An Illusion of Control

by Cecelia Earl

  Doesn't matter.

  I brief May. She and Chase convince me they've got the rest of the night handled. That I should go. I'm about to race out, but then May hands me a book.

  "What—?"

  "Your yearbook."

  "What?" I say again.

  "I bought you one."

  "Everyone signed it," Chase tells me. "Don't read it now, but you're more liked than you know."

  May taps the cover where she wrote in purple marker: You're the best of the best. I love you, crazy girl.

  I hug her and grab her book. On the inside of the back cover, I write: Behind every great friend, is an even better friend. Thanks for always being there for me. Much love always.

  I smack my hand to my lips and toss a kiss into the air as I rush off, away from this life, toward one that no longer exists.

  But the words much love always ring through my ears.

  Much love always.

  Always.

  I'm on my way, Jax.

  38

  silhouette

  "Come on, Edna," I tell my phone. "Can't you make traffic move out of my way?" I left at the worst possible time to arrive in Milwaukee. I may as well have left two hours later and I'd still arrive at the same time. "No, buddy. Do not cut me off. Do not even think—" Cue laying on the horn.

  All this frantic laying off of and stepping on the gas pedal is at least taking my mind off Jax. The slow-moving scenery of the previous hour gave me too much time to think.

  Thinking when you're in love and heartbroken is a bad, bad thing.

  After so much—so little—time has passed, I've started to forget the details of Jax, the exact way his smile curves up. The exact height he rises to when I reach to kiss his lips. He's becoming a silhouette against the busy background of my life, hung there on pause, with the world racing around behind his back.

  His eyes, however. His eyes I'll never forget. His eyes were like coming home that first night we spent talking—and not talking—in the family center. The night when we met and everything changed.

  Finally, I break free of the traffic. My car is on autopilot. The address of the funeral home is programmed into my phone and Edna, the name I gave my phone, is directing me through, guiding every turn and exit.

  What she can't do, however, is guide my emotions, program me to say the right things. I sit in my car for a full ten minutes before I pocket Edna and brave making my way into the funeral home.

  I enter into a wide hallway, wide enough to house chairs, end tables, and couches. Three viewing rooms are spaced out along the hall. I find the one with Weiland written on a plaque outside it, posted on a column that rises two feet off the ground. Also on the podium is a picture of Jax's dad. Jax resembles him around his eyes. His eye color, the shape of his eyebrows, his forehead.

  I can't imagine how Jax feels to have lost his dad. I can't believe the man in this picture is no longer living. I'm scared to see the pain in Jax's eyes. Scared to feel the pain with him. When did life start to scare me so?

  And yet, in I go. I'm in the back of a long line of people, mostly older. Everyone is dressed up, suits, ties, skirts, necklaces, lipstick. I try to peer over and around them, to find out what we're waiting for. The line curves around a seating area filled with chairs, though nobody is sitting. It seems about twenty feet from where I stand after having walked through the doors, there is a book to sign in. Do I want to sign in?

  Then, everyone is waiting to pass by Jax, his mom, his sister. They are standing and greeting everyone in the line. Oh. And there is his dad. There'd been a wall blocking the center of the room from the entrance, but now that I'm farther in, I can see that his dad is lying in a coffin against the back wall. Jax moves that way now, glances at his dad, turns his back to him, and smiles at the elderly women who step up to hug him. He can't seem to stop grinning. It's a plastic grin. Creepy grin. I've never seen it on his face before.

  It's worse than the sadness I'd expected to see.

  I wonder which smile I'm wearing, and now I'm panicking that I'm wearing a similar one to his and I'll freak him out. My plan is to comfort him, not scare him

  I take deep breaths. Calm down. Calm it down, girl.

  He and his family are like mannequins. A step or two one way or another, but mostly they hold fast to their positions around the room. I will pass his mom first. Her sister, Jax’s tia, is a few feet behind her. Margaret is about ten feet after her in the makeshift line of greeters, and her grandma is standing beside her. So many people stop to hug and talk.

  Flowers and plants adorn the walls and are displayed on each side of the casket. Ribbons hang from some: Godfather, Father, Brother, Husband. There are garden tiles, a garden bench. Next to the sign-in book is a prayer card. I grab one. There are footprints stamped in sand on one side, Jax's dad's name and death date on the back, along with a prayer of some sort. I don't have time to read it because someone behind me clears her throat. I'm on the move, heading toward the wide open spaces next to the wide open chairs. I wonder why the place bothered with chairs.

  I opt to hug Jax's mom, briefly explain that we'd met at the hospital.

  "Oh, yes. How is your dad doing?"

  Cue dry mouth. "Um, okay. He's had surgery. Transplant surgery."

  "What an answer to your prayers. A beautiful thing, to receive a transplant organ. My Jonah was a donor. I can only hope that someone was given life because of him. That would bring me such peace."

  I can't believe I'd do this at this time, but I start to cry. Not blubbery or anything, but embarrassing tears slip down my cheeks nonetheless. The best I can do is nod and offer a close-lipped smile.

  "Oh, my dear." She squeezes my shoulders. "Find Jax. He will be so happy to see you."

