Martin’s name is posted next to an open door. His parents stand against the inside wall of his room, neglecting chairs that surround a not-yet-visible bed. Bouquets are everywhere space allows.
Tragedy makes people so efficient.
Mama Dorothy is more than I expected. She swims in Martin’s football jersey, shorter and stouter than I calculated. I can smell baked goods and cigarettes on her. His dad’s not the Jim Carrey via The Majestic I had predicted though. Not an ounce. He’s very tall and very thin, as if his entire existence is extremities. Very pointed noise. Very sharp jaw. Very kind eyes.
I tiptoe in, my heart beating up into my throat. Mama Dorothy takes one look and pulls me to her chest, not a word of introduction spoken between us. She rubs my back in soothing circles, her head nestled into my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McGee,” I whisper.
She jerks me away from her. “Please. It’s Mama Dorothy.”
I fumble over my words for an apology. She tidies my ponytail and kisses my forehead. I can’t tell if she’s mistaken me for someone else or if this is just her being her. I look to Mr. McGee, and he offers a vague, “Nice to see you.”
I turn to Martin.
It’s a lot to take in. He’s half a person. Literally. The right side of his face is so swollen that it looks fake. I gasp and well up, taken by the gravity of the matter.
This looks like television. A daytime soap opera in dimmer lighting.
But it’s real, I remind myself. And familiar, somehow. His battered self makes me think of the dream I had last night. I was at graduation. And he was there, covered in blood and shards of glass.
I shake my head in disbelief.
Nausea hits, a by-product of my speedy and dizzying descent into the life and near-death of Martin McGee.
• • •
Something is off about this dream though. I thought you couldn’t actually, you know in one. That’s what Katie always says. I guess I didn’t really, you know earlier. I was in the process of you know-ing.
Don’t want to think it because I’m afraid it’s a jinx, but I mean being, uh, not quite alive.
• • •
We stand in silence, looking at Martin. On his good side, I notice his eyelashes are quite long. They rest along his upper cheekbone, fanning out from corner to corner. His eyeballs move beneath the lids. My pulse jumps, and so do I, automatically, like a grasshopper avoiding a footstep. If Martin wakes up, I will be the first person he sees.
Mama Dorothy lets out a sharp ha, not meant to be mean but definitely laced with something bitter. “They say it’s normal,” she tells me. “I’ll take it. Means my Marty’s still fighting in there.”
A strange, piercing ache pings in my chest. A part of me, selfishly, unfairly, wanted to be the first face he sees. Maybe to prove to myself that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. My personal stuff can wait. What’s one more day?
I pinch my arm. I’m thinking this while looking at someone who might die. Die. One more day is a lot.
All throughout graduation, I tried not to let myself glimpse more than his profile. I figured if I knew what he looked like, then everything I had started to feel between us would be real. And I couldn’t do real.
Now, I notice a fresh tan line cutting his neck in half. Must be from the dress shirt under his gown. Little craters of scalp are showing from where a razor pulled in too tight on the sides of his head. It will all even out in a week’s time because he’s a boy, and they are lucky like that. They never seem to wear mistakes for long.
This is so intimate. A privilege not ever granted to near strangers, watching someone sleep, studying the intricate details of their being. I can’t help but fixate on a faint scar above his upper lip. Mama Dorothy and Mr. McGee stay perched along the wall like they don’t want to get too close, but they can’t bear to be too far.
Why am I not afraid to be so close? It’s not right. Or normal. It’s driving extra slow past an accident to gather up as many details as I can. I force myself to turn away. The second my body pivots, Mama Dorothy wraps her arms around me once again.
“What’s happening?” I ask, a question more for myself than her.
“Nothing we can’t handle,” Mama Dorothy says.
This is too much. I wiggle out and walk away, trying not to look back but unable to stop myself. The McGees wave. The nurse does too.
They don’t even know my name.
• • •
In my heart I know that when it happens to me for real, I’ll be a one-hundred-year-old dude, sitting on my front porch kicking back a fine bottle of whiskey and telling stories to my great-grandkids. I’ll finish up the one about how I charmed Grandma. They will all know the tale by heart, but they will listen like it’s the first time they’ve ever heard it. I will tell it like it’s the first time I’ve ever lived it. It will choke me up, and I will excuse myself to go upstairs. I’ll fall asleep holding a picture of her, never to wake up again.
Mina Lonigan and Brooke Delgado. Those are the only girls I’ve ever dated, which is not too bad for an eighteen-year-old. But neither one of them was close to being my lucky lady for life. I’m looking forward to that. Finding a girl who likes talking to me when I don’t feel like being Fly. Who tolerates sports enough to go to games with Katie, her husband, and me. Who keeps my bullshit in check but doesn’t mind when I air-guitar the classics in the middle of a grocery store.
A girl who calls me Martin.
Somewhere way down the line, like in my late twenties or something, I plan on getting my life together.
For now, I need to wake up.
• • •
I get as far as the elevator before I collapse, tucking my body into a corner. The wall hugs my right side and a gigantic potted plant holds my left. Without these surfaces, I’d surely combust. My body would crack open and let all the strange things inside of me spill out onto this shiny linoleum floor.
