This Is Not a Love Scene

by S. C. Megale

No matter how long she looked at us, she did not speak.

  “Are you … Mrs. Douglas?” said Elliot.

  “Where’s KC?” Mags blurted.

  KC’s mom, I assumed, blinked. There was a pause. “You’re Maeve, aren’t you?” she said, looking at me. “KC talks about you all the time.”

  My stomach bunched over itself.

  KC’s mom pursed her lips and touched her forehead, distressed. “I’m sorry I can’t get you in here, but you’re not missing much. It’s…” She looked over her shoulder and into the house. “… Crowded.”

  I craned to see inside, but I couldn’t even find the stairs to the second floor. A huge felt kitty playground was stuffed upside down over the staircase rail. I knew for a fact KC didn’t have a cat—he was allergic to Mags’.

  “Ma’am,” said Elliot calmly. “We called the police because your son left a suicide note online. Can I come in? We’re from his film class.”

  “It was you who called the police?” She reddened.

  “You mean you know?” I said. My voice was shrill, and in an attempt to get closer, I bumped a wheel into the concrete front step.

  “They were here just a little bit ago, but I … I turned them away.”

  “He’s trying to kill himself, dude!” I cried. “Call them back!”

  “He’s just upstairs, though,” said Mrs. Douglas. “How about I ask him to come out? I’ll be right back.”

  She closed the door before I could reply, and I heard trash tumble over and shuffle aside as, I assumed, she climbed the staircase.

  “Yo.” Elliot jogged over to KC’s window and looked up. “KC! Open up, bro!”

  Nothing.

  “KC!” Elliot yelled.

  A minute later, KC’s mom opened the door again. That pungent musty odor wafted out.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “He said he can’t come out right now.”

  “You need to get him out of that room,” I said. “Please. I’ll call the police again.”

  “Police can’t come here no more.” A deep, croaky voice startled us, and KC’s father—or maybe it was his uncle or grandfather, I couldn’t tell—appeared at the doorway. He was thin and lanky. Loose skin, colorless hair. His accent was deeper South than Fredericksburg could foster. “Can’t even come for a break-in. It’s right poison for their boys tryin’ get in here.”

  “This is life and death for your son,” I said.

  “The boy’s fine. I already sent the police on home. How would they even get in?” said Mr. Douglas, peering around at the clutter at the stairway. “Look, it’s good of yeh kids to come on by. I’ll go up and talk to my boy. But he ain’t gotta come out if he don’t wanna. Yeh hear?”

  “You’ll talk to him?” said Elliot.

  “Yessir, I’ll give him a talkin’ to.”

  “I don’t care if they need to bring a crane and lift your roof,” I said. “I’m calling the police again for KC.”

  “Do that, and he’ll get a real talkin’ to,” spat Mr. Douglas. “An’ more’n that.” He flexed a fist at his side. I quieted. Elliot and I shared a dark look.

  If we called the police again and made them enter, there’d be a lot of trouble for Mr. Douglas. They’d pick up on this hellish living condition, and probably myriad other abuses. But what KC was hesitating on doing, this man might do to him for real if we called his bluff.

  Heat flared into my cheeks. “Fine,” I said. “But we’re staying right here until he comes out.”

  “You’re what now?”

  “I’m staying here,” I amended, excluding Mags and Elliot. “Tell him Maeve is staying right here, outside, for as long as it takes for him to come out. If I need to wait for his body to come out in a stretcher, I will, and be dead myself, then.”

  “Gon’ be cold tonight,” said Mr. Douglas.

  Elliot grasped a handle of my chair. “Tell him we came,” he said.

  “All of us,” said Mags.

  Mr. Douglas’ jaw went a little slack. He scanned all three of us. Then he shrugged. “I’ll tell ’im.”

  “Will you be all right?” said KC’s mom. “I’m sorry you can’t come in. I just—”

  “C’mon, Beth.” Mr. Douglas tried to close the door.

  “We know you care about him, we just—”

  “Let’s go.” Mr. Douglas closed the door.

