by Shari Arnold
“Sheila says you used to go to school together. Did you switch schools or something?” he asks and I glance away, not wanting to talk about this, or talk at all now actually, because every path eventually leads to my sister dying and I know from experience that is the quickest way to bring our conversation to a halt.
“Something like that.”
I zero in on my melting ice cream, stirring it around and around until it resembles soup, while Sheila — who must sense I’m in no mood for talking — moves the conversation on without me. She appears to be feigning interest in hockey lingo, which we both know means I owe her big time. But I just can’t bring myself to be a part of it all.
There’s this feeling I get sometimes, that I’m displaced, like I’ve fallen and no one has noticed yet. If I stay real still they’ll avoid me, put up pylons around me like I’m a large pothole in the ground. Yes. That’s what I am. I’m a pothole. And until someone comes along and fixes me, I am dangerous. I am broken. I am not a part of this life and yet I’m still here. I know I’m supposed to get over losing my sister. I know that’s what everyone expects. I’m just not ready yet.
Pearl Jam is playing in the background and Sheila hates Pearl Jam. She rolls her eyes at me because the universe has obviously done this intentionally, an elaborate ploy to ruin her night, and I realize this is my cue. I clear my throat and push my ice cream cup away, about to excuse myself from the booth —and this night. Then I see him. Right outside the window a group of teenagers is passing by, paired up in twos and threes, yet all together. Directly in the middle of them is the boy from the hospital. He’s standing there looking at me while his crowd shifts and moves on around him. I sit up in my seat while he smiles at me through the glass. He’s wearing a dark green hoodie that matches his eyes. And unlike the previous times I saw him his hood is down, revealing chestnut colored hair that is tousled from the wind and spiky with moisture from the light rain outside. It’s odd to see him somewhere other than the hospital.
His gaze is locked on mine and in this moment we are connected. If he were to move back I would fall forward, and not even the glass window between us could keep us apart.
“Who’s that?” Sheila asks, and just like that her voice cuts the string pulled taut between us. I fall back in my seat. She can see him! Up until this moment I was still pretty sure I’d imagined him.
“Who?” I ask and he smiles as if he’s following our conversation and realizes we’re talking about him.
“Green hoodie? Sexy hair? You know, the one who’s staring at you as if the two of you share a secret? Go on, Livy. Spill.”
“I don’t know him,” I say, which is the truth, even though I suddenly don’t want it to be.
“Well, we’re going to have to change that.” Sheila pushes against me, sliding my body toward the opening in the booth.
“Sheila!” I push back, but she’s stronger than me. I nearly topple out onto the floor.
“What’s going on?” Grant asks, looking from Sheila to me and then out the window. “You know that kid?”
“Settle down.” Sheila bats her eyelashes at him. “This one’s Livy’s.”
But he’s not mine. And that thought immediately makes me sad.
“Livy! Go get him!” Sheila says like it’s something I do, run after boys. And then because she knows better she climbs over me to do it herself.
But it’s too late. The boy has moved on. Sheila halts mid-step, staring after the crowd as they disappear down the street. And then she slowly turns back toward me. In her eyes is disappointment. But it is nothing compared to mine.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I won’t be around for dinner tonight,” my mom tells me, peeking into my bedroom. “So you’re on your own.” It’s funny how my father doesn’t even factor into our plans anymore. He’s his own lost island, one that occasionally passes me in the hallway, holding onto his silence even when the edges of us touch. “And I won’t be back until late. I have a meeting with the budget committee, and you know how that goes.”
“I’ll be fine.” It’s the only assurance she needs.
Jilly has been begging me to come and watch Tangled with her so my plans are set for the evening.
Tangled is Jilly’s latest Disney obsession. “I want to have long hair when I grow up,” she tells me, snuggling up next to my side so that she can borrow some of my warmth. She pulls on her thin hair that has yet to make it past her ears. “Long enough to braid.”
I don’t bother to remind Jilly what the peer counselor is always telling her, how she’s supposed to make short goals, goals that she can accomplish over the next few days or weeks. Instead I pull out my iPhone and start Googling wig shops.
