This Is Not a Love Scene

by S. C. Megale

  I made it to the end of the block before realizing I’d left my phone on the kitchen table. Maybe that wasn’t totally unintentional. I needed a … break. From its noise and its silence. From its vibration and its stillness.

  KC needed more help than I could give. I didn’t think his parents abused him. I thought something else was going on. And I believed him that he had feelings for me … I could even believe he loved me. But something had been bothering me besides my concern for him.

  I like helping you, he’d said. You make things a little better.

  When I was young, I dreaded asking for help. But then one day, in Wegmans, I pointed up and asked this woman to help me reach the Special K. She sprang to attention and said, Absolutely! and then asked if I needed anything else or if she could take it to the register for me. It seemed to make her happy. So I started asking more. I even got to the point where I’d ask strangers in the food court to cut my food. One guy said, “I’d be honored.”

  It’s almost like it gave them something to feel good about. Purpose, I guess. For a little.

  KC was experiencing the same thing with me. And … I did believe he had feelings for me. I did. But could he be glorifying me too? Could he be drowning at home, and I was the pool noodle?

  Was Cole my pool noodle?

  And suddenly I realized that’s basically all life was. Everyone a pool noodle, sinking and thrashing out for another’s noodle to stay afloat. The rainbow of slapping and flailing filled my imagination.

  After looping the neighborhood twice, I retreated home. My brain felt like it was carrying a piano inside it.

  But on my way back, I made sure not to pass the sycamore tree. I took the other way.

  * * *

  Mom was right: not far into the week, frost aged the grass outside. When I showered now, steam clouded our windows.

  Dad had been going to work early every day and Mom had her presentation, otherwise I think they’d have noticed my glumness. François did, at least. He rested his head on my lap and looked up at me with big brown eyes. I petted his smooth fur.

  The only activity on my phone was a call from Quinten. It rang in my palm and for some reason, I just stared at it until voicemail snatched it away. I listened immediately after.

  “Maeve, hey.” Pause. “It’s Quinten.” Pause. My mouth twisted down. For some reason, it sounded like he knew I’d ignored his call. “I saw that article online about you … guess that woman didn’t want to let it go. I told my nephew I was interested in donating and had him look up her schedule on the camp website. They’ve got a holiday dinner tomorrow night, Friday. Press will be there. I can’t come because … you know. The shuttle doesn’t…” His voice wheezed. “Anyway. Might be a chance to correct things with the media. And you still got that recording I gave you.”

  Another long pause.

  “Miss you.”

  He hung up.

  Crazy as it sounds, that whole situation had faded from my priorities. I was busier looking up what to do if you think your friend is suicidal and how to produce beauty and the beast when that got too depressing. I’d finished reading the script last night. I’d sated myself by envisioning how I’d direct it and strategizing my words to Mr. Billings to convince him to help me produce it.

  I imagined the text I’d send Cole asking him to reprise his community-renowned role.

  All an effort to work with him more. To elongate our guaranteed time together because I didn’t trust him enough to give me that time without it.

  Maybe I was drowning my pool noodle.

  The project at least gave me nourishment enough to avoid texting him for real, to give him space, to act like I was not thinking about him every moment of every day.

  I’m not stupid enough to have thought there wasn’t a reason he was avoiding me. Yes, his pattern had always been … inconsistent at best. But after what happened beneath the sycamore, silence meant something. He didn’t enjoy himself. He didn’t realize how bad my handicap was. I said something. He regretted all of it.

  And since there was nothing I could do to help KC, no more class video to edit, and nothing to plot against Wheelchair Charity Woman besides simply turning up at that dinner tomorrow, all I could work on was this idea.

  Producing Together

  Roman,

  Sorry to email you at your personal address. I wanted to thank you again for the sick stabilizer you gave me and for talking with me in your office.

  I also want to ask you something.

  Do you remember that Beauty and the Beast poster you showed me? From when you produced it on Broadway?

  I paused.

  Before I could finish and hit send, Dad appeared in front of me. I jumped. “Dad. Home early!” I hadn’t even heard him come in. He still wore his ID tag and blue collared shirt.

  “Yep, ’cause guess what?” said Dad.

  “What?”

  “We’re going Christmas tree shopping.”

  “Right now?” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Get in the car immediately.”

  I laughed. “Daaaaad…”

  “Tough shit, it’s Christmas. Let’s go.”

  So we did. Dad, Mom, and I browsed through the garden section at Lowe’s. Carols echoed from inside the store and gloved personnel hauled Douglas firs through orange netting. While all the other garland in our house had matriculated to artificial, the live tree was sort of our last hurrah. I liked it, but every year here I imagined my future. I daydreamed of having my husband go to the farm with me and actually cut one down. When we had kids, I’d tell them, “Daddy will chop whatever one you choose.” And then Mommy would try really hard not to blatantly rrrmph with lust while he did.

  And damn me, it was easy to see Cole there. It was easy to see his strong hand grasp a tree while an axe hung in the other. It was easy to see him pleased that he knew I was watching. I could imagine his knowing, arrogant half smile. I bet his equally large and equally bearded dad did the same for his wife. I bet masculinity was a virtue in their family.

