by Lizzy Mason
I stepped closer and peered over her shoulder. Five photos in all: four of Mom and Dad, taken professionally in honor of their twentieth anniversary last fall—and one of Floyd and me, taken last summer, which had been hanging in the hallway until now.
“Feel free to bring some more pictures of yourself,” Mom said absently. “I just couldn’t find any good ones.”
Gee, thanks, Mom, I replied silently. You mean ones where I don’t look fat?
The truth was that I didn’t feel like going back there today. I couldn’t shake the kernel of resentment I’d felt that she still didn’t even know who I was. After the way she’d betrayed me, I should have been foremost in her mind. My name should have been the first thing she’d uttered upon regaining consciousness, followed immediately by “Sorry.” That night should have been burned into her memory.
It was irrational. And ugly. But that didn’t stop me from feeling it.
Mom handed me the photos and stood, straightening and smoothing her skirt suit. “That nurse seems to think—”
“Keisha?” I interrupted.
Mom’s eyes met mine. She was wearing more concealer than usual. It didn’t help; there was no hiding how tired she looked. “Yes. Keisha. She seems to think that bringing familiar objects might help, too. So if you feel like it, maybe also grab Bear Bear?”
“Do I have to go today?” I asked.
“Weren’t you planning on it?” Mom said sharply.
I lifted my head, my lips pressed into a tight line.
Mom opened her mouth and then sighed, her expression softening. “Harley . . . I—just do me this favor, please, okay?” she said. She looked at her watch. “I have to go.”
Of all the scenarios I’d imagined when I arrived at the hospital, not one included a flash of recognition. But that’s what I saw on Audrey’s face when I opened her door. It was there, and unmistakable, and it snapped me out of my funk in an instant.
“Harley,” she said.
Her voice was hoarse, her speech slurred. Her mouth tilted lower on the left side than it did on the right. But her light blue eyes belonged to the old Audrey. Every mean thought and lousy feeling I’d had slipped away. I laughed and rushed toward her, dropping my bag in the chair and draping my arms around her thin shoulders.
“Hi, baby sister,” I said into her messy hair. “How are you?”
“O-kay,” she managed to say. She pulled away, her face twisted in frustration. Talking took effort, clearly.
“I brought you a friend,” I said as a distraction, pulling Bear Bear out of the tote. Her eyes lit up and she tried to smile, but she didn’t speak again. Instead, she reached out with her left arm; her right was still in a cast. I tucked him in the crook of her elbow, put the bag in my lap, and sat down next to her. She gazed down at her stuffed bear. I felt the need to fill the silence, but my mind was blank. I had no idea what to say.
“Do you need anything? Are you thirsty?” I asked.
Audrey nodded. I poured a small amount of water into the plastic cup on her table. I helped her sit up, tilting the bed up and propping pillows behind her head. As I fluffed them, I caught a whiff of that familiar Audrey sleep smell. Before I knew it, I was crying. She had smelled different while she was in the coma. I hadn’t been able to pinpoint what exactly was different, but this clinched it. I knew for certain that she was back now.
Audrey noticed the tears and she knitted her eyebrows together. I shook my head and took a deep breath, then put the straw in her mouth so that she could drink.
“Sorry, I’ve just missed you,” I said. I tried to smile, reaching for a Kleenex to dab my eyes. “It’s been so weird and quiet in the house without you there.” To busy myself, I started arranging Mom’s framed photos on the bedside table. “I figured you were probably bored, so I brought your iPad, too. So you could watch Netflix. Well, so we could watch together. You’d be proud of me. I’ve been watching lots of your favorite—never mind. I’ll tell you later.”
She rewarded me with a small lopsided smile. “Thanks,” she said, drawing out the s. “You . . . have to tell me.”
“I will,” I murmured. “I promise.”