We’re halfway through the flying lantern scene, a scene that’s so sweet and magical it always makes me cry, when Jilly takes a sip of her water and starts coughing.
“I swallowed wrong,” she manages to get out before her coughs turn into gags.
I get up and race toward the bathroom in search of the large pink, plastic tub she always uses when she’s sick, but it’s too late. Jilly loses what little she had for dinner, and more than likely most of the pain medicine she’d just swallowed, all down the side of her bed. Her body is bent almost in half. She’s taking tiny breaths as if even the air is out to get her.
She looks up at me as the nurse rushes in and her eyes are wide and wet, but mostly frightened.
“I’m sorry, Livy,” she says, as if this is her fault, like she can control the weakness of her stomach anymore than she can keep the cancer from spreading.
Nurse Maria strips her out of her pajamas and into some clean ones while I continue to hold up the doorway. I grip the doorframe so hard that my fingernails are practically embedded into the hard wood.
“It’s okay, Jilly,” I tell her over and over again, but when Nurse Maria’s attention shifts from Jilly to me I figure maybe I’ve said it one too many times.
“All better?” she asks and Jilly nods. But Nurse Maria is still looking at me.
“I didn’t feel sick,” Jilly whispers, leaning back against her pillows. “I don’t know what happened.” Her face is pale and her little hands are shaking as she draws her blankets up close to her chin.
“It’s the radiation, Jilly Baby,” Nurse Maria explains. “Once you’ve been through it, your stomach is far more sensitive.” She refills her water cup and adds, “Just take small sips. We don’t want you to overdo it.”
Jilly’s hand slips out from her cocoon of blankets and reaches for her Princess Jasmine cup. Her voice is tiny, like she’s buried under sand, when she says, “okay.”
Suddenly the room feels like it’s closing in on me. It isn’t Jilly I see in that bed but my sister. Jenna’s arms are thin and reaching for me. It’s Jenna’s eyes that are tearing up, blue not brown. Blonde eyelashes not black.
“Help me, Livy,” Jenna whispers. “Save me.”
“Livy?” Nurse Maria is calling my name but I can’t open my mouth to answer. My jaw feels like it’s wired shut. My chest tightens. “Livy,” she says again, standing in front of me now.
“She’s not going to die,” I whisper. “I won’t let her.” But it’s too late. Jenna’s already gone.
Nurse Maria doesn’t say anything for a moment and then she nods. She squeezes my hand as if to snap me out of this, but I’m too far gone. Too deep. Her voice is low enough for only me to hear. “Be strong for her, Livy. It’s the only thing you can do.”
“I know.” My words sound shaky even though I’ve put everything I have behind them. “But I can save her.” I will save her.
Nurse Maria simply smiles the smile of someone who’s used to empty promises. “Why don’t you go get some air? I’ve got this.”
“Right,” I manage to get out, and then my legs are carrying me, slow then fast, into the hallway. I lean against the wall just outside her room and close my eyes. I can hear Jilly calling out to me. “Li-vy,” she says, stretching out my name so that each syllable grips my heart tha
t much tighter. In and out I breathe while Nurse Maria explains that I’ll be right back. Which I’m not so sure is true. All this time I thought I was so brave, spending time with these kids as if death no longer affects me. But I don’t think I can watch another child die. Especially not Jilly.
I stumble down the hallway. I feel as if I might be sick. But unlike Jilly, the only things churning in my stomach right now are fear and sorrow. I pull open the door to the staircase even though I have nowhere to go. I don’t want to leave and I definitely don’t want to go home, but I can’t stay here. Eliza should be arriving any minute and she can give Jilly the comfort I don’t have for her tonight. She can cuddle up and tell her everything’s going to be all right and for a fleeting moment that thought gives me peace. It doesn’t take long before the panic I felt when Jilly started throwing up is back. It’s like hunger, easily soothed — but it always returns.