  Almost at the same time, the automatic streetlights on the driveway illuminated. I realized that my eyes had begun to see spots and shadows. Dusk covered us.

  Mags fired a text to KC, relaying the message we all didn’t trust his father to give.

  When she lowered the phone, the blue light of the screen illuminating her face, we all looked at one another. Snow began to fall.

  * * *

  “We need to get you home.” Elliot’s frozen hand touched my shoulder. François whined in the pickup. I fluttered my eyes open. It had been two hours of my sit-out, and every blanket Mom had given me piled over my lap. Still, I could not curl my fingers. They atrophied with the cold; they stuck at the joints.

  “She’s an adult,” said Mags. “She can stay if she wants to, Elliot.”

  “No.” Elliot’s hands balled into fists. “It’s time. I’m not letting her get sick on my watch.”

  Mags sobered at that comment. She sat on the ground with her knees drawn up. Her breath puffed clouds. Occasionally, she checked her phone for KC’s reply to her pleading messages.

  We knew he was alive, because he did respond to Mags’ texts occasionally. He responded, I need to die. And, Go away. And, I’m sorry.

  I tried texting him too. I told him I knew now. I understood now. I knew why he was the sad boy, the angry boy. I’m sorry. Please talk to me.

  He would only reply to Mags, but for some reason, in my head, I imagined him staring longer at my messages and crying at them harder. Maybe I was self-absorbed. Or maybe I just loved him and knew that he knew that. I loved him so much.

  We’d done everything we could think of in those two hours.

  We tried climbing up to KC’s window. I’d parked my chair against the side of the house and Elliot scaled onto the back of me. Even with Mags on Elliot’s shoulders on attempt number three, we fell at least two feet short of making it.

  Once we’d found ground again and sighed, Elliot insisted I at least huddle in his car for warmth. Before I could say no, before I could tell him that KC needed to be able to see me right here, through his window, Elliot cursed.

  We’d found his car battery dead. The interior lights had been left on when Mags neglected to close the passenger door.

  That was Elliot’s last straw. Now, the wind picked up. “I just called you a handicapped cab, Maeve, and he’s going to give my truck a jump,” said Elliot.

  “I’m not leaving,” I said, but fifteen minutes later, the red-and-white-checkered van popped gravel as it rolled up in the driveway. A lift was installed at its rear. “Mags,” I said, “tell Elliot I’m not leaving.”

  But Mags looked at me with pursed lips as she held her torso. “I think he’s right, Maeve. I’m sorry.”

  “Mags,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  “No.” No what?

  The taxi driver pressed a button on the car door and unfolded the mechanical lift, which was more high-tech than my manual ramp. I looked back up at KC’s window as Elliot passed the cabbie some money and indicated his truck with jumper cables. Snow dusted his windshield.

  Within minutes, both engines were vrooming. Elliot twisted the key and his truck roared to life. Mags hopped in the passenger side to get a lift back to her car at the school, and Elliot rolled down the window.

  “You know I don’t live too far, Maeve. I’ll check on KC in the morning. I promise,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do for him out here.”

  His face saddened when I didn’t reply. I only prodded my joystick and entered the back of the cab.

  Slowly Elliot and Mags drove off as the cabbie cranked metal hooks an
d locks to my wheels. Heat blew into the van and a tip calculator screen faced me from the back of the chair ahead. The cabbie reeled out more buckles to drape over me every which way, and I felt like a prisoner, like someone no one trusted with her own life. Tonight, though, I was grateful for its delay. It gave enough time for Elliot and Mags to leave.

  After ten minutes of securing me, the cabbie finally leapt into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

  “Where to?” she said.

  I paused.

  “Ma’am?” said the cabbie.

  “Let me out,” I said.

  She blinked in the rearview mirror. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  The cabbie scoffed. “Seriously? I just finished securing you.”

  “Let me out,” I said.

  I didn’t need to be secured.

  * * *

  So I sat on the lawn outside KC’s front window alone. I texted him that I would not leave until he came out.