  Picking a tree out at Lowe’s was nice, but sadder since they all leaned together in a pile, no roots, already dripping needles. It was the screenwriter in me, but I’d always had this thing where I felt badly for inanimate objects. It was easy to imagine Christmas trees having feelings. It was easy to imagine they were sad when they weren’t picked.

  When Mom narrowed the choices down to two, Dad picked one, and I, before it was taken away, always snapped a twig off the discarded one. Sometimes I even whispered something to it.

  I knew what it was like to not be picked.

  The aroma of Christmas filled the van on the drive back, and Mom raved over the festive lights lining downtown Fredericksburg as the sun turned the sky the color of sweet potatoes. I suppose a little warmth filled me. Something was charming about Christmas in the almost-South.

  The emotional shield of that warmth and the colors of the domestic fantasies in my head were enough to push my patience over the limit.

  Mom and Dad argued in the next room about the straightness of the tree in its stand, Dad on his stomach on the floor trying to screw it upright. When I got to my bedroom, I texted Cole.

  Not five seconds later, he replied.

  A zap of annoyance hit me. So he’d been glued to his phone as much as always, but just never replied to me before now.

  My heart stilled. Something cold slid through my veins.

  I blinked. If I let it go, he’d probably slip under and disappear again, until, maybe, he spontaneously craved sex.

  Last chance. No turning back now. I hesitated. And swallowed.

  25

  The dry erase board squeaked as my honors English teacher wrote homophones with a faded green marker the next day. Everyone took notes. I stared at my phone under the desk.

  As quickly as Cole had replied, he disappeared quicker when I asked that last question. How do you really feel about me? No matter how many times
I scrolled up and down with my thumb, it didn’t make a message from him appear.

  My shoulders felt too heavy to lift; my head too weak to look up at the board.

  One of the students scratching notes several desks to my left was Nate. This was the only other class we had together. He never talked to me in it. But I tried harder not to look upset in front of him. I clicked my phone to sleep and caught his glance from across the room.

  “All right,” said the teacher. “Take five and group up when you get back.”

  Chairs rumbled out and backpacks swung onto shoulders. Half of us stayed seated while the other half cut for the door for the break. Nate coursed right by me and into the hall.

  I texted Mags.

  I must have been feeling pretty grammarly with the text punctuation since I was in English.

  I sighed and almost shook my head. I didn’t mind Mags telling someone, but it disappointed me that she thought Nate would care. It probably just reinforced his belief that my love life was artificial.

  Half my mouth perked up.

  Students began pouring back in. Five minutes goes fast. The teacher passed out papers and asked us all to read and compare thoughts. It was two pages: a personal essay written by a college student ten years ago.

  He wrote about how he fell in love with some girl in Colorado on his Mormon mission, and when he returned home, his best friend revealed her romantic feelings for him too. Irony! He rejected her and told her about this other girl (like, immediately), said that’s why he just had to chase his heart. Then he waltzed into all these philosophical feelings like he was fucking Oprah narrating a documentary about space and how that year changed him and then how all of it didn’t matter after his father died, and I didn’t even feel bad for him. I just hated this guy.

  “What did you all think?” said the teacher. A few students said it was heartfelt. Powerful. Well-written.

  I raised my hand.

  “Maeve.” The teacher nodded.

  “I think this guy was a dick.”

  The class laughed. My face was straight.

  “Okay.” The teacher chuckled. “Interesting. Tell us why.”

  “He rejected his best friend without giving a damn about her.”

  “Hold on a second…” I cringed at the sound of that drawn-out, placating voice. Nate leaned forward over his desk to look at me. “Just because someone rejects you doesn’t make them a dick.”

  Heat flushed me. “Yeah, okay, but he immediately vomited all these feelings on her that he had for the other woman. Like he’s telling her how amazing the other woman is.”

  Some of the female classmates made sounds of agreement.

  “That’s what adults should be able to do,” said Nate. “Or they could lie to you and leave out that you just never gave them a boner.”

  “Nate,” the teacher warned.

  Redder. My voice wobbled. I had to raise it as the class was getting louder. “Which is exactly why men have the reputation of caring more about that boner than their literal best friend standing right in front of them.”

  “Standing or sitting?” said Nate an octave lower.

  My phone slipped in the sweat of my hand. Chatter supporting Nate and some supporting me crowded the room, and it seemed to have missed the significance of that last remark. The teacher hadn’t heard either. His eyes lingered at the clock behind us. He looked a little tense.

  “I think we’ll end class there. Final essays due next week! Last day!”

  The students were still talking, laughter interspersed, as they rose to leave. My breath was quick. I couldn’t help sneaking one last look at Nate.

  He was watching me, yes. But it wasn’t with total malice. Just sharp focus. Almost like he really was trying to figure out what my situation was, and what made me tick—what got to me beneath the obvious.

  Or maybe he was just being a dick.

  * * *

  “Hey,” said Dad. “You sure you feel up to this? You look a little…” He tilted his head.

