by Cecelia Earl
I look up to see who blue-lidded lady is talking to and find I'm looking at May. She's carrying a small laundry basket filled to the brim with supplies. I jump up and rush to her.
She sets down the basket and opens her arms. We hug and hug. I don't cry but find a tremendous amount of comfort by her presence.
"You didn't have to come," I say into her shoulder.
She pulls away and grins. "You're glad I did. You love me."
I nod.
"You can cry, you know."
"Yup, but you know it's physically impossible for me to cry in front of others."
"Even me?"
"Looks like it."
"Okay, well. Maybe you'll cry when you see all this garbage my mom and Chase sent with me."
I look. Food. Garbage food. "Wow."
"Okay, maybe you won't cry, but you might puke."
"Wow," I say again.
"Where are the crossword puzzles Chase mentioned?"
"Under the popcorn, licorice, and cheese puffs."
"Ew. Even the words cheese puffs make my stomach churn."
"I threw a puke bag in. Just in case."
"Smart."
She heads over to my mom, brother, and the girl with short, black hair and eyeglasses who's practically sitting on his lap.
May raises her eyebrows at me. I shrug. What do I know? I'm just the sister.
"May, dear." Mom gets up and hugs May, receives the basket with more grace than I had, and goes through each and every item exclaiming at how sweet and thoughtful it is. Then she starts divvying things out: crossword puzzle to Elsa, cheese puffs to Uncle Tory, pretzels to Brady and (apparently) Eva, sudoku to Aunt Margie, and the rest she sets on a table for grabs.
Thankful for the distraction, I take May down to the cafeteria for a coffee, but not until everyone is clear that they need to call and text me the minute they hear anything on Dad. The second.
"Okay. So enough of the hush, hush secrets. Spill."
"Spill what? What don't you know?"
"I know nothing. You've been absent in school and via phone."
"I've texted."
"Texted? Since when have relationships been born from texting?"
"Been born? We've been friends for . . ." I have to stop to tick off the years on my fingers.
"For real? You have to count?"
"We've been friends for a long time. A few texts here and there over the span of two weeks should be enough to maintain all we've built up. Am I wrong?"
"Of course not. But I'm lacking meat."
I point over her shoulder toward the buffet room. "Great rotisserie chicken in there."
"Meat as in juicy details of your life. Your dad, your mom, your feelings"—she winks—"your love life."
"Ah. Now we're getting somewhere."
"No, I totally care about your family and how you're feeling about everything. More so than needing to bribe you to kiss and tell."
"Did you say bribe?" I touch the bracelet at her wrist. "Speaking of. You like?"
"I like. So worth helping out your cause. Besides, I probably shouldn't admit this, but Chase has done more of the work."
"No. Shocker."
"Hey, I work hard."
"Did you say bribe?"
She huffs at me, which is a refreshing change from all her clicking. "You weren't supposed to latch onto that part."
I consider what to tell her. I fold my hands in front of me. "Dad's out of surgery. The surgeons said everything went well. So far his body isn't rejecting the kidneys. Now we wait. Then we change our lifestyle so he can keep his kidneys happy for a long, long time." I take a sip of coffee. "I’m okay. Probably in denial." I look at her. "There. That's a huge confession."
She leans back and crosses her arms.
"What? My mom's kind of a wreck, and yet holding it together pretty well. My family just got here. It's been mostly me and Mom since the beginning. I have no idea who Brady's girlfriend is, or if she's even his girlfriend."
"Oh, she's his girlfriend all right."
"Yeah, well." I take another sip. "I prayed to St. Jude."
"You turned Catholic?"
"I don't even know what that means. But I haven't turned anything. Mom asked for this card, and I don't know why or what for. Maybe my dad was Catholic when he was little."
She shrugs.
