All These Lives

by Wylie, Sarah

  Once upon a late night or an early, early morning, I thought too long about all these things.

  And then I opened my eyes.

  one

  34

  You always expect more to have changed, when you’ve been gone for any significant amount of time. There’s something about being away that warps time, stretches it out like spandex where you least expect it and crams it close together when you’re not looking.

  I’m expecting it to be spring when I wake up. But it’s still only almost spring, same as it was when I was lost in a snowless winter storm, and didn’t notice.

  As if to reassure me that this is the world I left behind—not one of those parallel universes people in movies find themselves in after a near-death experience—my first day back at school after two weeks, I arrive late, with my father by my side, helping me through the door on my crutches.

  In any other scenario, it would be deeply thrilling having a man open doors for me, someone to lean on for support and to pull out my chair. Now, though, it’s mortifying.

  “You can go now,” I whisper to him. He’s holding the door open for me as I limp through. I have one of those fat leg braces, which I have to admit to being proud of. It’s just a bad sprain, but it looks dramatic. And although my fractured rib is supposed to heal in the next month or so, I’m excused from gym class for the rest of the year. Mom called and worked out a nice little system in which she and Dad take turns dropping me off at Harry-with-an-i’s office for therapy when everyone else has gym.

  I can’t wait to brag about this one. While they work up a sweat and invent menstrual cramps to get out of P.E., the only time I perspire is reaching for a handful of M&M’s. And, of course, transporting warehouse-sized bags of the things into the back of Dad’s car—an undertaking which is entirely his these days, what with my condition. The truth is, I’m lucky I didn’t get hurt more than I did.

  “Hello there.” Mr. Halbrook rises, putting down whatever book he was reading and walking toward us. “How are you doing, Danielle? And you must be Mr. Bailey.”

  “That’s me.” Dad sticks out his hand and shakes Halbrook’s. While I force my way through, Dad and Mr. Halbrook continue to talk, presumably about me, history, or other boring stuff. The classroom is quieter than usual, with heads ducked down, pencils scratching paper. Did someone warn Halbrook ahead of time that a Parent was coming? Probably. Why else would they be doing actual work?

  Jack’s eyes meet mine, but I don’t sit next to him because National Science Fair champion Toby, who has always had it in for me and has just been waiting for an opportunity to take my place (this just proves it), has made himself comfortable in my former seat.

  I look away from Jack first and sit in the nearest empty chair. Lauren waves and smiles at me, glancing at Halbrook to ensure he didn’t see before going back to her work. Clearly she’s still trying to redeem herself after her brief and mildly entertaining detour into delinquency. I notice that Rachel Talbot and her trusty Fruit Roll-Up are conspicuously absent.

  As Dad and my math teacher continue to talk, I pretend not to notice that more than half the class keeps glancing my way, stage-whispering about my return. I wonder what they are saying. Are they scared of me? Do they think I’m some unbalanced freak waiting to kill someone other than myself?

  “So,” I say, speaking above the whispers. “What’s everyone been up to?”

  When no one rushes to respond, I continue, just wanting to get past this awkward “the girl that tried to kill herself is back” phase. “Don’t all answer at once.” Silence. “Well, in that case, let me start us off. My two weeks were pretty uneventful. On Tuesday, I went—”

  Dad and Mr. Halbrook are both looking at me now. My father looks slightly incredulous. All this time, he’d chalked me up as the quiet, unassuming, nondisruptive kind.

  “Dani?”

  “Yeah, Dad?” I turn to the girl on my left, a German exchange student. “This is my dad, everyone, by the way. I think he secretly longs to come back to high school and relive his glory days, which is why he’s still here.”

  Using politics to worm his way into Halbrook’s heart.

  “Um, Danielle?” Mr. Halbrook interrupts. “Your classmates are in the middle of a test.”

  Well, that might explain the whispering, but I’m not convinced. “Wait. I don’t have to take it, do I?”

