Waiting

by Carol Lynch Williams

  Get off my property.”

  My eyes are still broken and I can’t quite walk, but I head toward Zach’s car, and Jesse throws the keys to Lauren.

  “Drive the van,” he says. And she doesn’t even argue.

  I follow the van for a bit, fall behind in school traffic, almost hit a pedestrian, and pull over so I can cry. I rest my head on the steering wheel.

  “You okay, London?” Jesse says after a couple of minutes of listening to me sob.

  No. No, I’m not okay. I’m hurt. Embarrassed. And alone in a family that should be holding each other up, not pushing each other aside. I can’t say any of this, though.

  “You want me to drive?”

  I nod.

  “You want to go to school?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Want to go to the beach? I’ve always wanted to play hooky at the beach. Can’t do that in Utah.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  We change places, and I lean my head back and let the tears leak from my broken eyes.

  Jesse’s silent. He takes the keys, adjusts the seat, hands me a napkin from McDonald’s (where’d that come from?), and turns the car around.

  We drive toward Ponce Inlet, a few miles up the coast.

  We drive slow, then look for a place to park.

  I feel glued to the seat. The sun shines in nice and warm, but I’m a statue almost. And I should be, because I know how things are at home and why didn’t I think that the rest of my world would find out how I live now?

  It’s warming up quick outside. I roll down the window, hoping for a breeze, but there’s hardly anything out here now, which makes the air seem even warmer.

  We’re quiet. Jesse takes the keys from the ignition, hands them to me.

  I want to look at him, but I can’t.

  This is all my fault.

  I didn’t have to push her.

  But the thing is—the thing is, I did. I had to know she knew I’m still alive.

  Jesse touches my hand. He’s turned, looking at me.

  “That’s the weirdest thing I have ever seen,” he says.

  It seems he’s careful with his words. Does he want to say, “Freak? Crazy? Mental?” I guess not, because he says, “Tell me what happened,” as he shifts around in the seat,

  moving to face me more.

  I look him right in the eyeball, and like that, I’m laughing.

  Laughing hard. But the laughing turns to wails. “I’m all alone. My brother’s gone. Gone! And my mother hates me.”

  I shouldn’t have gone after her. I regret that I did. But I’m sort of glad that I did too. “I’m all alone.” My words are ragged. Broken. I roll the window the rest of the way down. Try to stop crying.

  “Why does she think we’re sleeping together?”

  If this were any other life, I’d be laughing again. There’d be no tears. Instead, I look out at the ocean. The sun has made a mirror of the water. But the crash of the surf—it’s so calming. I open the door. Kick off my shoes right there in the sand. I’m glad I wore a skirt today.

  Walk. Walk, London Castle. The sand is warm, and the weather is getting more Florida-ish. I can’t wait for the humidity. Jesse follows. He puts his hand in the middle of my back, like Jesus did so long ago after that village died, and when I glance over my shoulder at him, I see he looks like Jesus with his dark hair, dark eyes—if I squint just right.

  “I told her,” I say when I’m in the wet sand, his hand still there on my back, so warm. “I told her we’re sexually active.” I say this like it’s a joke, but the sound of the words shows me nothing is funny. “I told her I’ve been doing it with more than one guy. You and my friend Taylor. And anyone else I can think of at school, for that matter. Including that one guy who sweats so much in our English class. You know who I mean?”

  We’re ankle deep in the water now. It’s cold. I sit down.

  Lie back. Arms out. Ankles crossed. Eyes closed. Let the waves try to crash over me. I’m half wet, and I know it

  won’t be long before my clothes are full of sand and I’ll be freezing, but I don’t care.

  “Yeah, I know who you mean,” Jesse says, and he plops down next to me sitting. “He’s kinda gross.”

  Even sweaters need love, I want to say, but the cold water feels too good and it’s caressing the sides of my face, filling my ears, this calm crash of the ocean.

  The night before he died, I made a pallet on Zach’s floor.

  Things were bad by then, but Mom refused to see, and when I said something to Daddy, he said, “Zach and your mom always fight like this.”

  And I had said, “Yes, this is more than Mom, Daddy.

  Rachel’s gone too. I think he needs help.”

  We all knew about the abortion, but no one, no one in the family could say the word.

  That night the sun was gone and the curtains on Zach’s window blocked out the bits of stars. The room smelled sour, but I had been in there long enough I was used to it. I knew Zach was awake. I could tell by his breathing and the way he tossed and turned.