Fifteen Years Ago
I was almost two when Audrey was born. Experts say that’s too young for most people to have memories, but I remember clearly how Audrey sounded through the wall when she cried. I remember the feel of the carpet against my cheek when I would lie down next to her crib and put my fingers through the bars. I remember the touch of her tiny fingernails as she stroked my finger.
Mom confirms that she would find me in there night after night. We’d both be asleep, and she would pick me up and take me back to my own bedroom. And in the morning, she’d find me back on the floor next to Audrey.
After a few weeks, they finally moved my toddler bed into Audrey’s room. Mom says I would sing to her before I fell asleep, or try to anyway. Through the monitor, they’d hear me babbling things that sounded like “The Wheels on the Bus” and “You Are My Sunshine,” and she would coo along with me.
When she got old enough to need her own bed, though, Mom and Dad put me back in my room. Audrey didn’t wake up in the middle of the night anymore, so eventually I stopped my nightly visits. But I was attuned to the sounds of her next door like a mother with a newborn. If she so much as whimpered from a nightmare, I was there, pushing the sweaty hair from her forehead and singing to her.
Mom still found us sleeping beside each other in Audrey’s bed from time to time.
I felt sorry for people who didn’t have a sister. Audrey and I could be horrible to each other all day long, but at night, when the house was dark and Mom and Dad were asleep, we could lie in bed next to each other and share our secrets.
I told Audrey things I couldn’t even tell Cassidy. Because Audrey was required to love me. Her love was a guarantee. So when I told her that I wanted to break up with Mike but was scared of what my life would be like without him, she told me to stop being an idiot and get it over with. Because sisters will also say the things you need to hear.
And then they’ll make out with your boyfriend.
Chapter Eleven
Certain things became clear over the next few days. Audrey remembered her family—including Aunt Tilly and Spencer and Floyd—but she didn’t remember last year. The gaps were strange. When the doctor asked how old she was, she said she was fourteen, that she was a freshman. (She also guessed it was spring because there were leaves on the trees she could see out of her hospital room window.) She remembered Neema and, oddly, her old locker combination, but couldn’t remember Bear Bear’s name.
The good news was that the doctors were optimistic. Dr. Martinez assured Mom and Dad that, given her test results, much of her past would return to her eventually. Her brain was functioning as it should, both in terms of long-term and short-term memory. But they doubted she’d have any recollection of the accident, or even the weeks or months leading up to it.
Once again, I felt that gnawing resentment I’d tried to suppress. I could still see a faint trace of the hickey Mike had given her, right next to the bruise from the seat belt. Hiding in plain sight. Everyone just assumed it was an injury from the accident. For me alone it was a constant reminder of the unfairness of it all, how I was left to live with those memories and the truth of what had happened between us—and she wasn’t.
But I kept my mouth shut.
The day after Audrey’s feeding tube was removed for good, Raf’s mom stopped by the house. I was alone; we were back to our routine: Mom at work, Dad at the hospital. She was carrying two dishes. Most of the neighbors had long since stopped bringing casseroles, and our freezer was still stuffed full, but I’d never turn down Mrs. Juarez’s cooking. I was salivating from just the sight of the steam condensing on the lids.
“Oh my God, are those nacatamales?” I said. I could smell the steamed corncakes through the plast
ic.
“And arroz con frijoles,” she said, holding up the second container. “Rice and beans. And I put in your favorite part.”
“Plátanos maduros?” I nearly shouted. I hoped I wasn’t drooling.
Mrs. Juarez laughed and nodded as she handed me the containers. She lingered on the stoop for a moment.
“Do you want to come in?” I asked. “My parents are out, but . . .”
She reached out for me, pulling me against her chest in a tight hug. With the containers in my hands, I couldn’t hug her back, but that didn’t stop her. She held on for longer than I expected.
“Little Harley,” she said as she released me, even though she wasn’t much taller than me. “I’m so sorry about what happened to your sister. It’s so good to see you.”
“You, too,” I said.
“How’s Audrey doing?” she asked.
I nodded as reassuringly as I could manage. “Better. She’s awake, and the doctors are pretty hopeful about her ability to recover completely.”
