by Shari Arnold
“I miss you, Mom,” I say, surprising her as much as myself. Her arms tighten around me, nearly stealing my breath.
“Promise me you’ll be fine, Livy,” she whispers against my hair.
And I say it, those words that people say even though they shouldn’t.
“I promise.”
The morning of my blood tests I awake to a smell that is so familiar and yet strangely out of place. I haven’t smelled the rich and delicious aroma of German pancakes in so long it immediately floods me with memories. I can almost hear Jenna’s bare feet padding down the hallway toward my bedroom, her excitement reaching out to me through the walls. My heart clenches as I await the sound of my door opening. But when it comes it’s my mother standing in the doorway, not Jenna.
“I made us breakfast,” she says. “But then I remembered the nurse mentioned you shouldn’t eat before the blood work.” Her hands are fidgeting with her dress, then with her hair until she crosses them against her chest. “We can reheat them when we get home.”
“That sounds great.” I make a move to pull my blankets back but then stop myself. My purple and yellow plaid bedspread is just what I need to protect myself from the anxiety in my mother’s eyes.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” She pauses. “Of course. Of course you do. Well, we should get moving then. There’s sure to be traffic.”
Twenty minutes later I’m showered and dressed and on my way to the front door when I catch sight of my father in the kitchen. He’s wearing his dark blue bathrobe and his hair is wet from a shower. What strikes me as odd is that he’s not slumped over his bowl of cold cereal, and is instead setting the table. He has the nice placemats out — the ones my mother saves for Christmas morning, not the usual blue and white-checkered cotton ones that loiter on our table everyday. As I stand in the doorway, unnoticed, I watch him move about the kitchen as if everything is normal, like he hasn’t spent the last four months living in his own misery-induced hell. I force myself to stay still. I don’t want to startle him. I’m afraid he might scamper away like a startled rabbit. But I also can’t believe my eyes. He’s clean and upright, someone who pays attention to the day instead of avoiding it.
And then it hits me. There are four places set at our table. Four, not three.
“Daddy?” I whisper. When he doesn’t hear me I try again. “Daddy?”
“Oh, there you are,” he turns to me with a smile and that smile is a punch to the gut. I know exactly how long it’s been since I’ve seen that smile. I know the very last time we all wore them. In celebration of Jenna finishing her chemo treatments we went on a vacation.
“To the mountains!” my father had exclaimed, because as far as he was concerned that’s where you go when success is at your fingertips. We packed up our car and drove all night and when I awoke ten hours later we were in a snow-covered paradise, where everything was blue and white and frozen and the mountains were bigger than I ever could have imagined. Even though it was cold and the snow was wet when it touched my skin, I didn’t care because I couldn’t stop smiling. All four of us, we just couldn’t stop smiling. In that moment we had hope and hope smelled like maple syrup and German pancakes, apparently, which is what we ate each morning for breakfast and sometimes late at night when we weren’t quite ready for the day to end.
But now that smell is making my stomach churn. It doesn’t smell like hope. It smells of disappointment and sadness, and the look in my father’s eyes is a touch mad because of it.
“You’d better sit and eat while it’s hot,” he says now. He places his hand on my back and leads me to the table. “You don’t want your sister to eat it all, now do you? It’s her favorite.” He winks and then scurries off toward the silverware drawer.
“Daddy?” I say again, but it comes out so strangled it sounds more like a cough. “Daddy, what are you doing?” I grab hold of the top of the chair. I need to feel something solid before I lose myself completely.
“I’m setting the table, Livy. What do you think I’m doing?” He turns back around, his hands filled with forks and knives, his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “What could be keeping your mother? And where’s Jenna? You’d think she’d be out here by now.”
My father moves back toward the table but when he catches the look on my face he stops completely, and I get to see him lose Jenna all over again. His hands go limp, and all the silverware he’s holding goes clattering to the floor. For a second I think he might soon follow, but instead he takes a wobbly step backward, reaching out to grip the kitchen counter.