  “I’m fine,” I lied to Dad. But in a way, I never really lie to Dad. Dad always knows when I’m lying and I always know when he’s lying and we let each other lie to each other sometimes.

  He’d picked me up right after school, and I asked to be driven to this fundraising dinner Wheelchair Charity Woman was putting on—unsurprisingly lamely early at 4:30 p.m.

  Dad winced closing the wheelchair ramp into the van, as always. François was in the back seat, dressed for work, and sneezed upon seeing me. I stuffed my school papers into the back seat’s pocket, and a moment later we took off.

  After a few miles on the highway, we thundered down a gravel road and a large, cabinlike building appeared with green roofs and wooden verandahs all the way around. Ramps affixed to them, of course. Brown paper bags were alight with fake candles in the parking lot, and Dad raised one eyebrow in the rearview mirror. Handicapped children were being lowered from mechanical lifts, and with enormous grins, others wheeled their way to the ramps. Two white satellite vans were parked in the corner.

  “Uh…” said Dad.

  He knew this looked like the last place in the world I’d want to be.

  “I told them I’d read to the kids this summer with François,” I said. “This is like an orientation dinner.”

  “Oh,” said Dad. “That’s nice.”

  He veered into a parking space and let me outside. Handed me François’ leash. “Text me when you’re ready to come home.” I saluted him.

  The planks thudded like bongo drums as I rolled up the ramp and onto the verandah. I could see a pasture with horses behind it, the grass gold and copper like a riverbed. I admit the air was fresh and sweet.

  Like traffic at the Holland Tunnel, I had to let a few other wheelchairs motor inside ahead of me. All of the children were under eighteen, and they practically squealed with delight to be going inside. A few others were quieter, shier maybe, rather than actually speech impaired. It was hard not to compare how healthy, unhealthy, thin, heavy, straight, twisted they were next to me. It was hard not to envy the ones who pushed large, manual wheels that might be temporary and looked just a little less cyborg, and cringe at the motorized ones who were in the club of permanence like me.

  François wagged his tail equally for each of them.

  Finally, I made it inside.

  Vinyl tablecloths covered a dozen round tables. A buffet of Italian food with white plastic silverware was at the wall. Christmas, Hanukkah, and all the politically correct assortment of holiday decals hung from the ceiling like a giant mobile. A small empty stage was on the left side of the room, and two really bored-looking reporters played on their phones on the opposite side. My instinct was to go to them—the normal people. Maybe even a cute intern. But I had a mission here. I had to find Wheelchair Charity Woman.

  How? I sighed. There were campers and helpers everywhere, getting food, talking. Unfortunately, I probably blended in.

  Then someone tapped a microphone. The audio screeched and a few people oophed.

  “Soooorry!” said an overenthusiastic New York accent. There she was. On the stage. I watched. Everyone chuckled politely.

  “Welcome, everyone! My name is Patricia Weinhart, and I’m the CFO and head counselor here at Caring Hands Camp!”

  Applause.

  “I know we have the same food every year for our holiday dinner, but the kids just love pizza!” A few more laughs. I rolled my eyes. Jesus.

  Then I glanced around and saw the kids nodding and playing with the stringy mozzarella and realized she was kinda right. François was still wagging his tail at them. When one clump of cheese splatted onto the floor, François tugged for it.

  “Hey,” I said, pulling him back.

  He looked at me with big eyes but obeyed.

  “I’d like you all to please watch this short video put together by our PR team,” Patricia continued.

  The lights dimmed. This oughta be good. I just hoped she hadn’t hired One Take Blake for i
t or something.

  Then I cocked my head in alarm. Real tears, real emotion clouded Patricia’s voice. “This is the story of my beautiful niece. My favorite little angel, Ginger T. Duke, who passed away three years ago this evening. I started this camp in honor of her.” She stepped aside and clapped high in the air as others joined.

  I shut up.

  Ginger T. Duke. Why did that sound so familiar?

  And suddenly the memorial sign with her name on it on a door in Dr. Clayton’s office came back to me. A shiver ran down my back.

  The short movie was just a slide of photographs of a sweet little girl with some form of muscular dystrophy. Coldplay music served a heart-tugging backdrop. Years passed in the slideshow, and the little girl got older to country music. She was deteriorating gradually, and soon shackled up in tubes.

  The older she got, the more my blood slowed.

  The older she got, the more—in an uncanny, doppelgänger-type way—she looked like me. Her wheelchair was even the same shade of dark red.

  Was this why Patricia wanted my photo so badly on her website?

  I watched as the tears streamed down her cheeks, but she smiled at the photos. Could I really have reminded her of someone she loved that deeply? It was a weird way of taking her grief out on me, but what if the grief was real?

  When the video was over, the lights flickered back on. Tissues dabbed eyes. My heart beat a little quicker. I thought and stared for a long time.

  Wheelchair Charity Woman retook the mic. “Thank you, everyone. So please, sit down, relax, and later we’ll have some fun announcements for this year’s camp and even a few special campers interviewed on Facebook Live!”

  Patricia waved her hand and hopped off stage.