I can fix her, I think to myself. I can do this. But no matter how many times I had said those words out loud, Jenna still died.
I sit down on the cold cement stairs, my head in my hands, and I don’t even notice I have company until someone sits down beside me.
“I’m okay,” I say, expecting it to be Nurse Maria or someone else she’s coerced into checking on me.
“Are you now?” comes an unfamiliar voice.
I look up and there he is, the boy with the hoodie, except tonight his hoodie has been replaced with a black raincoat. His eyes, however, are still the same breathtaking green.
“Hello,” he says and I catch the hint of an accent, one I don’t recognize. “It’s about time we properly met, don’t you think?” His smile is lopsided, his right eyebrow raised. Together they convey a look of mischief.
“I’m Meyer.” He holds out his hand and I take it. His hands are large; they swallow mine up with just the right amount of pressure.
Meyer. I practice it a few times in my mind; roll it around until it comes naturally. Meyer. Yes. It definitely suits him. He looks like a Meyer, even though I’ve never met one before.
“And you are…?” he says and I realize I’m just staring at him.
“Livy,” I say with a sniffle, dashing away the remnants of my tears.
“Nice to meet you, Livy,” he says and then after a slight squeeze he lets go of my hand. “Is there a reason you’re hiding out in the stairway? Was I not supposed to find you?” There’s a faint lilt in his voice that kind of makes me breathless.
“I...” I shake my head, unsure how to answer. “I just needed to be alone, I guess.”
“Is that something you prefer, being alone?”
“Lately, yeah.” I force a laugh and glance down at my hands. But it’s not funny. The truth rarely is.
He shifts as though he’s going to leave. “So, you’d rather I left you to it, then?”
“No! I mean, please don’t.” I clear my throat and start again. “I’d like you to stay.”
Meyer sits back with a smile and I feel my dark mood lighten a bit.
“Let’s play a game then, shall we? I believe you call it Truth or Dare, while I’ve always known it as Pain and Suffering.”
When I just blink back at him he starts to explain. “Suffering, because a dare usually leads you to do something you’re uncomfortable with, and pain because the truth always hurts.”
“You want to play a game?” It’s too much for me, seeing this boy — Meyer — here, while I’m worrying that life is about to repeat itself on me. Now, after weeks of wondering who he is, and what he’s all about, he’s here. And he wants to play a game?
“You first,” he says, pointing his finger. “What do you prefer, Livy? Pain or suffering?”
“Neither, actually,” I say, and he laughs.
“Truth, then.” He leans his elbow up on his knee and pins me with an intense expression. He has ridiculously long eyelashes, which seems unnecessary considering the beautiful color of his eyes.
“What has you so sad?” he asks me. “Here, now. And every time I see you.”
His question hits me directly in the chest, where my breathing is still too shallow to answer.
“You can tell me,” he says, “I’m actually a pretty great listener.”
But I can’t talk about it. Any of it.
“Suffering,” I say, daring him to contradict me. I’m not one for pouring my heart out to a boy I’ve just met. Or anyone, really. “I’d rather take suffering if you don’t mind.”
“Alright then.” He jumps to his feet. “Let’s be off.” He holds out his hand to help me up and I take it, because I have nowhere else to go. Meyer is taller than I expected, but it isn’t his size that makes me feel small. There is a heat coming off of him, an energy that seems to bounce around us, hitting the walls of the stairwell and turning the fluorescent lights on the ceiling a warm glittery gold.
“We’re leaving?” I ask, stalling. Can I really leave? With him? Won’t Jilly miss me? She’s probably asleep by now, but shouldn’t I stop in to tell her goodbye?
“Is that alright?” he asks softly. His eyes are heavy as though he didn’t anticipate me saying no.
If you don’t leave now, you never will. The thought comes out of nowhere, and because I know it’s the truth, I nod okay.
I follow him down the stairs and out into the lobby. For some reason it doesn’t seem strange to be leaving with this boy, it feels like a jailbreak. He doesn’t tell me where we’re going until we’re on a bus heading downtown. “It’s time for an adventure,” is all he says. He’s sitting next to me, our legs brushing against each other each time the bus turns a corner. “Are you up for a little adventure, Livy?”