“Thank God,” she said. “Rafael told me she’d woken up and I’m just so relieved.” Her eyes were darker, more creased than I remembered, her skin paler. She was a glimpse at what would have happened to my mom if Audrey hadn’t awakened. Or still could.
“Have you seen Rafael lately?” Mrs. Juarez asked. “He’s been gone so much that I haven’t gotten much of a chance to talk to him.”
“Not in a few days,” I said. “With Audrey awake, it’s been pretty busy . . .” My voice trailed off.
“Thank you for being his friend right now, Harley,” she said. Her voice and eyes were pleading. “I hated taking away his friends, his whole life really. But you’re a good girl, a good influence. He needs you.”
No pressure or anything, I thought guiltily. “I’ll keep an eye on him. But, um, I should go put this in the fridge,” I said, holding up the food in my hands.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “I just thought you guys might want something fresh. Not a frozen casserole. I remember how hard it was to cook when Allie was sick. Even just turning on the oven was too much some nights.”
I managed a smile this time. “Thank you so much, really,” I said. “I’ll try to leave some for my parents, but I can’t make any promises.”
Mrs. Juarez almost seemed happy as she turned to leave. I couldn’t say the same for myself, but at least now there was food. I wondered if Audrey would want some, now that her swallowing reflex was back and she could eat anything she wanted to again. Not that I had any intention of sharing.
That Saturday, Aunt Tilly and Spencer stopped by the hospital for the first time since Audrey had awakened. Mom called and asked me to come over, too. Aunt Tilly wasn’t the type to bring sweets, but she arrived carrying a carrot cake, Audrey’s favorite. To celebrate, Aunt Tilly even let Spencer have some. He sat in the corner, scooping the thick cream cheese frosting off and licking it from his plastic fork. I leaned against the windowsill next to him.
“You actually like carrot cake?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “It’s better than no cake,” he said.
“But it’s made of carrot. That’s not dessert,” I said. I began smooshing up a corner of my slice on my plate.
That got a little smile. “Yes, but it’s a sweet carrot, with sugar and raisins.”
“And white flour,” Aunt Tilly added from across the room. Clearly, I hadn’t been talking quietly enough. “So you only get one piece, chicken.”
I had to smirk. Tilly was such a hypocrite. After having spent her youth drinking, smoking—and being a “wild child,” as my mom said—she got pregnant with Spencer. That prompted a drastic swing in the opposite direction. The only exception being the smoking. It was the one habit she couldn’t kick, but to her credit, she never smoked in front of Spencer.
When he finished his piece of cake, I slid half of my slice onto his plate and winked at him. He tried to wink back but blinked both eyes instead. I tried not to laugh.
“So how are the Nationals doing?” I asked.
He launched into an explanation about their standing within their division compared to the other divisions and the American League. I let him talk for a while without really listening.
“Okay, but bottom line: Who’s going to the series?” I interrupted.
Spencer furrowed his brow. “It’s way too early to say,” he said.
“What good are you?” I said, smiling as I reached out to muss his hair. Spencer pulled out of my reach and looked at me seriously for a moment, trying to figure out whether I was joking or not. I forgot sometimes that he wasn’t good with sarcasm. But Aunt Tilly also told us it was good for him to learn.
“I’m just kidding,” I said. “You’re the best cousin I could ask for, even if you can’t tell me in July who’ll win the World Series in October.”
That got another smile. It felt like a victory. And given that I could barely look at Audrey at the moment, I’d take all the victories I could get.
On the way home, I got a text from Raf. It had been a week since the Fourth of July. He made a joke of it, asking if I was alive, if Floyd missed him, and if I wanted to meet him for a walk. I lied and told him I was at the hospital, and then instead of driving home, I drove in the direction of The Flakey Pastry. Cassidy had finally gotten me an interview for a job there. It wasn’t for another hour, but I could get there early.