  Margaret is excited to see me. She squeals and hugs me, taps me on the head, drags me over to Jax, who does not look as pleased as everyone seems to think he will.

  His eyes barely skim over the top of my head, as if he can't bear to look at my face, in my eyes. He stoops to hug me and then shocks me by whispering in my ear, "Have you come to rescue me?"

  I nod, eyes filling with tears again. He takes me by the hand and excuses himself, motioning to his mother that he's going to get a drink.

  "Let's find the bottled water. They're probably downstairs."

  When we get downstairs, there's a counter covered with little sandwiches, grapes, and some cookies. There are juice boxes and bottles of water.

  "Nice. Who stocked this? Does the funeral home provide this?" I ask, for lack of more appropriate conversation.

  "No idea. I think one of my aunts brought it all."

  He's chugs half a bottle of water. Of all times for my stomach to decide to regain its appetite, it seems to be drawn toward the little sandwiches. I hold myself back.

  "Sit with me a bit? Or are you in a hurry?"

  "Hurry? No, I'm here for as long, or as little, as you need me."

  We sit at a high-top table that's covered in mosaic tiles arranged into a swirling pattern. Around the perimeter there's black and white with flourishes of blue. The center has red tiles pieced together against a background of white and blue, to resemble a red bird, a cardinal maybe.

  I don't know what possesses me to say what I do, but the words are out before I even think what to say and what not to say. "I used to think my grandpa came back to visit as a cardinal, after he'd died. I always felt like he was watching me whenever I saw one." I look up at Jax, expecting he'll tell me how he's feeling about his dad in Heaven, what signs he's had. "Has your dad sent you any signs?"

  My expectations were wrong. Dead wrong.

  Jax looks angry.

  "Everyone thinks their loved one sends a cardinal as a signal. It's unoriginal. I haven't even had a dream about my dad yet." He chugs the rest of his water. "Besides, if you don't believe in the afterlife and believe that death is the end, then how can you think a cardinal would be from your grandpa? Do you believe in reincarnation? Either you believe in an afterlife
, or you don't. You can't have it both ways."

  "I—you're right. I don't know what I was thinking. No, I don't believe in reincarnation."

  His face looks conflicted, torn between apology and irritation.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you. It's the opposite of what I wanted."

  "What you wanted."

  "I mean. I—"

  "There's no amount of food, no amount of hugs, nothing that can undo my dad's accident, bring him back to us. I know you want to comfort me, and I appreciate it. I do, but there's nothing you can do or say."

  "Accident?"

  "Yeah, he'd been riding his motorcycle when he was jackhammered into by a truck that ran a stop sign. Plowed right into my dad."

  My hands are at my mouth. I'm breathing through my fingers.

  "I was supposed to be with him that day, but instead I went over to a friend’s to help his mom carry a new refrigerator into their house. Who knows what might have changed if I'd been with him."

  I shake my head. My Jax could've been gone. We'd never have met.

  "Maybe we'd have gone slower, the truck would've missed us both."

  I shake my head again. This is not my Jax, the one with prayer and faith. He's so lost right now. I reach for his hands. He watches as I fold our hands together. For a moment, his eyes stay fixated on our hands, his eyes soften and his clenched jaw relaxes. I hold my breath.

  "I should go," he says, untangles our fingers, and stands.

  I nod. "Okay, me too," I say, only it comes out more like a question.

  "Yeah," he tells me. "Okay."

  And that's it. I follow him, watch him step back inside the visitation room, imagine him repositioning himself in front of his dad, and I leave. I drive back to the hospital, where I also reposition myself in front of my dad since we're finally admitted in to see him again, though he's still asleep.

  The transplant team comes in to meet with us, and I'm struck by the integrity of the group. They're like parts of one body, moving in sync.

  Transplant team.

  Team.

  I see how they work together, each one a specialist in one thing or another, but equally vital. I think about what a school specializing in educating and training surgeons would look for prospective students. Leadership, sure, but not independent leadership. Not a leader who works alone. A "one-man team" as Ms. Fulton put it merely three weeks or so ago at the dance I ran solo.

  Shit. I drop my head in my hands.

  She was right.

  My entire path to this moment, my marathon of accomplishments, I ran solo. I carried my own water bottles, never stopped to thank the volunteers manning the Gatorade stations along the way, never joined a training team. Nothing. I boasted about doing it all myself. I felt dignified and glorified that I never needed anyone, that I could more than manage, that I could make it all happen—alone.

  Why was I so proud to be alone all the time?

  Here, in this sad, scary place, I didn't want to be alone. From the first moment I stepped through that awful revolving door, I wanted someone to lean on. I'd found Jax, and even St. Jude.

  That prayer was meant for me to find. To ask for help so that I wouldn't have to be alone, but it didn't mean only when I'm feeling hopeless.

  It meant for always.

  For happy times, and nervous times, and times when I'm pigheaded, opinionated, and bossy.

  Thankfully I've always had May to keep me humble, but I didn't even appreciate her fully until recently. Nor did I really listen, because I always thought I was right. I only thought about myself, and what I wanted, my goals, my future.

  No wonder John Hopkins University turned me down.