I’m thinking an adventure is just what I need, even though my “yes” is nearly silent. And I don’t think twice about it. Well, maybe I think twice. I definitely think about how I’m not exactly dressed for an adventure. I’m wearing jeans, a red sweater and my dark blue raincoat. It’s not the most exciting thing I could have on, but it will have to do.
There are a few other people on the bus with us; an older man who has been glaring down at his hands since we got on, a group of girls around our age — who can’t take their eyes off Meyer — and a young mother and child. The child, I would guess, is about Jilly’s age. Her gaze is also on Meyer — her expression rather apprehensive, but when he smiles at her she grins back.
“Where are we going?” I ask after a few more stops, because I should really know this.
“The Sculpture Gardens,” he says and the sparkle in his eyes tells me that’s all the information I’ll get.
I stare out the window as we cut across town, focused on the reflection of a girl whose eyes are still slightly red but bright and the boy sitting next to her who occasionally glances in her direction. I don’t know this girl. She looks like me — she has the same hazel eyes and strawberry blonde hair — but she definitely doesn’t act like me. I would never get on a bus with a strange boy. I would never go out into the night in pursuit of an adventure. No. I don’t recognize this girl, but I want to be her. I like the way I feel right now, how each and every breath I take is spreading throughout my body like a wildfire, not trapped, as it usually is, below the heavy feeling in my chest. It’s been a while since I felt like I could breathe freely.
At the next stop he jumps up and I follow him off the bus and then down the path toward the seawall. I’m nearly jogging to keep up with him but once he notices, he slows down. Soon our steps are in sync. After a few minutes he glances over at me and I figure he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t, instead he starts whistling. The tune is playful and unfamiliar. It carries over the grounds of the Sculpture Gardens and out over Puget Sound.
“What is it we’re doing, by the way?” I ask. “Shouldn’t I know, considering it’s my dare? Or rather, my Suffering?”
Meyer smirks but he doesn’t stop whistling. He doesn’t answer my question either.
So far I’ve only noticed a handful of people since we got off the bus and they were
all back near the road. The grounds, from what I can tell, are empty. “You’re not going to ask me to jump in the Sound, are you?” I stare out at the cold water and a shiver moves through my bones.
“Just up here.” He pauses briefly on the sidewalk but I’m not expecting it and nearly collide into him. “Just remember,” he says, “it’s a game. It’s supposed to be fun.” His hands are on my shoulders, steadying me. He’s really quite tall, so tall I have to look up, standing this close to him. “Never forget that.” And then he’s off again, moving down the path with a purpose. I hurry to catch up.
“Are you from around here?” I ask and the look he gives me is as vague as his answer.
“Sometimes.”
“Are you in town because you know someone at the hospital? Is that why you’re always there?”
“Yes,” he answers, and I realize this could continue all night.
“I don’t like mysteries,” I tell him and my voice carries out over the grounds. “I want to know more about you,” I add softly. Especially considering it’s just the two of us alone out here in the dark.
“But you like adventures and romance and heroes who risk it all for the woman they love and heroines who save themselves, is that right?”
“You mean like the stories I read to the kids?”
He tilts his head, studying me and I realize we’ve stopped walking again. “Are you as brave as the stories you tell? I wonder would you risk it all like the girls in your stories?”
“Risk? Risk what? What are you talking about?” But he doesn’t answer. He’s back to walking.
“Why do you always leave before the story ends?” I call out to him. I’m hurrying to catch up when he stops suddenly and I’m forced to catch myself before I crash into him again. His dark auburn hair hangs just slightly in his eyes and my hand itches to brush it away. His shoulders are wide, wider than I realized, and I wonder why I thought of him as a boy before. Now that he’s standing so close, I’m pretty sure I’ll never think that again.
“Maybe I don’t like endings,” he says, his eyes laughing at me. “Or maybe you’ve been telling them wrong.”
