Through the night, Chomperz sits on me and locks me into one position. When I turn, he paws at me with his clawless little nubs to remind me who’s in charge. I dream Benny is gasping for air, blood vessels bursting through his eyes, and I’m reaching for him, but I’m restrained just like this—by something sitting on my chest. And I’m screaming at the top of my lungs the same way Mom and Brynn did when he was hit, but not a sound escapes me. When morning breaks, my eyes feel puffy and raw as I crawl out of bed. Chomperz thinks it’s an invitation to spread out between the sheets as I get dressed for the day. It’s not, but he doesn’t care what I think.
“Something you want to talk about?” Sarge asks on my way out the door. His bushy brows perch on top of his thick glasses.
“I can’t take Brynn today. She’ll have to ride the bus.” I’m lying. I just don’t want to be near her. His eyes study me, making me fidget. I look away, try to pull myself free from his grip.
He pats the couch—pat pat pat. “Come here.”
I glance at the clock and resist. “I’m going to be late for school.” The words, the lies, are hard to form, especially to him.
He smiles, urges me onto the fluffy couch cushion where the shape of his body has imprinted. “Birdie Jay—SIT.”
My face flushes as he mutes the TV and sort of angles away from me. Eye contact isn’t his thing; emotions, feelings aren’t either. Except, for some reason, when it comes to me.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about this. About you. And here’s what I’ve come up with.”
“Okay?”
“The heart breaks harder than bones,” he says.
My eyes are locked onto those little nose hairs that flare in and out as he breathes. With all his war stories, you never know what the point will be, so I hold my tongue. The light of the muted screen shines across his face and the few gray hairs left on his head. “I’m just saying the pain … the pain is what will kill you, not the act itself.”
I look up to his aging square face and find my reflection in his magnifying-glass lenses. Our bare Christmas tree stands, overlooking us, mocking. “It doesn’t matter what happens. I’ve ruined us.”
“Hmm. Grief is a black hole. You’ve got to find a way to walk around it without falling in.”
I let his words sink in as my eyes follow the way his lip trembles. He’s trying to hide it by cupping his hand around them, but I see—he’s thinking about Nan. We all are, would be even if this hadn’t happened. Sarge would rather have broken bones, too. I lay my hand on his, and he looks at me with a smirk.
He sucks it up. “Go on now. Get to school.” He leans in with a whisper. “Or wherever you were really going.”
He falls back to the couch in a slump, remote in hand. This is it, my opportunity to slink away, disappear into the bitter Indiana wind. I get in my car, the hill of terror in my rearview, and carefully reverse into the highway. Straightening my front wheels, I leave the corner memorial, not the SOLD sign I flattened, but all the other wooden stakes that have lined this section of road, behind.
With a heavy sigh, I drive to the far side of town to the Gardens of Memory Cemetery. On the winding back of the paved spine, through the old weeping willows whose branches have dried up for the impending winter forecasters say will be “the worst in a long time,” I make my way to the farthest western corner, near the ivory mausoleum I used to pretend was a princess castle.
The sun pokes its flame-colored rays through the cotton clouds, spilling onto the headstones. The light almost makes them look alive. One foot in front of the other, I find it: Nan’s final spot, bound by earth and granite. The grass is cold when I kneel down; it pierces through my pants like tiny, icy swords. I lay my hand on the words LOVING MOTHER, WIFE & GRANDMOTHER and bow my head in prayer.
“It’s been a long time,” I say quietly. “You probably thought I’d never come. But here I am.” The wind picks up, whistles past my ears. “I have a favor to ask, and I’m sorry if it seems rude to just show up and ask for something, but…” I stop myself because my heart is pinching, bleeding through my nerves into a giant pool of grief. “I don’t care what happens to me. It’s Benny. Help him open his eyes. If God wants something in return, tell him to take me instead. Please.”