Then, the weirdest thing happens. Tears begin to tumble out of the corners of my eyes. Suddenly I’m telling her, "There was a boy. I think we fell in love, but his dad died. Yesterday. He and his mom left. He was so sad. And now he's gone forever." I'm sobbing now, head down on my folded arms, practically sprawled on the tabletop. I'm too tired to care that I'm making a display. At least, I figure, I'm aware of it. I haven't lost all my cookies. Yet.
May rounds the table and sits next to me, arms around me, and pats my back. Pets me. Like I'm Muffy. I wipe my eyes and cheeks on my sleeves and turn my head, leaving my ear resting on my forearm. I have to see what May's expression is. I expect her to look uncomfortable. In all our years as friends—four or five—I've never cried. Okay, that's not true. There were a few movies we watched during our overnight movie marathon sleepovers that I teared up over in front of her, but never over anything personal. But her eyes are warm, her eyebrows slightly raised, her lips smushed together in a straight line.
She gives me a soft smile. "Thank you for telling me. Have you called him since he left?"
"Called?"
"You know on that device in your hand we discussed about a minute ago?"
"No."
"Wouldn't you want him to call you if the situation were reversed?"
"Well, yes, but you didn't see him when it happened. He shut down, totally put space between us. I don't want to bother him."
"Bother him? You said you loved each other. Don't you think that he might need you? Need you to take the upper hand here? Be there for him whether he gives you a signal or not?"
"Am I being selfish?"
"No. You're being stupid. Call the poor guy."
I look at her. Look at my phone."
"His dad died. Call him." She stands up. "I'll be over by the elevators. Waiting. Call him. Now!"
I pick up my phone and type in his name. Once May is far enough away, I push send.
"This is Jax. Leave a message." Not even a ring first. He has his phone off. He doesn't want callers, doesn't want me to call. Or, in his turmoil he hasn't remembered to—hasn't had time to—charge it.
"Jax. It's me. Laine. I'm calling to see how you are. If there's anything I can do. If you want to talk. I'm here if you need me. Any time. Night or day." I can't bring myself to say I love him or to end with goodbye, so I hang up and stare at my phone for a while.
When it doesn't ring or do anything but silently lie there, I stand and find May to give her the disappointing news. I don't bore her with the details of my message to make sure I didn't sound foolish, and she doesn't badger me either.
I love him, and the least I can do is call him, check in to show support.
Whether or not he'll take it is another story, but the best I can do is continue to offer. Put myself out there. Put him first.
May's got our elbows locked together. I'm so grateful she's here.
"Thanks, May. I really needed to see you."
Her eyebrows go up. "You're welcome, friend. Anytime."
I lean my head on her shoulder and wait for the elevator doors to open, wondering what will come of the next few hours, coming to expect the unexpected on a minute-to-minute basis.
36
something good
"May, I forgot to tell you."
Her eyes pop open. We're dozing on the chairs in the family center again. Nobody is talking. We're in a corner, whispering. "Tell me what?"
"You look like a banana."
"Gee, thanks. I was going for sunshine."
She's got this amazing brown skin. Her grandpa is Haitian with a cool accent to go with it. Her cheeks have a natural, glowing peach hue.
And today her perpetually dyed strand of hair is yellow along with her long, flowing shirt and shoes. She's wearing white leggings and her nails alternate between yellow and white.
"You know," she adds. "Yellow is the color of hope. I think."
"You think? You came in a color you think is for hope? What if you've got it backwards? What if you came wearing the color symbol for tragedy or dread or disease? Maybe you should research before you plan for wardrobe symbolism."
"Wait, wait, wait. Red roses are for love, pink for friendship—maybe—white . . . well I don't remember what white is for, but yeah. Yeah, totally. Yellow roses are for hope."
"Well—"
"And I know how much you love roses, so I became the rose, instead of bringing you actual roses."
"Thoughtful. I thought you were a sunshine."
"Roses need sunshine to grow."
"Fine. Thanks."
"I'm not feeling your gratitude."
I link arms with her. "Thanks for putting thought into your wardrobe for my family's well-being. You're my best friend."