  The hours went on. The cold seeped into my lungs with every breath. My body fought back. My body offended the chill with a heat of its own.

  François whined at my wheels. Soon, no cars could be heard driving down the street. The night pushed past 11:00 p.m., and the temperature dipped further. I dozed in and out. But the heat of my body spiked. It felt like chalk was in my throat.

  By midnight, my phone rang an endless vibration. I let it. It stabbed me a little inside, but this was something I had to do. Mom and Dad had to know this.

  I’d texted Dad.

  I lied, and Dad knew I was lying, but this time he didn’t let me.

  And ten minutes later:

  I closed my eyes when I hit ignore on Dad’s fifth phone call. Dad didn’t know where KC lived. He didn’t know where to find me, but I’m sure he was downloading every GPS tracker app he could now.

  When next the phone rang, its light blurred my vision, but I realized with a little tinge of fear that I could no longer feel its buzz.

  I hitched in breath and lost consciousness.

  The next time a sudden hand shook me, I must not have woken up.

  “Oh my God.” That was Elliot’s voice. How did he get back here? “Maeve.”

  François was barking. It was an odd, clumpy warble I didn’t often hear. He’s supposed to be quiet. I opened my eyes. Chills rolled down me. When I took in breath, it was garbled with mucus.

  “What’s going on?” said Mags. It sort of echoed.

  “She’s burning up,” Elliot breathed. “Her dad called me and said she didn’t come home.”

  “Same,” said Mags. Her voice was swollen as if her hands were over her mouth in fear.

  “No,” I said. And then I jerked in a reflex inhale because for some reason it felt like I was breathing through a brown paper bag. “No,” I repeated, but my throat was swollen in phlegm. KC needed me. I was strong enough for this. I’d been careful; I’d trained my lungs.

  “What did she say?” said Mags.

  “I can’t understand her,” said Elliot. “I’m calling nine-one-one.” He swung my phone up to his ear. How did he get it? How did I let it slip away?

  “No,” I tried to repeat, but the streetlights started to swirl. I couldn’t push the air into my lungs. They felt chunky and stuffed. Hot mucus strangled me.

  That was when I realized I couldn’t breathe.

  “I can’t breathe,” I said matter-of-factly. But I didn’t think they heard. “I can’t—”

  “She can’t breathe,” Elliot translated.

  “Dammit, Maeve!” Mags finally broke down.

  “Fuck.” Elliot wiped a hand down his mouth as he called the paramedics. François buried his fur into me. “I should have watched her go. I should have…” Did Elliot actually sob? “What did we do?”

  I took short, dizzying breaths, but my lungs ached like they were punching bags.

  Even when Dad arrived. Even when he was cursing and his headlights were blinding my eyes and the ambulance following him was twirling lights in my head, I was saying the same thing.

  “No.”

  29

  I will hurt you.

  I know I will hurt you. And I will be taken from you. But I love you. I hope that counted for something.

  When I was fourteen, after reading an article about my disease and its usual progression, I left this note, followed by a handwritten will, under a loose tile behind the never-used cappuccino maker in our house. I didn’t tell anyone. I thought I had more time to decide who to trust with that information. But it could be too late.

  They might need it now. They might.

  I heard beeping.

  I can’t breathe.

  I felt tubes.

  It hurts.

  I didn’t have time to be afraid: isn’t that always how everyone wants to die? Some people jump into death and others sink. I always wanted to jump. Now I was sinking.

  You can fantasize your death. You picture worlds stopping and helicopters circling and all the people who’d never get over it. When Mags’ brother died a few years ago, people posted on Facebook and had tournaments in his name. I thought he was the coolest person in the world, but after a while, people stopped remembering the day, and laughter and music happened again as if he were never here at all.

  I’m not the first person who would ever die or the last who ever will.

  But I was being eaten by my own phlegm, and my lungs were not strong enough to punch out a cough or suck in a breath. The steroids and oxygen tubes in my mouth held me by fingertips.

  Mom was crying.

  Dr. Clayton’s voice spoke low.

  Everything went dark.