“I thought… I smelled German pancakes and I thought.” He shakes his head, his eyes still wide like he’s seen a ghost. “I dreamt about her, Livy. I swear she was alive.”
“Daddy, don’t!” Tears stream down my face but I don’t have the strength to brush them away. My hands are too heavy. This moment weighs too much.
“But she was right there.” He points to the spot at the table where Jenna always ate, the place next to mine. “She was right there. And she asked me to make her breakfast.” He shakes his head again as if what he’s seeing now isn’t real. He should be seeing Jenna, not just me. “And I smelled breakfast…”
“Mom made pancakes,” I say, the words so useless I wish they would disappear. My father just looks at me. “Dad?” My voice is wobbly, a reminder that I’m not as strong as I’m trying to be. “I can make you a plate.”
My mother chooses this moment to reappear. She walks in clutching her purse and her car keys, and then comes to an abrupt stop when she notices my father.
“Peter?” she calls out to him. But he doesn’t answer. I can see the darkness closing in on him. His eyes are hollow, he’s staring right though us. And then he walks away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“So let me get this straight… you just filled nine vials of blood for the hell of it?” Sheila is staring at me while a large ranch dressing-dipped French fry hovers near her mouth. She shakes her head — her long brown hair spilling around her shoulders — before she folds the entire fry into her mouth.
“I had to Sheila. It’s how they determine if I’m a match or not.”
Sheila’s dark brown eyes are unconvinced.
“I’m serious about this.”
“Serious and crazy-pants ride a fine line, Livy,” she says around her food.
I roll my eyes. I don’t expect her to understand.
“Well, whatever.” She takes a long sip of her drink and places it down in front of her. “I know how much you want to help Jilly, but I’m with your mom on this one. It kind of freaks me out this whole bone-scraping thing. Not that I don’t want you to do it,” she adds, holding up her hand before I can interject. “I just don’t like thinking about it.”
“It’s not scary and it’s not dangerous. I promise.”
“Then why all the tests? Why do they have to make sure you’re okay?”
“Because it’s surgery. But believe me, my recovery is nothing compared to Jilly’s.”
“What does that mean?” Sheila asks. “Are you telling me that after all of this Jilly could still die?”
“She won’t die,” I say, twirling my straw around and around my tall glass of lemonade. We’re sitting at Sheila’s favorite sandwich shop, Donnelly’s. I have to lean forward to catch most of Sheila’s comments due to the loud lunch rush. But if I’m being honest with myself I’m not even sure I want to continue this conversation.
“But she could.”
“She won’t.” I take a bite of my B.L.T. mostly to avoid her stare. I’m no longer hungry. The bread tastes like sandpaper, making it difficult to swallow.
“Alright. No more. I’m done with the hospital talk.” She brushes her hands off and pushes the sleeves up on her dark purple sweater. “So. Are you going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me lately, or do I have to start stalking you?”
“I haven’t been—”
“Who is he? And don’t lie. I know it’s a he because your texts get a
ll shifty every time I ask where you’ve been.”
“I’m not shifty,” I say, not that I even know what would constitute a shifty text.
“AH HA!” Sheila exclaims. “You didn’t deny the boy part!”
Sigh.
I take another bite of my sandwich. I’ve never kept anything from Sheila, and I never thought I would. But how do I explain Meyer? There are moments when I still wonder if I’m imagining him.
“So? When do I get to meet him?” Sheila asks, and I realize I should have predicted that one.
“I’m not really sure. He’s not from around here. He only visits once in a while.” Yes, that works. This is the vague truth I know abut Meyer — which only proves that I don’t know nearly enough about the boy I’ve been avoiding my best friend for.
“So where is he from?” she asks.
“Well, we’ve only been hanging out a short time. Honestly, the bio is still a bit thin.”