"Well. Duh. Feed me, best friend," she says with this pained look on her face.
I point to the up-for-grabs pile. "Help yourself."
"Puh-lease. That is not how one treats her best friend."
"Rotisserie chicken?"
"Haven't been able to stop thinking about it since you brought it up hours ago. BTW . . . any phone news?"
"Nope. Rien."
"Try again."
"What? I'm not going to be a pest."
"Suit yourself."
"Are you implying I'm selfish again?"
"Not at all."
I stand up and lead her back down to the cafeteria. Half my family follows, so we're like this Carroll parade. All the while I can't decide if she's made me feel selfish and guilty or irritated with her implications. I mean, I called. I'm not going to leave a ton of messages. That's annoying.
I'm not hungry, so while everyone else gets their food and eats, I round up a napkin and a pen with the hospital logo on it and draw out a face with a phone up to its ear and mouth. And a speech bubble with no words inside it. I consider erasing it but decide to leave it blank. I'm honestly speechless. There are no words I can say to him, but even if he calls and hears me breathing on the other end, maybe that will bring him something. If not comfort, then something else. I have to hope that I can still bring him something good.
I send the text to his phone. Charged or not, my little drawing will hang there until he's ready to receive it. To receive me again.
37
without
Hours pass and spread into another day, and the Carroll clan of visitors stand to hug us and grab their belongings. They'd dragged us to their hotel to swim and order pizza, to shower and sleep. I think Mom would sleep better standing up in the family center than in the most comfortable bed ten miles away. She looks lousy, sleep-deprived, and drained.
The hospital staff has been trying to convince her to stay in a home that's a mile or two away. It's a renovated seminary, and families of patients can stay there for free, though a donation is expected. I think they told her they're taking her little room away now that Dad's stay will be extended for an undetermined amount of time. I'm planning to pack a suitcase for her on my trip back this time. I can leave it in the car for whenever she's ready to give in to what the hospital staff is encouraging her to do.
Brady's driving Eva back to Madison but plans to return in a few hours so I can head home. Mom assures me it's okay for me to go. That we're playing a waiting game now, and there won't be any severe changes that I'd need to be near for. I'm doubtful, but everyone convinces me that I have responsibilities back home. Even May, and she won't afford me any room for bullshit.
"I wish you would drive back with me," she says.
"I know, but I have to be able to get back in a flash, and for sure in a few days. You'll still have school."
"I'm a senior. I'm supposed to skip school."
"Your mom. Your grandma. They would never forgive you."
"Or you."
"Exactly. And we all know I look out for my own hide first."
"That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it?"
Her face droops, and I think I've hurt her feelings, but her insinuations that I'm a constant inconsiderate brat hurt too. Sticking up for myself should feel better than it does, though.
"Sorry, May. You're a better friend than I deserve."
"Don't be stupid. One second you're overly confident, the next you're putting yourself down."
"Is there another Scarlett O'Hara trait in there?"
"Not at all. Find a happy medium, girl."
"I'll work on it."
Happy mediums, second chances, first impressions, sunshine and stars. For a rule follower, a routine setter, I'm starting to feel overwhelmed. The momentum I've had going all these years is starting to sputter and slow. May just run out. After everyone leaves, I feel like Mom looks. My arms and eyelids and hair hang too heavy.
I want to see Dad before I leave, but we're still not cleared. Brady texts that he's on his way back, and Mom says she'll be fine for an hour by herself, so she sends me on my way.
The next days are a blur, and I'm grateful to be reconnected with my home-school routine. Wake up, walk Muffy, run. School, committee work, set up for the Yearbook Bash—aka Senior Memory Fest, named by Chase—get caught up on final work and exams, schmooze Ms. Fulton who is meaner than ever, avoid Marc, spend a couple of nights at Mocha Monkey, a couple of nights at De la Vache. Drive back to Milwaukee for an eight-hour day with Mom on Wednesday, hurry back for a hostessing shift by four o'clock.
