by Lindy Zart
“She’s seven years older than me. Her name is Jenna. I have a niece too. Lucy. She’s three, and the sweetest thing you can imagine.” I smile wistfully.
I miss my sister and niece. They live in Kansas, and visits are rare. The last time I saw them, I was in a hospital. I remember Jenna’s quiet pain, how her eyes cried with words she wouldn’t say, and how Lucy didn’t understand what was happening. She wanted to be held by me, and she wanted to explore the tubes connected to me, crawling over me and tugging at them until her mom took her back. I swallow at the shame that courses through me, wishing I could go back. Wishing I could make different decisions.
Wishes are wastes of time. And yet, we go on wishing, don’t we?
Nick’s arm brushes against mine as we cross the street, and he flinches.
I grit my teeth, holding in my irritation until we reach the beginning of the path. Then I slam my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Okay, what is your deal? If you really didn’t want to be with me today, why didn’t you just say it?”
He opens his mouth.
My glower deepens.
“I don’t like being out in public. I don’t…like being around people,” he says after a pause. “I like to be alone.”
I throw my arms up in frustration. “Then why did you agree to this?”
Nick steps closer. “But I like to be with you more than I like to be alone, and even though I don’t like to be around people, I like to be around you—probably more than I should. How could I say no to being with you, even if it’s in a setting I despise?”
“That’s messed up,” I say, shaking my head, even as a warm glow fills my insides.
“I’m messed up.”
“You’re not, not really.”
He lowers his head, taking my hands in his. Examining them. It feels like fire and ice when we touch. Sparks and frost. “You have no idea, Alexis.” Nick threads our fingers together, lifting our hands between us, and looks at me.
“Tell me,” I whisper, feeling like I can’t breathe. My air is caught somewhere within the magnetic pull of blue-green seas. Who needs to breathe anyway?
“Someday,” he promises, and then, with our hands still entwined, he leans forward and kisses me.
His lips are soft, firm. Magic. Tasting of dreams and hope. And grief too. I’m kissing not only Nick, but his soul as well. I feel his heartbeat with my lips. I taste the feelings he has for me, and they are overwhelming. Catastrophically beautiful. The kiss lasts long enough to rearrange everything inside me, to steal my breath, to give it back. To let me know Nick has the power to ruin me. To let me know I’d probably let him.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters with his head bowed, closing himself off to me. Tarnishing the perfect moment. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
I squeeze his fingers still entrusted with mine, and the gesture forces him to look at me. “Yes.” I don’t waver—not my eyes, not my voice. Whatever this is, I don’t want it to end. “You should have.”
Nick pulls back, gently unlocking our fingers. He smiles, stealing the sunshine from the sky. “I’ll race you to the bridge.”
“What?” I blink, trying to understand the words coming from his mouth. My heart is beating in my ears, and everything is muted. Everything but the stunning boy standing in front of me. He shines.
Laughing, Nick nods his head once. I slowly follow the motion with my eyes, seeing the bridge in the distance. The wide, blacktopped path is lined with towering trees; there is a waterfall of green and brown on either side of us. Birds and insects form a melody of nature. I look at Nick, seeing the trees reflected in his eyes. I’m not fast, and my endurance is pitiful, but I’ll race Nick. I’ll probably lose. I don’t care.
I take off without warning, smiling when he protests. He easily catches up to me, his stride and form that of a natural athlete. He doesn’t look winded, while I’m gasping for air. I wonder if he played sports before. If he was popular. If he had a girlfriend. I trip over a rock, kicking it out of the path and into the grass.
Nick pulls ahead of me, and I don’t mind. This way, I can stare at him without him catching me. He’s not one of those boys who is blindingly beautiful. His attractiveness is quiet, something that is slowly revealed the longer you’re around him. The best kind. Like a perfect present waiting to be unwrapped.