  May calls and I excuse myself from Dad's room to the hallway outside the elevators.

  "What's up?" I ask.

  "Hi, Laine," she says, tongue clicking.

  "Did you do that on purpose," I ask.

  "Do what? What'd I do?"

  "You tongue clicked."

  "Did I?"

  "You don't sound surprised."

  "Yeah. Nope . . . ." She paused for a long time. "Look. I'm not going to beat around the bush."

  "Please don't."

  "I'm pretty sure you've secured the senior classmate vote for valedictorian."

  "And that gives you cause to tongue click at me because . . . ?"

  "There's one more stipulation. There was an announcement today."

  "Okay. I can take it."

  "You have to write and turn in your speech. The speeches will be ranked, and the winner of the speech contest, along with the class votes, will be named valedictorian."

  "May, don't doubt me. I am a speech writer and deliverer champion."

  "Deliverer?"

  "Yeah, well, maybe I'll need a proofreader. Would you, please?"

  "Yeah, sure." Tongue click.

  "Then I'm as good as in, right? We're a duo, a team, nobody can mess with us. Remember that time at Lucy Fox's Christmas party—"

  "Ms. Fulton."

  "What?"

  "Ms. Fulton is the judge of the speech contest portion. Your being named valedictorian rests on her decision."

  "I have to turn my speech into her? And she is the sole decision maker?"

  "Yup." She pops the p at the end of the word like she's popping the balloon I've been riding on up to the moon and back. I'm free-falling in this unstable basket that's wibbling and wobbling and perfectly content to dump me to the ground in a heap of broken bones and tissues sopping with tears.

  "Okay."

  "Okay? You're giving up?"

  "Never. I'm going to write the best speech I can. The one I've planned in my head over and over the past few years. I’ll turn it in and compete like everyone else."

  "And you're okay with this?"

  "May the best senior win."

  "And you're fine with this?"

  "May, please. Nothing is ever fine. Even when it is."

  She sighs.

  "But, yeah. I think I am. Fine with it."

  The next morning, I drive around the city, knowing where St. Jude's Church is since Jax pointed it out that night we'd eaten pizza at his house together, but unsure if that's where the funeral will be, and unsure if he wants me there or not. I pull into the lot and find one empty space.

  The church is filled with people. Organ music is playing from somewhere up above, and I've never seen such a beautiful space. This church is nothing like the one May goes to on Sundays. There are rows of pews on either side of a center aisle. The floor is patterned and leads to a fantastical altar. The walls are yellow, and white trim and buttresses draw my eyes to the center of the ceiling. A cross hangs behind an altar at the far front of the room.

  It's beautiful and serene. I find a pew in the back that's unoccupied and sit. I see other people come in and kneel, cross themselves, and I become self-conscious that I'll stand out not knowing what to do or how to act. It's not long before the casket is wheeled in followed by a procession of family. Jax is right behind the coffin and his eyes are red-rimmed. He stares straight ahead, until the moment when he passes my pew. As if he senses me somehow, his eyes find mine. I nod, slow and heart-filled, but his head returns to his stony, forward-facing stance. At least he knows I came. He knows I'm here for him.

  But after the final readings are read and songs are sung, after Jax's mom speaks and after Jax gets up to stand at the podium to speak, my heart is in flames and I have to leave. I need to break down in my car. Once people start to flock to their cars, I reverse and make my way to the hospital by my dad.

  Yup, I really am just fine.

  39

  shotgun

  I drive Mom and her suitcase to the home the hospital gave us directions to. She goes into the reception room and tells them her situation, writes out a check for her donation. I wander around. There are stairs leading up to landings with three rooms per landing. Off this main floor there's a room with a fireplace and several couches. A room with more couches and a piano. A room w
ith a pool table and shelves of boardgames and movies. Outside there is a playset for children. I return to the main hallway and sit on a bottom step to wait for Mom. While I wait, I read the back of Jax's dad's prayer card.

  Footprints in the Sand

  One night I had a dream . . .

  I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord, and

  Across the sky flashed scenes from my life.

  For each scene I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand;

  One belonged to me, and the other to the Lord.

  When the last scene of my life flashed before us,

  I looked back at the footprints in the sand.

  I noticed that many times along the path of my life,

  There was only one set of footprints.

  I also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times in my life.

  This really bothered me, and I questioned the Lord about it.

  "Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you,

  You would walk with me all the way;

  But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life,

  There is only one set of footprints.

  I don't understand why in times when I

  needed you the most, you should leave me.

  The Lord replied, "My precious, precious

  child. I love you, and I would never,

  never leave you during your times of

  trial and suffering.

  When you saw only one set of footprints,

  It was then that I carried you.”

  I hope Jax is being carried now. I hope he's carried right back to believing and finding the faith and strength he'd had before.

  Once I help Mom carry her suitcase upstairs where there are two queen-sized beds for the nights I stay, I drive her back to the hospital. May meets us there to drive me home for my shift at De la Vache. Mom needs her car now. She looks a little stronger today. The independence, getting out of the hospital for a few hours at a time will be good for her.

  "Be back in a few days, Mom."

  "I'll be fine," she tells me. "Really."