No texts come in.
No phone calls come in.
Thursday greets me with sunshine and birds chirping outside my bedroom window. Sleeping with the window open is refreshing and gives me crazy summer fever. I can't believe we're this close to graduation. This close to summer. This close to freedom and future.
So scary.
I never thought I'd feel that way.
I'm up early to run. Then, I stare once more at my acceptances and one rejection from universities around the nation.
I fill out the one I've chosen. Fill out a check. Lick the envelope and position the stamp. I take a drive to the post office. The metal door of the mail slot clangs as it slams shut.
Done deal.
I can't pull it back out.
I've made a decision. I expect to feel relief, but I don't. There's an emptiness. I'm devoid of emotion. There are no second chances here.
The day doesn't feel any different, like there's an event standing at the end of it. At lunch I check in with Epic Showdown again. After school I gather the student council together and we haul tables, cover them with tablecloths, some navy, some orange, our school colors. We haul a buffet table and begin to place the food as it's catered in. Sub sandwiches of all flavors. With that thought comes an immediate pain as I inwardly hear Jax's voice laughing at me, annoyed that I've called lunch meat a flavor. There's also soda, water, plates, cups, silverware. Cookies, bags of chips, fruit and veggie trays.
I almost call Epic Showdown one more time, but then they walk through the door, hauling a makeshift stage and all their band equipment: microphones, speakers, drums, you name it, they have it.
Within the hour, the gymnasium is filled with seniors. Relief settles my nervous cells. People came. Everyone is moseying around, signing each other's yearbooks, laughing, reminiscing. I'm standing in the center of the room, taking it all in. Turning in a slow, slow circle, I’m filled with gratitude. This is a new feeling for me. I'm so appreciative of every person in this room.
As Epic Showdown finishes their set up, I walk over and take their microphone. Their lead singer nods his head at me, or at least he juts a chin at me, and I take it as a nod. An okay to begin speaking and start the show.
"Hello," I call out to the seniors in the room. "Good afternoon." There's not a lull in any of the nois
e. I’m unnoticed, unheard. For the first time in my life, I feel like shrinking into the backdrop, fading into an invisible version of myself. I'm invisible, and that's humiliating. Epic Showdown strums an electric note on their guitars. My classmates turn their heads and freeze. I breathe and grin at the band members, grateful again. "Welcome to Senior Memory Fest."
"To my left is a table filled with food and drinks. Please help yourselves. There are garbage bins set up throughout the gymnasium. Please pitch in to keep the room clean. There are cups of pens and markers as a centerpiece at each of the tables. Feel free to use them as you spread your yearbooks out on the tables to sign for each other."
"I'm so grateful you all took time out of your busy schedules to fit in one final school event. Your friendships made high school bearable, and taking this afternoon to cement some images and words into the book you're holding may make some days and nights in your future bearable too. I've found that memories and people are as important as working toward a successful future. A motto, I'm thinking, many of you know me for. I'm proof that people change. That our minds are not always as made up as we think. Enjoy one another. Cherish one another. And cement those memories in your yearbook this afternoon."
They all stare at me without reaction. I clear my throat. "Anyway. Thanks so much for coming, for not leaving me in an empty room. This night would not be possible without the yearbook staff and the entire student council who set up these decorative tables, secured the caterer, and paid for the band." Everyone pauses to applaud the efforts of the groups I've led and worked alongside. "And also, my friends May Gegan and Chase Saucion." More applause. "And, speaking of the band, please, join me in welcoming the number one band in all of Wisconsin, Epic Showdown! Have a great night, friends."
As I walk away, I feel my phone vibrate. Pulling it out of my pocket, I glimpse a text from Jax: Visitation tonight. Funeral tomorrow. There's an address and some times, and that's it. Nothing personal. I'm thinking it's an invitation to join him, but does he want me there, or is he being cordial?
