children and a family of my own. “What if I want to get married?”

  “Maren, please. You have to love someone.”

  This gives me painful pause. I understand love, I’ve just never experienced it. “Which is why I need to date.”

  Mom laughs and puts down her mug. “Let’s switch topics.”

  “Why?”

  “Your sister hasn’t been gone two hours and you’re already planning so much.” The smile is gone from her face. “Someone like you may not find a partner.”

  I get it. I get it more than she knows. Ever since we saw this group of doctors in Baltimore the word Autism has been in my life. The label is a pain-in-my ass. My life would be easier without that extra hoop. Can’t someone invent a medicine to make it go away? Drugs are available for everything else, even toenail fungus. If these doctors are so brilliant, why can’t they come up with something better than group therapy? Maybe I should go to medical school and come up with something better?

  Some concepts are beyond my capacity to understand.

  Autism

  Autism

  Autism

  Go away

  Go away

  Go away

  “I hate the way I am,” I yell with conviction.

  “Say something else,” Mom commands with a quiver. “I don’t want you to leave for work upset.”

  “I’m not upset.” I just feel so much pressure all of a sudden to be in a relationship or maybe I’m afraid I never will be in one. Maybe I want Caleb to like me. Or any man. Why can’t this just happen?

  I leave for work roiling with frustration.

  Unfortunately, Charlotte wants to talk about weddings. She’s sitting at her desk with her company mug of coffee and there’s photos of wedding dresses on her screen. Cathy is hovering next to her, offering encouragement about the d
ress on the far right.

  I set my bag on the chair and peer over her shoulder. The colors of the dresses are pale green and gold. The hues are soft on my eyes. “Are you getting married?” I ask.

  She closes the screen. “No, just dreaming.”

  “My niece is getting married next month,” Cathy says. “She’s having a heck of a time getting the florist to reduce the price on the peonies for the bouquets. Do you know of a local florist?”

  “Who cares about florists?” I say.

  Cathy shakes her head. “I was speaking to Charlotte.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you,” Charlotte says. “I can’t even keep a guy for more than three months.”

  Cathy purses her lips together. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight,” Charlotte says with disdain. “Almost an old maid.”

  “You’re past the national wedding-age average,” I add helpfully.

  Charlotte looks at me sharply. Her eyebrows crinkle. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re behind the curve in terms of what age most women get married.”

  “Those numbers mean nothing,” Cathy chastises. “You ladies have plenty of time.”

  “I have no idea why she stopped by,” Charlotte says, after she’s gone. “She just showed up and started looking at my computer screen.”

  “Why were you looking at those pictures?”

  “Ugh.” Charlotte runs her hand over her face. “My little sister is engaged. Her boyfriend proposed to her last night.”

  “You’re the older sister. Shouldn’t you go first?”

  Exasperated breaths leave her mouth. “Can you not be yourself for one second?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind.” She picks up her coffee mug with force. “I should be getting married. I should have walked down the aisle years ago. Instead, she’s going first. Thanks for pointing out the problem.”

  “No problem.” I like to help.

  “I didn’t mean to yell at you. How are you?”

  I mumble a few expletives and take a seat.

  “What’s up with you?” Charlotte says and moves her chair over to me.

  “I want to get married.”

  She laughs in my ear. “I totally understand your mood now. The universe has a sense of humor.”

  I give her a blank look.

  “Disregard that. Tell me why you’re upset about this marriage thing.”