  “We should go to the beach,” I said. “Right now. You and me. Sneak out and go to the beach.”

  My brother didn’t answer.

  I’ve thought what we would have done if we’d gone that night.

  It would have been way late, way late, like three in the morning, and we would have snuck out and driven to the beach. We’d have taken only our bathing suits, towels, and money for something at the 7-Eleven afterward.

  The moon would have been high in the sky, and everything would have seemed like a midnight photograph, all purple-blues and grays, and even the suds coming upon the shore would have held color.

  There would have been no sharks, no jellyfish, no Mom.

  No dead babies, no sadness, no man-o-war.

  Just me and my brother.

  Just my brother and me.

  Out in the water.

  Happy.

  “We heard him dying,” I say.

  It’s the third time I’ve said it.

  I screamed it first to my father when he came running in the door and we had already cut Zach down and Mom had gotten his heart beating again said it a second time to the police when they questioned me and my eyes were so swollen I could almost not open them and this is the third time right now with the ocean trying to soothe me with salt and sand and foam that crackles in my ears.

  “What?”

  I can tell Jesse understood me, so I don’t repeat it. The words burn my mouth anyway. Overhead, the sun seems determined to toast my eyelids. But that’s okay, because maybe I will never leave this place.

  “Did you know shark attacks can happen in less than knee-deep water?”

  Jesse’s silent.

  “Did you know that my daddy spoke at a funeral for a family with nine children. The youngest got electrocuted by a hair dryer. A little girl. Me and Zach, we were heartbroken. They still go to church with us.”

  I’m sinking in the sand, but I’m okay with it right now too. I’ve already tested the theory and you can’t sink to China.

  (I would have tried to that night with my brother, Zacheus, too.)

  “Did you know you can make soup from the periwinkles out here? They’re so beautiful.”

  Jesse doesn’t say a thing. Just sits there with me, and when I look at him, finally, there’s a halo of light around his head.

  Jesse lies down next to me. He takes my hand in his. His fingers are warm.

  “My brother was my very best friend,” I say. “You two remind me of us.”

  “Who?”

  “You and Lili remind me of Zach and me. Together.”

  Waves crash. Water rushes up around us. I turn my head a bit and taste saltwater. “Is Lili your best friend?”

  Jesse’s quiet. “My youngest brother is. Nate?”

  I nod. Natey.

  “When he was born, that was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I knew we’d be best friends right at that moment.�
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  I look at the sky. So blue. So blue.

  “But me and Lili? We’re close.”

  I don’t know how long I lie there, but when I finally stand up, I’m so covered in sand—and wet top to bottom—that I have to walk down the beach until I can find a shower.

  “I’ll try to drip-dry before we get in the car,” I say.

  I face the sun. Keep coming, hot weather. Keep coming.

  Out in the water, I see two people kiteboarding, their kites (one yellow and one red) pulling them along through the waves.

  My hair slaps heavy and sandy at my back. I itch from the salt and sand.

  “I should know this,” Jesse says. “But why did you tell her that we’re together?”

  I open my mouth again. “To feel alive.”

  He nods like that’s an answer he understands. He laces his fingers through mine.

  “We’re a secret,” I say. “Nothing to anyone—not even Taylor or Lauren. Not even Lili or Nathan.”

  “I can do that,” Jesse says.

  In the outdoor shower, the wind blowing sand against my damp legs, Jesse kisses me, the water running down my face. He kisses my eyes, wipes the sun from my forehead, whispers words with that Utah accent. “You’re alive, London.”

  We stay gone until it’s time for Jesse to meet Lili at school.

  I drop him off because I’m afraid Lili will know I kissed her brother, and even though she was encouraging it, she may not like it because she knows about Taylor.

  I know about Taylor.

  What am I doing?

  I can’t help it.

  I’ve gone crazy.

  First I pushed my mother over the edge and I let her push me over the edge, though the truth is, Mom has nothing to do with my cheating.

  How is Taylor different from Jesse?

  Taller.

  A little more muscle-y.

  Blond.

  Soft-spoken.

  But, the thing is, I need saving.

  And maybe this stranger can do it.

  And I can hold Taylor close too, figure myself out.

  Because nobody has to tell me, I’m all messed up.