My lungs are on fire and my legs are already tired. I think we’ve run a total of four minutes. Two more and I might collapse. Good thing we’re almost to the bridge. Nick reaches it first, silently boasting with his crossed arms and twinkling eyes. He’s asking for it. I tackle him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pushing against him. Startled, Nick’s arms come around me as he staggers back into the rough bark of a monstrous tree. He smells like deodorant and sweat, and my skin is damp with it too.
Neither of us move.
“You make my heart beat so fast it hurts,” he whispers against my neck.
I inhale sharply, my own heartbeat rioting inside me. I wasn’t expecting that confession, but I’ll gladly take it. I tighten my arms and press my forehead to his. It’s the same for me, and that he can feel for me how I feel for him, is amazing. Nick is the nightlight when the dark wants to suffocate me with nightmares.
“You looked so sad the first day I saw you. And you were so skinny.” Nick’s arms tauten. “I just wanted to be invisible, and then I met you, and I desperately wanted to be seen.”
“I felt invisible,” I admit.
Nick lifts his head, meeting my gaze. “You’re not.”
I smile. “I see you.” You’re all I see.
Dropping his arms, Nick walks to the path, keeping his back to me. When he doesn’t say anything, I move to his side. Our eyes meet briefly, and I feel his gaze all the way to my toes. Each of us looks forward, and we set out on the trail. The quiet is comfortable this time. We don’t touch, but it feels like we are. Even the space between us is some kind of concealed connection. It takes over an hour to get to the end, and once there, we find a patch of fairly even grass on which to rest. Nick and I snack on apples, string cheese, and crackers, washing the food down with water. I’m tired, and alive. Happy like I haven’t been since the move here last year.
“What do you want to do with your life? When you’re older, and have to be responsible. Do you ever think about it?” I untie the sweatshirt from around my waist and wad it up in a misshapen ball before setting it on the ground. I place my head on the makeshift pillow, hands on my stomach, and look up at the tree-obscured sky.
Nick does the same with his sweatshirt, but instead of looking up, he looks at me. It should make me nervous, but it doesn’t. I like that he wants to look at me.
“I don’t know,” he finally answers.
I turn my head and find his face inches from mine. His smile is faint, and it makes my heart twinge. It isn’t a happy smile, touching his lips and nothing else. “Meaning?”
“I used to know, but then…things happened…and now, I don’t know what I want to do.”
“What did you used to want to be?” I ask.
A self-derisive smile taunts his mouth. “I didn’t really think too much farther ahead than college, and playing basketball while there. I’m good with numbers, and being an accountant seemed like a solid way to go, but I wasn’t for sure.”
I’m not surprised about the basketball. “Why can’t you still do that? The basketball, and the college?”
He looks at me evenly, and takes a slow breath. “I’m different now.”
My focus drops from his eyes to his mouth. I slowly reach out, and trace the upper curve of his lips, moving my fingers down to his angular jaw. His hand covers mine, holding it to his warm skin, and my gaze is pulled back to his.
“I don’t think,” he says slowly. “That you would have liked me.”
I sweep my thumb across his cheek. “I like you now.”
Nick’s eyes brighten, and he moves forward. My body trembles, anticipation winding my nerve-endings into knots. A chitterin
g sounds above my head, and we both lurch to a sitting position. Laughing at the bushy-tailed squirrel standing less than two feet from where my head recently was, I look at Nick. With a smile on his face, he takes a cracker from the pack and tosses it toward the furry creature. The squirrel chatters at us before darting for the food. It shoves it in its mouth and runs across the bike path and into the wooded area beyond.
I laugh, and look at Nick.
He smiles.
I throw away our garbage and gather up the sweatshirts, handing Nick’s to him. I feel shy now that we’re going back. We have perfect moments together, but we always have to go back to the imperfect reality.
Nick grabs the backpack and slings it over his shoulders. I want to ask him to stay with me for the afternoon, but I don’t want to smother him. Maybe he’ll decide one morning with me is enough, and he won’t want to see me again. This could be it for us, our one and only unofficial day date. But the earlier kiss says otherwise. Everything about today says I matter to him. I hold on to that, shoving aside my doubts. Doubts are evil.