  “He means,” Dad whispers, “be quiet.” It’s too late, though. The kids he’s pleading with me not to distract are mostly all looking up from their papers, Mathistory the furthest thing from their minds.

  “Actually,” Halbrook says, his eyes lighting up like the next word out of his mouth should be Eureka!, “it is really just a short in-class essay to see how much you learned from the projects you did. Why don’t you attempt it?”

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Dad says.

  “But I haven’t had a chance to prepare.”

  Mr. Halbrook is already making his way to his desk, picking up a piece of paper. “I want you to try it anyway. I know you missed our class discussions, but you did the assignment.”

  If my dad wasn’t standing here, so hopeful about my possibilities and my potential, blinded by my angelic actions and noble contributions toward humanity, I might put up a larger fight with Halbrook, threaten to tell my parents or the school board or something.

  Instead, I just sigh and ask to borrow a pen as a piece of paper lands in front of me.

  I stare at the page, my eyes glazing over the words. None of this makes sense. And yeah, I never listen in class, but since when were we contrasting the presidencies of FDR and Lincoln? Since when was FDR president?

  I stick up my hand.

  “Yes, Danielle?”

  “Does FDR stand for Federal Dominion of Russia?”

  “What?” Both Dad and Halbrook look surprised.

  It’s probably a good time for my lips to start quivering. “I don’t understand what any of this means.”

  Lauren’s hand shoots up, but she doesn’t wait for Halbrook to give her the okay to speak. “Am I the only one who’s super distracted?”

  Halbrook sighs.

  “Danielle.” Dad’s eyes send me a warning.

  My hand goes up again. Halbrook comes right to my desk this time. “What’s the problem?” Then all of a sudden, “Oh! Sorry, this isn’t the test. This is just a, er, draft for the book I’m working on.”

  “You’re writing a book?”

  Lauren sighs loudly and tells me to please God shut up. She has to do well on this.

  Halbrook nods, handing me another piece of paper.

  The question at the top: What did you learn from your assignment on the history of mathematics?

  I sigh, shutting my eyes and tracing the bruises on my left cheek with my finger.

  “Dani, come on. What are you doing?” Dad whispers beside me.

  This is a nightmare. “Dad, can you please leave? There’s no way I can concentrate with you here.”

  “You didn’t even bring a pen.”

  “I thought,” I spit, “that today might be more homecoming, less school. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m über popular.”

  Dad shakes his head, looks like he’s about to say something else, but finally just pats my shoulder. “Do your best, okay?”

  Then he says goodbye to Mr. Halbrook, waves at Jack Penner—did I mention the part where this is a nightmare?—and stalks out of the room.

  With him gone, I can safely put my head on the desk and drop the pen in my hand.

  I know I’m supposed to be turning over a new leaf and everything, but this test doesn’t even seem doable.

  I make the mistake of opening my eyes. Jack is staring at me. For the longest time, I stare back, trying to figure out if he’s telepathically communicating answers to me, or mouthing them, or why the hell he’s staring at me.

  I’m bruise-faced and about forty-four percent less attractive than I was the last time he saw me, so that could be
it.

  Maybe he’s not looking at me, but through me.

  He might also be wishing that the other sister came to school and this one stayed home.

  I don’t know what he’s thinking, so I look away again.

  I pick up my pen and stare at it for a while.

  If I write my name, he has to give me at least one point. Maybe. I don’t know why teachers don’t count that. A week ago, I couldn’t have written my name. Thirteen years ago, I couldn’t have, either. And seventeen years ago, I didn’t have one.

  So the fact that I can write it, on request and under pressure, shows proof of learning. I deserve one point for that argument, if not the name.

  Think, Dani. I only need one sentence. What was the assignment about again?

  All I have to do is think up the most ambiguous statement possible, make it sound a little philosophical, add in a pinch of near-truth, and voilà.

  And then, just like that, it hits me.

  I pick up my pencil and write it down. It’s only a few sentences, but it’s good.

  Mr. Halbrook will eat this up.

