Sorry Not Sorry

by Jaime Reed

  The silence that followed was misleading. There was no peace in it—just a prelude to a boatload of grief. It felt similar to when I’d stub my toe on the bedpost in my room. There was that quiet, that split-second delay before the pain hit. I’d clench my teeth, shut my eyes, and brace for impact, because it was gonna hurt! Nerve endings I never knew existed were put on notice. It would seem that Alyssa was the pinkie toe of my life right now, and all I could do was sit still until the sting died down.

  I wasn’t the only one trapped in temporary paralysis. The whole council, heck, the whole county knew the situation. Now, hearing the specifics from a reputable source brought it home for us. And I was already in a bad mood.

  “Does she have a kidney disorder?” Sera asked, breaking the silence. The group gawked at Sera and her oddly precise diagnosis. “What? I watch Grey’s Anatomy.”

  Ryon nodded. “They said it’s common for people with diabetes. It’s one of the leading causes of kidney failure.”

  “Wait, she’s diabetic?” Sera’s stare volleyed from me to her brother, realization flashing in her eyes with each pass. “Janelle, you knew about this? Is that why you freaked out at the park? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  I really, really hated being put on the spot, and as much as I loved Sera, she picked the wrong time to come at me sideways. “First, I didn’t know her health had gotten that bad. Second, why would I tell you? Are you a doctor? Do you specialize in checking glucose, electrolyte, and potassium levels? Yes, I also watch Grey’s Anatomy. Third, it’s no one’s business but her family’s, and I don’t know why you felt the need to have this bootleg press conference explaining all of this, Ryon.” My attention shifted to our president. “Not one of these kids are paying her doctor bills or sitting at her bedside. All they’re gonna do is pile up her inbox and make it all about them.”

  “Thank you for that constructive feedback, Janelle,” Ryon replied tightly. “You raise a good point about finances. I’ve opened a crowdfunding account for anyone who wants to contribute to Alyssa’s medical bills and show support. Also, T-shirts that Alyssa designed for Active Beauty will be sold in the cafeteria. The proceeds will go to her and her family.”

  “Those shirts were made for the disaster relief project!” Clearly still in her feelings, Sera waved her arms in a fit and raved, “Does everything have to be about her?”

  “Sera, I don’t know if you left it at home or in your locker, but you need to find your chill or borrow one from the group.” Devon Shapiro spoke up. “Alyssa is unconscious, poisoned by her own body. Her kidneys stopped working. Chemicals that are supposed to come out through your pee are polluting her bloodstream. Think about that next time you get up to take a leak.”

  The room fell quiet, and Sera slumped in the chair next to me, properly chastised. Looking annoyed by the curious eyes on him, Devon explained, “My grandma had diabetes. Same thing happened to her. She stayed on dialysis for years until she died.”

  That didn’t help with the silence in the room, nor did it help with the mental horror show that had been playing in my head all weekend. But at least now we had a bit more perspective. This wasn’t about some web series or a cleanup effort. This was a life, one that was currently in danger.

  “So where do we go as far as the cleanup campaign?” Tabatha asked.

  “We keep going,” Ryon said with conviction that had been missing all through the meeting. “There are still people who need help. The park still needs repairs, more benches and fences to repaint. We need to focus more on what we can fix than what we can’t.”

  When the meeting adjourned, I walked a tightrope of frayed nerves. Everyone was scared to do anything without the class vice president at the helm. Needless to say, nothing productive got accomplished.

  “Janelle, hang back for a sec,” Ryon called after me.

  I gathered my books and strolled toward the podium. “What’s up?”

  He kept his stare trained on the door. “I wanted to tell you away from the others since you know more about the situation. I’ve been at the hospital the past three days. The doctors said she has twelve percent kidney function and the damage is permanent. It’s only a matter of time before they stop working completely. They’ve put her on dialysis to flush out the toxins.”

  There went that banged-up toe again, along with a pain so raw that I couldn’t move. Only this pain lodged in my chest.