I slowly raise my head, tears drenching my face just as the sun brightens, shines a warmth to dry them. Maybe she hears me, maybe she doesn’t, but at least I can say I tried. I spin around, resting my back on the stone, and pull my knees up to my chest. As the sun rises into a full scene of majestic beauty, I can’t look away. The oranges and yellows pour over me like a bath, heat me inside and out. I close my eyes and I drift along with the clouds and maybe, with Nan.
Later, about the time Mrs. Rigsby might grab at my arm, force me in front of the class for everyone to cock their heads at and pity, I pull myself up from the dried grass and dirt, giving Nan one last look. “Thanks for listening,” I tell her.
She doesn’t respond, which I’ve heard is a good thing.
LESSON OF THE DAY: There will always be one step in a reaction that happens at the slowest speed. That step is called the rate-limiting step, and it determines how fast the overall reaction can happen. I didn’t see it before, but maybe the only thing preventing me from evolving, moving forward, isn’t the accident.
It’s me.
BASH
Of all the places in this shithole town (okay, there aren’t many), she walks into mine. My stomach feels like someone’s punched me with a two-ton brick right here—right in my center of gravity. This must be part of that chain reaction shit Mrs. Pearlman always talks about—the actions Kyle put in motion. Wait. What am I saying? I was there. I was in the car, too. This is my chain reaction, my cross, because I know Kyle won’t bear shit.
I couldn’t sleep, tossed and turned all over those damn mattress springs until one finally poked straight through. Now the sun is up, almost shaming me, and I’m in my car driving fast, too fast, but I can’t force my legs to stop shaking. They’re lead, all the weight down on that rusted pedal. It’s as if those two-ton bricks sank into my toes. Just feeling Birdie—what kind of name is that anyway?—there so close, behind me, beside me, around me like the atmosphere incarnate, made my vision dark, my hands tremble. What if I said something wrong? Maybe I did. Shit, I don’t even remember. Maybe I confessed, told her everything. My shirt is soaked through with sweat, so I wouldn’t doubt it. I’ll probably have cops at my door any minute now, ready to bust down the flimsy piece of sheet metal, kick in the blanket that hangs over the frame where a door should be, handcuffs bright and shiny with my name all over them.
WHAT THE HELL—I ALMOST MADE OUT WITH HER!
Shit. What was I thinking? To be fair, I was thinking, She’s hot, but had I known I was going to sit in a car that would run over her brother, I might’ve steered clear. This is all Layla’s fault. Had she not been at that party to fuck with me, I wouldn’t have met Couch Girl, and Couch Girl wouldn’t be completely sucking the logic and reason from my brain. I’m a mess.
I wonder why Vin didn’t tell me beforehand to “be nice to her; she’s from that news story.” Or maybe he did, and I blacked out. Hell, I don’t remember. Isn’t that what happens when you black out? I can’t catch my breath; I might be having some kind of panic attack. I drive faster, before anyone can tell Ma any of it. Try to save her so she can go peacefully and not be held back by this unfinished business or some shit like I read about with dying people. Doesn’t matter, I guess. If shit’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen. Nothin’ I can do about it now but hope that if I am busted, she’s too far gone to understand.
I get to the nursing home and fling the door open to dodge the cold. I forgot the lily, but I can’t think about that now.
“Hey, Bash,” Nurse Kim calls from the front desk. “She might be sleeping.”
I ignore her, round the corner, and run down the hall to her room near the end. The slot on the door where her name usually hangs is prematurely empty like they’re j
ust waiting for her last breath so they can toss her out, give someone else the chance to die here.
Fear courses through my veins as if I’ve just killed someone, because maybe I have. I poke my head inside to see Ma hooked up to all her usual machines, medicines flowing, thick tubes pushing air in, pulling it out of her lungs. She’s sound asleep, snoring so loud it bounces off the paper-thin walls. In between labored breaths, there’s a gurgling sound. This is new. She hasn’t gurgled before.
I smooth my clothes and slowly walk to her fragile frame. She doesn’t flinch, so I squirt a puddle of hand sanitizer in my palm, pull up a chair, and sit along the edge to grab her swollen hand. I gently bury her frozen fingers between my thighs, hoping they’ll warm, but she still doesn’t wake. On her bedside table is a small faux Christmas tree with teeny-tiny bulbs of light that flash in a rhythmic motion. My latest bear drawing is nestled up against the bristles like a present.