“But you like him.” She’s grinning at me with a look that tells me I never should have let this conversation begin. Or better yet, I should have lied. She isn’t going to let this go until she knows every last detail. “I can’t believe you like a boy and you’re just telling me now!”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that I barely know him and… it’s weird when you’re first starting to get to know someone, you know that.” Especially when the boy you like isn’t quite like everybody else.
“So then I’ll help you.” She stands up and grabs my hands, dragging me to my feet. “This will be great,” she says. “Friday night we’ll all go to my friend Kenny’s party. By the end of the night — with my help, of course — you’ll know him so well that all that awkwardness will be gone and you’ll be ready to get to the fun part of the relationship.”
“No, definitely not!” I shake my head. I should have known better than to have even mentioned him. This is Meyer we’re talking about here. Not some friend of Grant’s. Not some boy from school. Meyer is different. I can’t just take him to a party, can I? And even if I wanted to, how would I even make it happen? I don’t exactly know how to get a hold of him. I mean, it’s not like I have a special signal.
The thought of seeing him again makes my stomach flutter. It’s easier when he just appears. I don’t have to get all worked up about seeing him; he’s just there.
Sheila’s smile is large, like the Cheshire Cat. “Wait,” she says, her eyes growing huge in her face. “You really like this one, don’t you?”
“Sheila, don’t—”
“You do, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be all squirmy.”
“Squirmy. Shifty. Geez, Sheila. It must be love.” I roll my eyes and scoot away from her, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave this be.
“Nice try, Livy. I know you better than that.” She follows after me. “Is he hot? He must kiss better than Scott, right? I mean, from what you said, anyone would.”
“Sheila!” I whip around dodging the curious glances turning our way. “I never said Scott was a bad kisser.” At least, not out loud. Scott, my ex, was nice to a fault. Always worried that I was happy. I really liked Scott. He’s one of those people you can’t help but like. But I didn’t have time for fun or happiness while my sister was dying. So I let him go. I let everything go.
“So?” Sheila sidles up next to me and tucks her arm in mine. “What’s he like? I need all the steamy details.”
“It’s not like that. At least, not yet.”
“You mean, you haven’t done anything yet? No kissing? Nothing?” The look on Sheila’s face goes beyond disbelief. She almost looks disgusted.
I sigh deeply, wishing I was somewhere else, but in the end I know I won’t get out of answering. “No. Not yet. Like I said, we just started hanging out.”
“But you want to.” She leans her face in mine, batting her long eyelashes at me. “Admit it, you want him.” When I stay silent she adds, “Come on. I’m your best friend. It’s either me you tell, or your doorman Marty. And if you spill to Marty before me I’m not sure our friendship could survive that. Sure, Marty has those sexy, understanding eyes and all — hell, I’ve told him things too — and it’s nice because he doesn’t really say much. But you’re parents help pay his rent, Livy. Which is weird, you know, like he’s your shrink or something. So... tell me.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, blocking my escape from the restaurant. “You want him, don’t you?”
“I want…” I look away, not sure I can say it. “Something.”
Sheila opens her mouth, obviously unsatisfied with my answer, but then she shakes her head and says nothing. Just waits.
“I do like him,” I whisper. And that’s all I have to say about that right now.
Sheila is silent a moment longer, just studying me. “Alright. I get it.” She brushes my hair back off my face. Her touch feels protective, her expression a bit wary. “The two of you are new so you’re playing it safe. Understandable. Very like you.”
Very like me. Right. In other worlds, very not like Sheila.
“That’s it then,” she says once we’re back outside. “Friday night we’ll all go out and you’ll wear that dress you’re always too afraid to actually wear, and he won’t be able to resist you. Especially with this new pouty thing you’ve got going right now. Seriously, Livy. You’re like a young, vulnerable Nicole Kidman in like every TV interview from the last ten years. You were hot before, but now, well, let’s just say, if Grant goes anywhere near you…” Sheila winks to let me know she’s kidding but then her eyes grow serious. “You know it’s okay to have fun still, right? Jenna would want that.” We’ve come to a stop in front of her car and Sheila pretends to dig around inside her purse for her keys, avoiding my eyes.