  “People live on dialysis all the time,” I said, trying to think rationally. “They can live for years.” I knew Alyssa didn’t keep the strictest diet, but she’d been fine before. She was always fine. She’d get through this, too.

  He scoffed. “Barely. Dialysis does maybe a fourth of what a real kidney does. It’s meant to keep you alive until you can get a transplant. Thousands of people die waiting for one. Look what happened to Devon’s grandma.” A head shake and a shudder followed his response. “That’s not gonna happen to her.”

  Was he saying what I thought he was saying? I had to ease back a step or else tip over from shock. “You’re gonna donate a kidney?”

  “Can’t. I won’t be eighteen until February. But I’d be lying if I said that it hasn’t crossed my mind this week.”

  “Why can’t her parents do it? I’m sure her mom would go for it.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “I’m just thinking ahead, that’s all. Been thinking a lot these past few days.”

  “I can tell. When was the last time you slept?”

  His brows puckered as he strained to recall. “Three days ago.”

  I thought so. “You should go home and get some sleep.”

  “And you should visit her,” he replied.

  I bristled. “What?”

  “You should visit her. I’m gonna head back there at lunch. Feel free to tag along.”

  And do what exactly? Even if she was awake and in a talkative mood, what would I say to her? Keeping my distance seemed the better option. “Nah, that’s okay.”

  He dipped his head until our eyes met. “Have you even gone to see her?”

  “No.” I couldn’t get out of bed all weekend, much less operate a vehicle. Quiet as it’s kept; I wasn’t ready to see her yet.

  He searched my face with narrowed eyes. “Trust me, it’s gonna eat at you until you go and see her for yourself. You guys used to be friends—”

  “Yeah, used to be, but that was a long time ago,” I was quick to let him know.

  “Not according to Alyssa,” he countered. “I’ve been in her room, Janelle. That’s all I’m gonna say on that. Anyway, I can tell that you’re just as upset as I am. Whatever feud you two have, you might wanna set it aside and focus on the bigger picture. Life is too short to be bitter and too long to have regret.”

  He scooped up his wilderness backpack and quit the room, leaving me to swallow a big ol’ slice of humble pie. It would take a gallon of water to wash that down, but all I had available was one salty tear.

  Mateo had to take a make-up quiz, so I wasn’t in a rush to get home after school. More important things weighed on my mind and had me driving on autopilot. Impulse turned the steering wheel, fluency pressed and released the gas pedal, and habit brought me to the driveway of what I once claimed as a second home. Mrs. Weaver’s traffic-cone-orange Camaro was parked in the driveway, so I’d come at a good time.

  Feeling every bit the prodigal child, I dragged my feet to the door, then rang the bell. While waiting, I considered the house that held so many memories. It was a brick one-level rancher with flower beds wrapping the property. I remembered Alyssa’s room sat at the rear and boasted a scenic view of the cracked patio floor where grass, bikes, and old toys went to die.

  “Janelle Lynn, is that you?” a soft voice with a Dixie twang called from the door.

  I turned and met the same hazel eyes as Alyssa, but edged with crow’s feet and thick black eyeliner. “Mrs. Weaver?”

  The small woman stepped around the door in a cloud of fried blond hair and copious perfume. She was once a
true redhead (unlike Alyssa, who had just a tint) with bony arms covered in freckles. Though she was still pretty, her age had begun to show, likely due to worry and her fondness for tanning beds. Her long, hot-pink nails tapped the door frame by her head.

  “C’mere. It’s good to see ya, hon.” She pulled me in for a hug, her bracelets jingling as she patted my back. Then she stepped back and appraised the merchandise. “Take a look at ya. You’ve gotten so big. Sproutin’ up like a beanpole. Fillin’ out in all the right places.”

  I was too dark to blush, but my cheeks burned. Alyssa’s mom was a trip. Aside from being an undercover pack rat, she was what kids in our neighborhood classified as the cool mom. No topic was off-limits, and going by the stories she’d tell about her wild rocker days, she’d seen it all.

  “What brings you here, Janelle? I figured you’d go to the hospital.” She motioned me inside.