Nurse Kim pokes her head in. “Been sleeping most of the day.”
I gulp. “How is she?”
She lowers her head, her frown deepening. “You want the easy answer or the truth?”
I angle my head and purse my lips. “Come on, Kim. Give me the real stuff.”
“We called hospice.”
“She doesn’t want more meds.”
“She changed her mind, Bash. The pain was too much. They came this morning, and … they don’t think she’ll make it much longer. Few days, maybe.”
I can’t swallow now. Once I do, the tears will fall, and I won’t be able to stop them.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” she says. “If she needs anything, buzz me, but just know, she might not wake while you’re here … if at all. The rest periods are getting longer.” Ma gurgles again, startling me. The sounds are loud, as if she’s in pain. Her chest is clotted with saliva she can’t swallow, and, God, it’s never felt like the end before, until now.
“That’s normal, too,” she whispers.
My eyes fall to Ma. Her face is thinned and pale. But her lips and cheeks are still as rosy as ever. “She put on makeup, so she can’t be too far gone,” I say, with hope.
“I did that, sweetie,” Kim says.
My head, and heart, drop again.
“Treasure the time you’ve got left with her.”
I nod. My throat is tight.
“I know she doesn’t have much family, no friends—none that visited. You may want to call whoever you need to—like that brother she has in Utah—let him know it’s almost time.”
“He died a couple months back.”
“Oh, she didn’t mention it,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
I dip my head away from Ma, lower my voice. “She doesn’t know. Didn’t want to stress her out.”
Nurse Kim’s eyes soften with a hint of pain. “You’re a good boy, Bash.” She stares for a moment, then pulls the door shut.
If she really knew me, what I’d done, she wouldn’t say that. She’d be on the phone with the cops to collect her reward. Who wouldn’t? I sure as hell would. Some punk-ass kid, hanging over his comatose mother, hiding, lying about the things he’s done, the person he really is. Ma would be so ashamed. And that is the worst punishment of all.
The more I overthink, the tighter I grip Ma’s hand. The purple and blue colors deepen so I release her, lay it on top of her sheet, and take a long, deep breath while I relive the conversations Birdie and I had at the rink. Now that I’m calm, the words are clearer. Maybe she didn’t figure me out just yet. Besides, there are no cops, no signs of my arrest here, so why am I freaking out? I try to relax as much as I can while I watch Ma struggle to breathe—something so simple, so natural, and yet, it’s the hardest thing for her to do. Every third breath, she gasps for air like there’s nothing left in her, and I know the feeling, because every third breath, I gasp, too.
I fall asleep in the chair, my neck cockeyed. I’m awakened by Ma’s gentle tap on my knee some hours later. The hallway lights have dimmed, and the shuffling feet have slowed.
“Go home,” she says. She pulls the CPAP mask—an unsettling breathing contraption that looks like a villain’s disguise—off her mouth and nose. She settles a hand on my leg. “Go lie in your bed, crank up the heat, and dream about everything you’ll be.” A smile stems from her hollow face. It glows brighter than ever. But her eyes are empty, gray.
I pick up her hand and plant a soft kiss on the top. “I’d rather be here with the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“Oh, Sebastian.” Her voice is strained. “You’ve always been the only man for me.… You’ll make some girl … very lucky … someday.… I wish … I wish I could be here to see.” Her glow fades as her tired lungs struggle for air between words. Even now she’s fighting to breathe. She coughs, violently, the jostling nearly knocking her unconscious. Her lashes fall heavy, fluttering closed. I place the CPAP mask over her mouth and nose once more, but she pushes it away. I brush the sparse curls off her face and think of all the times she’s done the same for me.
“You need something? For the pain?” I ask.
She shakes her head, opening her eyes once more. “No more. I’m ready. Tell him.”
“Who?”
“Fate.”