“Ready?”
I nod.
The sun is high in the sky by now, warming my head and the back of my pasty white neck. Naturally light-skinned, color doesn’t ever stay on my skin for long. I squint as I take in the blue skies, and then glance at Nick before heading in the direction from which we came. Six miles in one day is more than I think I’ve ever walked. I’d walk a hundred more if it meant walking them with Nick. As if he can hear my thoughts, and thinks the same, his fingers thread through mine. My stomach lurches and I take a shallow breath.
I can tell Nick isn’t ready to go when we get back to my house, and the knowledge fills me with a light, floating sensation. We make a frozen pepperoni pizza and watch movies, and it seems like we’ve done this a thousand times. There is little conversation, but it isn’t needed. When it’s time for Nick to go back to the center, he takes Rosie from where he earlier set her on the kitchen table. His expression tells me to not comment. I don’t. I do smile. Big and wide. I might even beam a little.
Six
Nick
I SHIFT IN THE SEAT, all the unspoken questions suffocating me. She wants to ask so many, but it isn’t her job. Her job is to listen. She knows it. I know it. I count on it. Still, they gather, and they build, and I feel them clawing at my skin. All the questions she doesn’t ask.
“I spoke with the staff on duty last night.”
Jerking at the sound of her voice as it breaks the silence, I shift my eyes from my lap and meet Dr. Larson’s gaze. Concerned eyes watch me under the hazy glow of dimmed lighting. Her signature lemon scent is overpowering in here, and it feels like the thermostat is set to ninety. It’s after five on a Monday night, and she should be gone, but here she is. Trying to fix the unfixable.
How does she do it? Every day, dealing with freaks like me. I twist a corner of my shirt between my fingers, immediately releasing it. And I’m one of the milder ones. I wonder what she thinks about my “case”. If she thinks I’m as crazy as I do. I study the notepad on her lap. What words does she use to describe me, and my mind, and my history? My reality?
I’ve told her everything. She knows it all. But right now, I don’t want to tell her another word. Dr. Larson shows more interest in me than she should, and I wonder what others would think. She wants to help in ways she cannot. My association with her could be deemed unorthodox, but then, I’m not really here. I’m a phantom patient with a phantom file. Sometimes, I wish I was the phantom, instead of the dead boy I dream about.
“It was different this time. Nick,” Dr. Larson prods, folding her hands over the notepad, like she is shielding the concealed words from my laser eyes.
I had a nightmare last night. That in itself is nothing new. But the details…the details were new, and twisted. So twisted. I woke up screaming, soaked with sweat, and terrified. It was bad enough that Live workers came barreling into the room, not knowing what to expect. I didn’t know where I was—I thought I was back at his house. I thought it was that night. When the walls cried blood. When my world was filled with it. I was given an oral sedative to help me sleep. I spit it out in the wastebasket once they left.
“You were screaming in your sleep. Do you want to talk about what caused you to scream?”
“I don’t—” My mouth is dry, and when I try to swallow, it takes more effort than it should.
“You don’t have to tell me, but it might help,” she encourages softly.
“There was blood. Everywhere.” I choke on the words. I fist my hands, watching as my knuckles bulge.
Quietly jotting down notes, she nods. “Go on.”
I see the bedroom walls smeared with it. I see the words written in it. Red. Thick. Smelling of rust. Blood. It’s a nightmare, and it’s not. Because it happened. I see the boy, lying on his bed. Dead. Eyes open. Staring but unseeing. The sliced wrists. And I see Alexis in his place, with blood seeping from her veins. I see the dream, and I see the truth. And I don’t want to see it anymore.
“It was Alexis,” I rasp, my eyes burning from staring so hard at the yellow tulip painting directly across the room from me.
Hand paused above the pad of paper, Dr. Larson slowly looks up. “What?”
“In the dream. It’s—it’s always the boy, but…last night…it was…” I trail off, unable to repeat it.