  “I just came by to …” The words died in my mouth on sight of the living room. The place was spotless, and I could actually see the floor. The trash had been sorted and lined in rows by the patio door. Either Mrs. Weaver had overcome her bag lady habit or they were about to move.

  I hid my shock with a grin. “The place looks great.”

  “Yeah, things got tight and I did a huge overhaul before the storm. Had to sell a few things, too. My weddin’ ring and her daddy’s old albums went for a pretty penny on eBay—God rest him.” She made a quick sign of the cross with her hands.

  The answer had me choking on air and spit. “Omigod! Alyssa’s dad died?”

  “Oh, no, hon. He’s alive and well. He’s at the hospital now watchin’ over Lyssa while I grab a shower and make a few phone calls. But a girl can dream, right?” She winked. “You want somethin’ to drink?”

  “Uh … Sure.” I wasn’t gonna touch that hornet’s nest of a topic, so I followed her into the kitchen and listened to that familiar click-clack of high heels on linoleum tile. Tapping nails, jingling bracelets, clicking teeth, popping gum—the woman was a living, breathing sound effect.

  I let my gaze wander around the living and dining room. Bills—medical bills, given the cross-and-snake emblem on the letterhead—were piled in several stacks on the table and organized by priority. The clean house, the pawned valuables, the surplus of pill bottles, and the blood pressure cuff sitting on the kitchen counter—all of it pointed to dire circumstances.

  The whole scene was one big question mark, and Ryon’s words this morning had me looking for meaning in every square inch of space. That was my real purpose for being here. He mentioned Alyssa’s room as if it held evidence of a crime I didn’t commit or told a secret that I should already know.

  “So, how you been, Miss Janelle? Been givin’ your grandma a hard time?” Mrs. Weaver asked, then poured me a glass of apple juice.

  I guffawed. “It’s more the other way around.”

  “Oh, I believe it. That woman used to catch me kissin’ boys behind First Baptist and whooped my tail worse than my own mama did.” She chuckled and handed me the glass.

  Her story had me doing long division in my head to figure out Grandma Trina’s real age. If Mrs. Weaver was young enough to catch a grandma beatdown, and she was in her forties now, then carry the one …

  “Alyssa don’t mention you much.” Her voice brought me back on track. “I was wonderin’ why you didn’t come ’round no more. Figured you two had a fallin’ out.”

  “Something like that. But we’re in student government and we see each other all the time.” More than we want to, I thought as I sipped my juice.

  “Figured that’s what it was. Don’t let it get to you. I’d had girlfriends on and off for years. One minute, you can’t stand ’em; the next minute, you’re inseparable. Happens all the time.”

  It was a bit more complicated than that, but I let the woman enjoy her fantasy.

  “You’ve always been a good friend to my Lyssa, unlike them other gals she brings ’round now. I swear, them gals plain ol’ high sidity. If their noses was any higher, they’d be sniffin’ cloud water.”

  So she’d met the Borg? Fascinating.

  “So how’s Alyssa? I, um, heard she’s on dialysis,” I asked, waiting for her to debunk the rumors and erase the past week with a playful laugh that echoed around the walls.

  Instead, she said, “She’s still in a coma, but she’s stable now. They did surgery to implant the tube in her to better fit the machine.” Eyes closed, Mrs. Weaver rubbed her forehead in small circles. “My baby’ll probably be on that thing for the rest of her life. I hear each treatment wipes you out for days, then you gotta go back and do it again. She’ll have to work around school or learn from home.”

  I couldn’t imagine being strapped to a machine every week and walking around with tubes sticking out of my stomach. But having to leave school, too? “Is it that bad?” I asked.

  The woman’s expression told me it was. I knew that look: the glassy eyes, the far-off stare as the mind drifted to somewhere dark and hollow. If my own grief was a stubbed toe, then Mrs. Weaver’s was a full leg amputation, and I felt like complete trash for pointing out her limp.

  I set down my empty glass, then motioned toward the hallway behind me. “Um, I let Alyssa borrow a book for class. Is it okay if I get it from her room?”