  When I woke next, and I did, I could not move, but I felt someone take my hand. A strong, male hand. Familiar.

  “Maeve.” It was hushed. Injured. Everything else was slow and quiet; it must have been night, and it must have been only us. “Maeve,” said Dad.

  I’m listening. Sort of.

  “This is not how it ends.” His voice broke. “You can’t go like this. Listen to me.”

  I am.

  “You’re not going to die like this. Okay?” He choked but was almost angry. “You’re going to live. You’re going to make your films. You’re going to graduate. You’re going to move out and you’re going to do stupid things with that boy from Thanksgiving.”

  Now his voice flooded with tears. I’d never head Dad like this. Whatever was left of my heart broke.

  “You can’t leave me.”

  * * *

  Days later, the beeping grew a little louder. Days later still, the mucus began to rattle when I inhaled. Slowly, it loosened. I could open my eyes. I could function.

  Mom bent over the hospital bed and kissed my forehead. Chasms were under her eyes. Dad sat on the guest chair next to the divider curtain and watched me with a resigned gaze, exhausted, head lolling. His glasses were crooked.

  “I’ll tell Dr. Clayton you’re up,” Mom whispered. She left the room, and her footsteps disappeared down the hall.

  I shifted. My hospital gown was cool and fresh; someone must have changed it. But my hair stuck to my shoulders. The oxygen was no longer stuffed into my nostrils. I read the medicine they were giving me on the dry erase board across the room. Next to my bed on the table were three GET WELL balloons floating halfway up their twine and bumping into each other. The card at the base read: Love, Fred.

  “You okay?” said Dad.

  “Yeah,” I croaked. Then sighed. Every breath bruised my ribs.

  “You should go back to sleep,” he said.

  “No,” I replied. And that word brought me back. “KC,” I breathed. “Is he okay?”

  Dad straightened slowly and blinked. He rested his elbows on his knees. Some anger was in his voice. “He came out when he saw me arrive and rush for you. His arms were bleeding with knife cuts. Self-inflicted. You could say that if you didn’t get so sick, he wouldn’t have ever come out and would have finished himself off in his room.”

&nb
sp; “Where is he now?”

  “He’s here. They took him to the hospital too.” Dad sighed. “Don’t try to talk to him yet, Maeve. He needs help right now.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered. Dad remained stiff. Then he covered his mouth with his hand, breathed evenly, and looked at me for a long time. It seemed as if he were playing Tetris with the words in his head, trying to make them all fit right before he spoke. He finally did.

  “You know, Maeve, KC almost did something to you.”

  A shiver hushed me and told me not to speak. Told me to only listen. Something rare and powerful was in Dad’s voice.

  “He almost destroyed you. With loss. Grief. Years of regret.”

  He waited for me to nod. To agree. Then he leaned forward.

  “And you almost did that to us.”

  My throat closed. Dad continued. “You almost condemned Mom and me to years of heartbreak and emptiness.”

  I inhaled, not to speak, just to inhale, but Dad held up a hand.

  “Please.” A pause. “You’re an adult, Maeve. And your intentions were noble. But all of us … all of us … give so much to help you choose life.”

  Tears trickled into my eyes. I couldn’t be sure, but I think Dad’s filled too. I shouldn’t have closed him off that night. He would have helped us. My need to be independent made me more dependent than ever in this hospital bed. I knew that now. But Dad deserved to reprimand me. He deserved to tell me all the things I already knew.

  “I don’t have lacrosse wounds, Maeve,” he whispered.

  Now the tears fell from my cheeks like rain down a gutter. He didn’t ache and groan from old sports injuries. He ached and groaned for me.

  “But you’re like me,” said Dad.

  “What do you mean?” I said. My voice was choked.

  Dad rubbed his shoulder. His false “lacrosse wound.” The one he pulls every time he lifts me, or closes up the wheelchair ramp, and gets worse by the day.

  “Your love kills you.”

  He gazed at me, and I didn’t look away.

  “Excuse me?” A nurse appeared at the door.

  Dad and I both turned.