My phone, long neglected in my pocket, vibrates. I pull it out to see eight missed calls and six voicemails from my parents. It’s clear Jessica did not tell them where she’d taken me. Nice.
My eyes skim for any interesting texts and land upon Mr. Valedictorian himself, Steve Taggart.
Word on the street is that I won’t be seeing you at Notre Dame after all. Is it true? You always did have a hard time with math. I have some packets from middle school if you need them.
Of course he’d find out. If anyone cares more than my parents about my rapid descent in class rank, it’s Steve. I couldn’t be in less of a mood for his backward flirtation, and I don’t want to even go near the parental drama I’ve stirred up. I close out of my texts and open Instagram to type in Martin McGee. How unfair to meet his face in its damaged state. While I’m safe in my corner, I have to know who he used to be. The small little circle of a photo meant to represent him is a picture of young Michael J. Fox. His most recent picture is a body shot of him standing on what looks to be a beer pong table, cape around his neck, hands stretched to the side as if he’s flying. The time stamp tells me it’s over three years old. I pinch the screen to zoom in on his face. It’s pixelated, but I see Mama Dorothy in his grin. The rest of his account pictures are of Cubs players or different pairs of sneakers.
I scroll through his tagged photos. Not one of them ever gets close to his face. He’s always turned away from the camera. Turrey, from the vending machine yesterday and the waiting room today, is in almost all of them. It makes sense why he stared me down. He is a member of the innermost circle of Martin’s social group, one that probably has the rings of an ancient tree, and he knows I come from a different world altogether.
“Hey,” a voice calls out to me. “Who are you?”
Like the universe heard my thoughts and brought him to me, it’s Turrey. He walks up to my potted plant corner, investigating my suspicious nature without hesitation. He picks u
p the plant and scoots it over so he has room to sit beside me.
“I’m Petra,” I tentatively answer, as if that may or may not be who I am.
“You know Fly?”
I decide to be honest. “Kind of. He sat next to me at graduation.”
“And you’re here?”
He’s so to the point with all of his statements that I get that helpless feeling that comes along every so often, like when I’ve misplaced an assignment or slept through an alarm. “I just feel really bad about what happened.”
“I’m Mike.”
“I thought your name was Turrey.”
“Are you some kind of stalker? That’s my last name.”
“Oh,” I say, shrinking by the second. Turrey’s fast-talking, quick-thinking, ball-busting confidence gives me whiplash. It makes me too confused to break open, which is the only plus side.
“I’ve seen you before,” he says.
“Hm,” I answer, not sure where this is going. “I don’t think I know you.”
“That’s cool…” He drifts off, his interest directed more toward the plant than me. “Wanna get out of here? Fly’s got another surgery in half an hour. We’ll come back after.”
If there is a course correction to be made, a way to stop myself from dropping farther down the rabbit hole, I can’t see it. So while falling, I might as well fall spectacularly.
“Sure,” I say.
7
I’m pretty done with this dream, and the somewhere, everywhere, nowhere place I am. It’s making me think of the time Mama Dorothy hauled me to the mall super early to hunt for Black Friday deals. I got separated from her, and a bunch of competitive adults swept me up in their pack. They figured I belonged to another woman among them. Thought my crying had to do with the usual little boy problems. Boredom. Hunger. Tiredness. Lack of toys. At some point, I started holding my breath, sick of that weird Williams-Sonoma smell all older ladies at the mall carry with them. About to pass out, I swayed into this blond woman with bug eyes and lipstick on her teeth. She looked at me and said, “Little one, who is your mommy?”
I got returned to Mama D, and after she chewed out every person who would listen, and some who wouldn’t, we went home. We had to take the bus because I wouldn’t unwrap my arms from around her hips. “If anything ever happens to you again,” she said, “don’t worry. I’ll always find you. I’ll handle it.”
It’s like I’m there again, stuck in the middle of a tornado with no one bothering to notice yet. I’d really like for my mom to walk into my bedroom right now and shake me awake. You know, find me and handle it.
• • •
When in doubt, mall it out. Even I live by this rule. It’s the universal, uniting space for all social groups. Turrey—I feel oddly more comfortable calling him that than Mike—drives us here without asking. The wheels of his truck are hiked up so high it’s like cliff diving to reach land, so he walks around to my side and extends his hand out to help me down. Neglecting his gesture, I leap.
Catapulted forward, I’m instead hurtling myself out of Ryan’s Jeep, the air acting as a temporary harness, holding me up as words twist around, taking cruel shapes in my mind. The pavement stings my shins on impact, releasing me to the present.
I’m here.
It’s just a memory.
I’m here.
“Okay?” Turrey asks.
My hands are sweaty, and I’m digging my fingernails into my palms, standing idly outside of Turrey’s gigantic truck. Not Ryan’s Jeep. “I just like to do it myself.”
Turrey shakes his head and starts walking toward the entrance. I don’t bother keeping pace because he’s not much for small talk, which I appreciate, especially now, rattled by the aftershocks of what just worked its way to the surface.