  For good measure—and since I have a bunch of extra time—I add a special P.S. just for him.

  After class, as Lauren takes my paper up to the front and I struggle to get out of my seat, Jack comes over and holds out my crutches for me.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hi.” I take the one crutch from him, then the other. “So, listen, if you were trying to give me hints during class, I totally suck at reading lips and I didn’t get any of them. Except maybe potpourri. Was that one?”

  “No.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

  “So where … how have you been?” he asks as we make our way to the front of the classroom, where Lauren is holding the door open. It hasn’t even occurred to her that, for my friend, she was more than a little combative in class earlier. I mean, sure, she let herself go for a while there school-wise, but we’re nowhere near the end of the world. I don’t think.

  “Oh, you know,” I mumble. I know there’ve been all kinds of rumors flying around about me. It wouldn’t be high school if there weren’t. I don’t want it to be awkward, but I want to be honest. I don’t know why. “Battling demons.”

  Jack doesn’t speak right away, but when he does, he says, “Well, I’m glad you won. I knew you could.”

  My crutches must be pinching my underarms again, and that’s why my eyes want to water.

  “Thanks.”

  That, or PMS.

  “I also,” Jack says, glancing quickly at his feet, then back up again, “talked to my dad.”

  My eyes widen. He took my advice? “What did he say?”

  He shrugs. “It wasn’t a total bust. It felt good to talk about it, but I’ll tell you later.”

  Right then, someone walks past me and I stare at her, trying to remember where I’ve seen her before. Dirty-blond hair, arms that swing exaggeratedly when she walks.

  “Oh my God!” I exclaim. “Is that Candy?”

  “Yeah. I guess she’s no longer Goth.”

  My mouth falls open, not because I’m that shocked or anything, but because Candy, trying-to-be-hardcore Kandi, was an easy target. I mean, she practically invited it, just in the way she, you know, blinked. But this Candy, without the holey jeans and metal bracelets and spiked hair, means I might need to change my material. I mean, I still hate her guts, but now I need new reasons.

  Why do I miss all the good things?

  34 ½

  Danielle Bailey

  Q: Where did math start?

  A: It’s hard to tell where something starts. Beginnings are infinite, or too far away to recall. Endings are easier to find and to define. See, most people think math is about numbers and equations, but it’s so much more than that, which is why classifying a start and end is so difficult. Anyway, no offense, but I’m partial to beginnings. There’s something about starting that feels good, better than ending. But yeah, I don’t know how math started. You’d have to ask God.

  Sincerely, Dani

  P.S. Congrats on writing a book, Mr. Halbrook. I always imagined you would. I just hope you don’t stop teaching and go full-time, because that would be too bad.

  35

  It’s been two months since I jumped, and Jena’s back in the hospital again. She’s on high-dose chemo and radiation right now, and at the end of this plan, she’ll get a marrow transplant from a donor.

  Not all days are good. Some days she’s pasty and frail and small and I’m too weak to look at her, and other days, even if she’s fine, the smell of bleach and illness and family members and residents who haven’t bathed in days crowds her hospital room, pushing us into corners, often separate.

  Some days, she talks about dying and I have to tell her she can’t talk like that. I can say from personal experience that it sucks.

  And we have a deal that she’ll try not to. She’ll try really really really hard. And she has. But if she fails, I have to figure out some way to forgive her. And if I fail—on the days I forget how to be strong for her—she has to figure out some way to forgive me.

  We play cards or watch the game show channel. We listen to music and watch bad reality TV. I sneak in popcorn and soda, but not too much, because we’re both trying to live now.

  She’s doing okay. Better than most people expected, and far better than I expected. It’ll be a few weeks before she can come home.

  I told her I wouldn’t let her in. Not without her skull and crossbones, her loud, angry music that makes the house tremble, and those PRECIOUS SOCCER SHINS.

  * * *

  It’s funny. If anyone was going to give me the silent treatment, to hold against me what I did or tried to do, I figured it would be Jena.