  An accident you’re in? It marks you on the outside, maybe. Scars your face or your skin—breaks bones, crushes skulls, leaves the body changed.

  An accident witnessed? You’re different on the inside.

  Maybe there’s no cut someone else can see, but there’re always injuries on the inside.

  Those take a long time to heal.

  My mother and father, their wounds are huge, gaping, they drip—ooze. Their battle is with me, too, when I should be close to them, on their side.

  That’s what I want.

  To be with them.

  Mom hasn’t touched me like a mom should, not once, since we found Zach.

  Maybe I’ll never get better from Zach’s leaving us.

  Maybe I’ll carry all that around with me forever, hearing him, finding him, moving too slow, moving way too s l o w.

  Maybe my curse will be memory forever.

  Maybe what I’m going through maybe all this I feel maybe it is part of repentance saying I’m sorry for not moving faster, opening the door faster, clawing my way to Zachy faster.

  God knows I’m sorry.

  Jesus knows I’m sorry.

  No one no one could be sorrier than I am.

  I stand on my own Golgotha and I’m all alone.

  There’s a message from Rachel when I get home.

  “Hey, London. I’m calling you back. I’ve . . . I’m so glad you called. I’ve got stuff to tell you. We need to catch up. I can’t wait to talk to you.”

  For a minute—no, for lots of minutes, for hours, days, weeks, I hated (still hate?) Rachel for living and moving when everyone else got stuck here in this awful place called my home.

  But I think, I think I can go on now, now that I’ve heard her voice on our answering machine.

  My brother would want me to.

  Still, I’m scared. Scared that we’re almost communicating.

  I mean, we are, right? Sort of?

  And I want to, right? Yes, no, maybe so.

  Am I five? Oh, I wish I were.

  I shower again. Wash sand from my ears. Hear those words, “We need to catch up.”

  Try to think how to save the call but keep Daddy and Mom from hearing it.

  Wonder at Taylor.

  Think of Jesse kissing me in that cool water as I tried to rinse the beach from my skin.

  I get out of the shower, wrap in my terry-cloth bathrobe, lie down on my bed just to rest my eyelids, which are sunburned

  after all.

  “Hey, London,” Zach says. He touches me. His hands are cold, way cold, and I push him away.

  “What?”

  He grins at me big. His eyes go squinty, disappearing. “I need you to do me a favor.”

  I sit up, pulling the bathrobe tight, cinching the pink sash. My room is dim. I can hear someone in the house. Who’s come home?

  Did they check on me while I was sleeping?

  Daddy calls to Mom, “Eva, I’ve got the dressing for the salad.” Mom says, “Tell that daughter of yours to get up. We have work to do.”

  “Did you hear that?” I say to Zach. “Mom mentioned me to Daddy.” I get to my knees.

  “You’re dreaming,” Zach says. His breath is ice. “Listen to me. Look at me, London. Me. You need to choose.”

  Choose? I can’t look at him. I don’t know why. I try to. But I want to see that my mother isn’t mad anymore. I want to go to my mother, see if she’ll wrap her arms around

  me, kiss my face, touch my hair, pet away a sadness that I feel growing within.

  “If you don’t pay attention,” Zach says, “I have to go.”

  My eyes burn. There’s salt water in them. And sand, too, maybe. He lets out a huge sigh. He touches my hand and he’s so cold. I want to say, “Heaven’s full of gold and light, right? So why are you cold?” I try to look at him, but now his face is too bright, and I squint too, like his smiley eyes.

  “I would have named my daughter London,” he says, letting out a little laugh. “After you, sis.” And he’s gone with a second sigh.

  When I open my eyes, the house is dead quiet.

  I lie there, tears leaking toward my ears.

  My nose goes snuffy.

  I remember Jesus.

  He cried for Mary and Martha.

  He cried when Lazarus died.

  Has He cried for me?

  I get up, moving slow, and start to get dressed for evening at my house.

  “This will be so much fun,” I say, dropping my bathrobe at my feet and walking to the St. Ives lotion. I slather it everywhere, standing in front of the mirror.

  I’m losing weight. Still. The doctor said no more. But I can’t help it. Food is tasteless. “It would have flavor if Mom would eat with us.” And I know, soon as I say the words, what I’m saying is true. The only thing big on me anymore is my hair. It feels like a cape on my back, around my shoulders. And because I didn’t brush it or braid it or anything before I lay down, it’s frizzy. “I don’t care.”