  Shaking off her daze, Mrs. Weaver cleared her throat and stood up straight.

  “Yeah, go ahead back there. I doubt she’d mind. You remember the way, don’t ya?” she teased.

  “I’m sure it’ll come back to me.” I smiled, then left the room.

  Drenched in beige, lilac, and a party store’s worth of glitter, Alyssa’s command center looked like someplace a child pageant winner would live. Frilly pillows galore, cushy footstools and chairs, clothes and beauty products strewn everywhere. A humongous dressing room vanity with light bulbs framed the mirror. For a girly girl, Alyssa had always hated pink. Abhorred pink. Reviled pink. She said it reminded her of uncooked flesh, which had turned me off the color since.

  While snooping for some elusive smoking gun, my attention moved to the items cluttering her dresser. Beyond the costume jewelry and nail polish sat rows of orange prescription bottles. A thin pamphlet wedged between the pill bottles caught my eye. It was a brochure for a place called the Atlantic Wellness Center, over in Arlington. The cover showed a photo collage of smiling people and a doctor in a white coat holding a red, love-shaped heart in his hand.

  ORGAN DONATION

  THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON TICKING

  Was Alyssa already looking into organ transplants? How long had she known she’d need one? The creases in the brochure implied that it had been folded and refolded, considered then reconsidered a number of times.

  I backed away from the dresser and took a wide, all-inclusive pan around the room. Then I saw it, the big clue Ryon had hinted about. Only it wasn’t one thing.

  Every item in the room told a story. The band poster on the wall was from our first concert without our parents. That hubcap on her bookshelf came off my car when I first learned how to drive. Alyssa had rescued it from a ditch and painted it with gold glitter. Not even bleach could remove that orange stain on the carpet in front of her TV (where I threw up after eating three bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos on a dare). I’d outgrown the cable-knit sweater balled up at the top of her closet that she borrowed and never gave back. The same went for the board games peeking from under her bed.

  No wonder Ryon was spooked by Alyssa’s room. The place was a historic landmark; a tourist attraction made famous by its own destruction. This was the Titanic, the mummified ruins of Pompeii—locked in time and too fragile to disturb. Ghosts haunted these grounds as well, sucking me back in time to where Alyssa and I talked alike, dressed alike, and shared everything. The enchantment lasted a few seconds before I remembered who we were now and what we weren’t anymore. And with that, it was time to go.

  Mrs. Weaver sat on the living room couch, staring into space with the phone to her ear. One of the medical p
apers I’d spotted in the kitchen dangled between her fingers. Her veiny legs crossed at the knee and bounced in the nervous staccato of someone who’d been placed on hold for too long.

  She saw me headed for the door and asked, “You leaving already, hon?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got tons of homework. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Okay. Make sure you come back and see us now, stranger.” She shot a finger gun at me.

  Instead of telling an outright lie, I fired off a finger gun of my own and then stepped out of the house.

  In the quiet of my car, in the void of open road ahead of me, Mrs. Weaver’s words floated between my ears. You’ve always been a good friend to my Lyssa.

  The jury was still out on that one. But the question remained: Was I a good one now? Good friends visited each other in the hospital. Friends cheered each other up when one was sick or upset. Friends set hurt feelings aside and showed support.

  That was the problem. My feelings for Alyssa were a tray of paper clips—you could never just pull one out. Other emotions latched on and dangled from the loops: love, confusion, sympathy, resentment. Much like her room, that tangled mess was locked in time and too fragile to disturb. I thought it best to leave the paper clips chained just as they were—or else risk upending the tray completely.

  I was about seven when I first heard the word dialysis. My family and I were in the airport and I saw an old guy sitting at the food court. His protruding gut sat on his lap. Sticking out from the potbelly was a clear tube like the kind you’d see attached to a flotation device.

  I remembered the man constantly patting the bandage around the tube to make sure it stayed in place. The black box by his foot looked like no suitcase I’d ever seen.

  I’d tugged my mom’s sleeve and asked her if he was a terrorist with a bomb.