  But my mom was the one who barely spoke or even looked at me after I got home from the hospital. She would go quiet and press her lips together until they formed a long, thin line.

  Even now, she still can’t quite look at me.

  I don’t think she’s ever going to forgive me.

  I’m not entirely sure whether it’s for my part in what happened to Jena that night or my part in what happened to me. I’ve been too afraid to ask.

  So I usually slip past her, carrying my plate upstairs to my room when Dad is working and Mom’s home from the hospital resting, and it’s just the two of us.

  Tonight, though, I wake up and find a glimmer of moonlight casting shadows on my face. I went to bed early, so it’s probably before midnight.

  I can’t get back to sleep and, after a few more unsuccessful attempts, I get up and go down to the living room.

  I’m not expecting to find her there, wrapped in all of Jena’s blankets, a steaming mug in her hand as she stares off into space.

  I’m not expecting to hear her voice, soft and inviting in contrast to the darkness in which I hide.

  “You’re not sleeping,” she says.

  At first, I contemplate just turning around and going back to bed, because that would be easier, and I don’t stay for hard things. Or so says my track record.

  But this time, I dig my feet in and pull my voice out and answer. “You’re not, either.”

  “Sometimes,” Mom says, “I have trouble sleeping.”

  I know, I want to say, but don’t.

  “Usually, a cup of decaf helps. Other times, I’ll read.”

  “Read,” I repeat, as if the word is foreign. Everything else came to mind: pray, write, research, have an affair, commit crimes, play online games.

  “Yes.” Mom nods, a faint smile just visible with the small amount of light in here. “Dark, gory horror stories.”

  “They must really improve your sleep.”

  She laughs softly. “Sometimes, it’s just good to know that someone out there has it worse. And there always is that someone.”

  I can’t see her very well, but nonetheless my eyes are boring into the figure in front of me, puzzled, confused.

  “So why aren’
t you sleeping?” Mom asks.

  “I just couldn’t.” I realize now, standing here, that I was wrong. It’s not eleven o’clock at all. It has to be the wee hours of the morning.

  “Have you watched the DVD yet?” She draws a sip from her cup.

  I’d forgotten all about it. The DVD we got three days ago from Whitaden, holding my one and only claim to fame: my commercial. We shot it two weeks ago. Though both the leg brace and arm cast came off last month, I wasn’t exactly in peak condition and my injuries—including an unfortunate chipped front tooth—nearly cost us the job. I suspect this, too, is part of the reason Mom’s been so angry. See, it turns out Whitaden doesn’t take too kindly to its actors launching themselves off high places. But it does pay to have actor-turned-director friends.

  “Nope. Not yet,” I tell her.

  There’s a slight pause. “Do you want to?”

  Five minutes later, we’re sitting in front of the television, waiting for the DVD to start. Maybe it’s her coffee or the fact that it’s spring. My brain is convinced it’s her nearness, her warmth, the fact that I miss my mother in more ways than I can say and I don’t want her to hate me and I don’t want to lose her, too. Not if I don’t have to.

  For some reason, I blurt this out: “I’m sorry.”

  For a second, I think she’ll just ignore me. But suddenly, the TV goes black and she turns to me.

  Mom sighs. “I’m not angry with you, Danielle. I just don’t know how to express enough of the things I have to say to you.”

  I chew my inner lip. Nibble. Nibble. Nibble.

  “There aren’t guarantees on anything. I’m sure you’ve had plenty of time to think about this, but there are millions of ways to die. Millions and millions. And at any moment, anything could go wrong and it could all be over. For any of us.”

  “I just didn’t want to have to watch her die anymore.”

  “I know,” Mom says. “But she nearly had to watch you die.”

  There’s a sniff and I realize Mom is holding back tears. “The hardest part of all of this is how helpless I feel. I want to take all your pain and bury it, keep it far away, where it can’t reach you.” Pain-transferring voodoo, not cancer.