I desperately wanted to see Raf. I wanted to see him and touch him and talk to him. And kiss him. But when I thought about kissing him, it made me think of kissing Mike. Which led me down the dark rabbit hole of my bitterness toward Audrey.
I wondered if it was the first time anything had happened between them. I couldn’t ask her, of course. And I’d never trust Mike to tell me the truth. So I spent long hours analyzing as many of Audrey and Mike’s recent interactions as I could remember.
I knew if I saw Raf, he would sense something was wrong. I squirmed just thinking about all of his perceptive, probing questions. More than that, though, I couldn’t bear to turn him down again. If he tried to kiss me, I didn’t know if I would have the strength to say no. And then I wouldn’t be the good influence, the good girl Mrs. Juarez had asked me to be.
I pulled up outside The Flakey Pastry and hung out in the parking lot in my car, letting the anemic air-conditioning in my ancient Honda dry the beads of nervous sweat on my nose and forehead. I knew Cassidy would be working, but it was still a relief to see a friendly face at the counter when I opened the swinging glass door.
“Hey,” I said. “I feel perkier already just breathing in the smell of this place.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said. “If you get this job, you may never want to drink coffee again. I leave work every night swearing I’ll never have another sip.”
I gave her a long look, and she laughed. “I know, I break that oath as soon as my next opening shift rolls around. And for friends,” she said, sliding an iced vanilla latte across the counter.
Samir—the other manager, the one who didn’t date employees (he was married)—was expecting me. With one hand he waved me over to an empty table near the trash cans. He held a clipboard and pen in the other. Like Cassidy, he was wearing The Flakey Pastry uniform, a black apron. Another reason I liked the place: no forced polyester outfit.
“So, Harley, thanks for coming in,” he said as we sat across from each other. He clicked open the pen but held the clipboard so I couldn’t see what was printed or the notes he was taking. “I have your résumé here.” He glanced up. “Have you ever worked in food service before?”
“Um . . . I . . . no,” I said, faltering. I wasn’t sure why I was so anxious. I knew this place as well as Cassidy did. “Not exactly. I’ve worked a couple of times at the bake sale for the literary magazine . . .” I let my voice trail off. That was not the kind of experience Samir was looking for.
I glanced up at the counter, hoping Cassidy could somehow help. But Will had appeared. They were behind the counter, laughing together. He wasn’t dressed for work, so I wasn’t sure what he was doing here. Maybe flirting with Cassidy behind Janine’s back?
Samir cleared his throat, and I snapped my focus back to him.
“Sorry,” I said. “Oh, I forgot to mention that I’ve worked for Cassidy’s mom’s catering company a few times.” I just helped load and unload the van, did dishes in the kitchen, and put hors d’oeuvres on trays, but that still counted as work.
His face brightened a little, betraying some relief. “Listen, your timing is good because I just lost someone yesterday and I need to fill a few shifts a week. I’m going to give you a shot because you’re Cassidy’s friend, and you’ve spent a lot of time in here. But I expect you to do your job and learn quickly. It’s three strikes and you’re out.”
That seemed a little extreme for a coffee shop where I had never seen a line more than two people deep. I had no idea what qualified as a strike, either, but I nodded enthusiastically anyway.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I’m a coffee lover. I’ll do my best to make it proud.”
“The coffee?” Samir asked.
“Uh, yeah.” I flushed, hoping Samir wasn’t already regretting his decision to hire me. But I’d made the first step. Not toward anything like emancipation, but toward . . . something. Making Mom happy and getting her off my back. But more: Freedom. My own money. My own life, away from home and school. And the hospital.
Audrey was awake and sitting up when I came back later that afternoon. Neema had come to visit, and they were watching something on her iPad.
“Hi,” I said.
Audrey smiled and pointed at the empty chair on the other side of the room. “We’re watching TV,” she said. Her words were slow, but her diction was clearer than it had been.
“It’s a show about wedding dresses,” Neema added. “You’d probably hate it.”