“Lexie Hennessy,” she supplies.
I nod as the burning in my eyes turns to stinging, because there are tears, and they want to fall. I blink and they do, noiselessly sliding down my cheeks. It was a dream, I tell myself. A dream that felt as real as this moment. What if the dream was real, and this is really the dream? What then?
“Why do you think that is?” she asks after a time.
“I don’t know.” It’s a lie.
My legs bounce and I look all around the room to keep from looking at the doctor. I do know why. It’s because I care for her. Because I’m scared. Because I deserve nothing good, and I especially don’t deserve her. Because I’m worried I’ll lose her before I really have her. Because I wonder, if she really knew who I am, if she’d want me. Because I know she wouldn’t.
“You two seem to be getting close.”
“Yes. No. Maybe.” Sweat breaks out on my skin. “Yes.”
Dr. Larson straightens in her seat. “And that worries you.”
“Yes,” I whisper, pushing my palms against my knees to steady the shaking.
“You’ve been here for a year now, Nick, closed off to most family and friends.” She leans forward, her hands clasped before her. “There’s nothing wrong with reaching out to someone; there’s nothing wrong with allowing them to reach back. In fact, I think this is good, very good.”
Her words are steady, but I sense it all the same. Something off. A pause.
Hesitation.
I stare at her intently, to the point where Dr. Larson looks away. “It won’t end well, will it?”
She inhales slowly, and the smile she gives me is too bright. “You’re both great kids who’ve had to deal with things most don’t. I have every faith in each of you, and your futures.”
That wasn’t an answer. I would have been amazed if she had given a direct one. I can’t count how many times I’ve wanted to ask Dr. Larson what she’s doing here, why she would choose to surround herself with mentally unsound kids who, more times than not, are incurable. I want to ask her why she won’t give up on them, on me.
We might get better for a while, but how long does it last? It always comes back to the past, to that moment, or a collection of moments, that altered our world. There’s no escape from ourselves, from our minds.
I will never not know what I have done.
“I’m late for kitchen duties,” I mumble, standing.
My name on her lips stops me at the door. I wait with my back to her. “Try to remember that it was only a dream.”
I open the door. “But that’s just it—it wasn’t.” I step through the doorway and
close the door behind me.
The hours in the kitchen go by in a blurred whirl, flashes of people and actions that don’t register for more than an instant before another takes their place. Like every night, I take a shower after I’m done in the kitchen. I grab my latest library book before settling in on the bed to read until I fall asleep. It’s funny how much I read now compared to how much I didn’t before I came here. I had better things to do. I feel my face contort as something coils in my chest.
I don’t own any books. Everything I read is borrowed, and must be returned.
I wonder if that’s what happiness is like.
From what I’ve seen, at home and here, it seems like it has to be.
I study the book in my hands. It’s a new one, and I’ve only read the first two pages. In this story, the main character, a girl, has been resurrected from the dead with science. That’s as much as I know, but I think I can guess the rest. She’s used as a weapon for evil, but only until she begins to remember who she is. At least, that’s how my version would go. Could be she never remembers. Could be she’s killed, again, and how ironic is that? To be given life again and have it effortlessly taken back. Like my books. Like happiness. Borrowed.
As if they know me better than I know myself, my hands set aside the book and grab Rosie the pink teddy bear. I stare at the worn stuffed animal, feeling kinship with it. It’s important to Alexis, and since she gave it to me, that makes me important too. I wish Alexis was here in its place. I wish I was brave enough to leave here for good.
I put the bear on the bed near my legs and drop my face to my hands. There will be no reading tonight. There will be me, and my maudlin thoughts, and maybe, if I’m lucky, there will be no dreams of Alexis dying.
Seven
Melanie
I LOOK AT JOCELYN AND Casey, being extra careful to not look at Lexie. It doesn’t matter—I can feel her freaky presence like it’s some kind of plague breathing beside me. “So? What are we going to write about?”