Now I’m beaming. “How do you know fate is a man?”
Her eyes make brief contact as her breathing worsens. “Only a man would be cocky enough to decide the huge responsibility of destiny. Probably some … middle-aged piece of shit … in his parents’ basement … after Call of Duty: Clan Wars weekend. He’s … jacked up on … taking people out, and he grabs his … iPhone his mommy bought him (like Kyle) … because a pen and paper is … beneath him … and he makes a note of how everyone … will die. This one—death by … rat poison. That one—death by … military execution. And me—death by…”
“What, Ma? What would fate do to you?” I ask.
“Heartbreak. For leaving … the … greatest son ever made.”
My expression sours, but I can’t let her see. Even though they’re trying to spill out of me, I hold back the words about everything I’ve done, lied about, and focus on her eyes. They dart around like she’s half here, half not. I clear my throat.
“Fate can’t be a man,” I say to break the pain. “It’s impossible.”
She’s looking at me intently. “Why’s that?”
“If a man were in charge of everyone’s destiny, he’d fuck it up. That’s what we do—fuck shit up. We need a good woman to set us straight, make the fucked-up shit right.”
She chuckles, a sound so beautiful, it makes my heart swell. I forget about everything else for just this moment.
“I’d tell you to watch your mouth, but I know who gave it to you,” she says. Our snickers melt into each other and fade away completely because it’s true. She’s looking at me in a way she never has before, and somewhere deep inside, I see that twinkle I’d been missing. In my gut I know her disappointment in me is better than lying to her. How can she die in peace if I’ve betrayed all she’s taught me?
“Ma,” I say, my head hung low, “there’s something I need to—”
“Tell me about work,” she interrupts. Her chest expands as she gasps for another breath.
I look up. “Work?”
“I want to hear it all.”
My jaw is open, I know. “There’s a new girl. That’s actually what I wanted to—”
“Oooh,” she says. “Tell me all about this girl.” She pulls her CPAP mask up to her face and presses the little black button on her handheld controller that releases pain medicine. The liquid feeds into her veins; her body relaxes now.
“I might close my eyes, but I can hear you. Just keep talking so I know you’re here.” She pats my leg again, and it sends a tremor up my body. She wiggles around between the sheet and blanket, tucking her arms into the sides. I stand and gently tuck the sheets under her. The machine is loud, but I talk through it.
“Her name is Birdie,” I start, with a heavy sigh. It’s like lett
ing go of some pain I’ve been holding on to, a weight lifting. Almost. “She asks too many questions. Seems to be some kind of genius or something.”
Ma lifts the machine off long enough to speak. “Boyfriend?”
I shake my head with a smirk. “I don’t know.”
“What does she … look like?” She rests the mask over her mouth and nose and folds her hands back under the sheet.
I latch my fingers together and stitch a coherent string of thoughts. “Uh, I don’t know,” I say. “Kind of tall, long brown hair, thick white glasses. Pretty, I guess. Not like Layla kind of pretty. More like awkward kind of pretty. I mean, she’s really kind of gloriously beautiful, but in this weird way,” I say. My face softens, and then I remind myself who she is—off limits.
Ma’s movements are slowing, words slurring, but she lifts the mask one last time. “He came to see me, to say good-bye.”
I crouch toward her. “Who did?”
She mumbles something I don’t understand. “I wanted him to take me back to Brazil where we met. So I can give him the letter.”
“What are you talking about? What letter?”
Ma’s eyes grow heavier and heavier until her lashes shut completely. I fall back in the chair and try to figure out what she was trying to tell me. Nurse Kim tiptoes in to check her vitals, fluff her pillow. She catches me in deep thought and waves her hand in front of me.
“You okay?” she asks.
“She said something about a man and a letter.”
Nurse Kim nods. “She’s been rambling quite a bit about this man. Says he’s tall with eyes like crystal. The other day she told me he wanted to pay her, but she refused it. The closer her mind and body get to the end, the more hallucinations she’ll have. I know it’s confusing, doesn’t make this process any easier.”
The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash Page 14