Turrey heads to the food court, and our respectful silence is broken only by the word, “Pizza?” To which I nod. As we wait in line, I text Cameron.
Today’s even weirder than yesterday
What?
Why?
Did you go back to the hospital?
Yeah
I saw him
WHAT?!
Yeah. His sister told me to go see him
So I did
It was so weird
I don’t know why I did it
OMG Petra
What’d he look like
A mummy basically
But he’s alive
Just unconscious
He has another surgery today
Omg
What are you doing now
We’re swimming at Daniels!
You should come!
I want to hear more about this
I can’t
I’m at the mall with Mike Turrey
I’m sorry. Who?!??
I’ll explain later
We get our pizza and find a table. Turrey smothers his slice of sausage with unfathomable amounts of cheese. “Need some?” he asks. He hands it to me. It’s not a question. I give the shaker a few smacks over my cheese and set it down. “So?” he says as a precursor to his first bite. “What’s your deal?”
“My deal?” Our car ride broke some barriers. He’s a little less intimidating now that we’ve both hummed along to Top 40 radio together.
“Exactly,” he responds, like, Figure it out on your own. I’m not getting more specific.
I mimic his confidence. It always helps to pretend. “You first.”
“Played a lot of sports, but just basketball and football this year. Going to ISU.”
“Okay. I ranked eleventh in the class. Did a lot of activities. No sports. Going to Notre Dame.” My default answer spills out of my mouth before I remember that it’s not the way I want to define myself. And that it’s not exactly true, anyways.
Turrey laughs at me the way most people do. Intimidated, impressed, and somewhat embarrassed. For themselves or for me, I’ve never been able to determine.
Suddenly I want to let out a little of my mess. “Actually, I might not be able to go,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t technically graduate.”
He coughs on his straw. “What?”
“Yeah.”
Turrey looks away from his pizza to recalibrate his image of me. “I thought you were Miss Eleventh in the Class?”
Just graduated. “I am.” He looks confused. “It’s complicated. I missed my Honors Algebra II final last year. Instead of failing me, Ms. Hornsby gave me an incomplete, so my GPA got weighed differently than it would’ve if I’d gotten a letter grade. It’s kind of confusing, but basically she helped me out.”
“Damn. Hornsby straight up stole my phone for a week when she caught me texting during an assembly.” He shakes his head. “How’d you get her to do that?”
His reaction is unexpectedly understated. I exhale a bit. “Well, before I was Miss Eleventh, I was Miss Second. I’m not great at math, but I always tried really hard, and I did all of Ms. Hornsby’s ridiculous extra credit assignments, which she liked. No one does those. She told me I could retake the exam at the beginning of this year or repeat the class. I didn’t do either. Then she said I could take the test during winter finals. I didn’t. Without the credit, my rank fell. Now the administration’s agreed to let it be a pass or fail mark instead of a letter grade, so I meet the minimum course requirements to graduate.”
“That sure is a lot of strings getting pulled on your behalf. You realize that, right?”
“Yeah. I do.” My heavy tongue chokes my words until they’re nothing but dead syllables. “Juniors take the final on Monday. That’s my last chance.”
“You going?”
It’s a complicated question, and there are too many ways to answer, so I do what I always do: keep quiet.
Turrey’s fa
ce contorts into an expression resembling a crinkled paper bag. “Whatever happened, you can’t fix it by ignoring it. They’re giving you a chance people like me don’t get. You understand? You need to take it.”
I nod. I do understand.
To change the subject, I go in big. “So, how do you know Martin?”
Turrey laughs. “Haven’t heard anyone other than a teacher call him that in, like, ten years. Fly’s my oldest friend. You know Spits?”
I shake my head.
“He was driving.”
“Oh.”
Turrey devours the rest of his slice then dabs at the corners of his mouth. “It’s weird as hell that you came, but Fly’d like knowing some random smart girl rolled up to check on him,” he says.
“I’m glad.”
“Fly’s pretty smart too. He doesn’t think we know, but his mom’s always bragging.”
“Where’s he going to school?”
“He’s taking a year off to save up for ISU with me and Spitty. Brooke’s trying to get money for the hospital stuff through some crowdfunding page she made.”
He brought her up first, so I crack the small window of opportunity open. “Brooke’s his girlfriend, right?”
Turrey belly laughs. He sips on his Mountain Dew. “They mess around.”
I offer him a polite nod and pick up the last bite of my pizza, wondering what Ryan told his high school friends about me last year. If I come up in conversation with his new college friends or if he erased me from his history like I’ve done to him. A life chapter never spoken aloud by either side.
“Why? You wanna date Fly?” Turrey asks.
The question sets my face on fire. I just know Turrey’s the type to comment on the way I’m blushing, so I bite down on my tongue to stop myself from feeling anything other than a burst of pain. “I barely know him,” I say to diffuse.
He throws his head back in hysterics, clutching at the air to hold on to the laughter seizing him. “Says the girl who’s missing finals and shit to come to the hospital.”
What You Left Me Page 5