I stare up at her in shock. She never says my sister’s name. It’s like she knows the rules without me having to explain them. Finally she looks up and gives me a smile. There is so much concern in her expression. How have I never noticed this before? Sheila is worried about me.
“This is going to be awesome,” she says. “Seriously. Like, you know. Before.” She squeezes my hands and does this little dance-step-thing that nearly pushes us into oncoming traffic.
“Yes,” I answer, still wishing I had lied about Meyer. “Awesome.” I don’t want to go to a party, and I definitely don’t want to bring Meyer to one. But I can’t bear to tell Sheila no. Not now. Even though I’d rather spend another night hanging out with Meyer and Meyer alone, and even though I’m convinced that everyone else would just be noise and interference, I can’t ruin her fun.
“Livy?” Sheila is watching me closely. “You’re coming, right?” When I don’t answer immediately she adds, “You need this. We both need this.”
Her brown eyes are lit with excitement and I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve seen this look on her. Too long, actually.
“I’ll ask him,” I say. How or when, I don’t know. He’s found me before; let’s hope he finds me again before the weekend.
Sheila grabs me and squeezes me so tight I start laughing. For the first time in a long while I realize I’m looking forward to something.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By Wednesday night I’m getting nervous. It’s been five days since I last saw Meyer. For all I know it could be weeks before he reappears. Sheila keeps checking in — desperate to know if he’s said yes — and I’m running out of reasons for why I haven’t asked him yet. I don’t want to admit that I don’t have any contact information for the boy I’m supposedly seeing. Truth is she wouldn’t believe me. In Sheila’s world if you don’t have a cell phone you may as well be dead.
I leave the hospital right around dinnertime. Jilly’s grandma took the day off so I leave them to their soup and crackers and make my way home.
My mom won’t be around until later but she texted me earlier to let me know where to find the leftovers and how to make them edible. She’s good like that. Since I got tested she’s not quite hovering but seems to be checking in more
often.
Marty the doorman gives me a rare smile as I walk through the swivel-door.
“Interesting kid,” he says as he pushes the up button on the elevator.
“Excuse me?” I’m not sure why he’s in such a good mood. Wednesdays are his double-shift days.
“Is he your boyfriend, then? Now that Scott is out of the picture?”
“Who?” I stare at him blankly as we wait for the elevator to arrive.
“You know, tall kid, brownish hair. Smiles a lot.”
“Marty, I don’t—”
“He said he was here to see you. Sent him up even though I knew your dad was the only one home.” Marty shakes his head the way he always does when my father is mentioned. “He said his name was Meyer. That ring any bells?” Marty continues.
Meyer.
“Are you telling me he’s upstairs?” I race into the elevator as soon as it arrives and hit the penthouse button before Marty can reach it.
“Yep. Sent him up myself.” He’s watching me curiously from outside the elevator.
“He’s up there now? With my father?”
“Yep.” I catch one last glimpse of Marty shaking his head before the elevator doors close.
Thirty seconds later I’ve arrived. I step into my apartment —my senses on high alert. I’m greeted with silence. I move to the hallway, my footsteps light. Still nothing.
“Livy?” my father calls out. “Is that you?”
It’s been days since I’ve heard my father’s voice. I barely recognize it.
“It’s me,” I say, continuing down the hallway.
My father’s office door is open and his drafting table light is staining the carpet out in the hall.
“We’re in here,” he tells me. But I don’t believe it, even when I see it.
My father is leaning against the wall near his drafting table while Meyer stands nearby poring over my father’s designs.
“I’ve… uh, been talking to Meyer here,” my father stumbles. “I wasn’t sure when you… would be home.” He looks away with embarrassment and pushes himself off the wall. He’s dressed in his usual day attire: plaid-striped pajama pants and a purple Go Huskies sweatshirt.
