Me and Me

by Alice Kuipers

  She spent her time writing me letters, making me a video, putting her affairs in order. Even when she was so weak, when she could hardly sit, she wanted to make it easier for us. She was that sort of a person—a doer, someone who made life happen, even as she died. And through it all, while I held her, I nursed an anger I could hardly stomach.

  My Tak used to be the source, the way I blended my music and lyrics together. I didn’t always know what I was playing, but once something sounded good, I’d learn the sounds and try to get it going and then go from there. Now when I need to noodle on the frets, I use Iona’s old guitar, trying different patterns.

  Words for another new song come to me:

  Perhaps you see it differently

  You and me

  It’s just a case of who tells the story

  Perhaps you see it differently . . .

  Okay, I don’t have a chorus or a bridge, but the hook line—Perhaps you see it differently—has that feel to it, like the start of a song that works. This will be the fourth song for the show.

  Nifty:

  Wish me luck.

  I’m going over for supper

  with Cole’s parents tonight.

  He told them it was important to him.

  Lark:

  Be your awesome self.

  And a bit respectful—even if they’re BIGOTS

  —and say thank you for the food.

  Nifty:

  Yes, boss.

  Another message appears.

  . . . let go of Annabelle’s hand . . .

  Alec touches my shoulder.

  No number, again. The message vanishes.

  As I stare at the phone screen, tiny cracks appear over it. I touch it, and my finger comes away wet. What is happening? A voice—distant but clear—makes my head turn.

  “Lark, are you okay?”

  There is a static flicker in the air—I sense something before I see the shimmery shapes of a room. It’s as if I’m looking through a window, through which I see a hospital bed. A little girl lies in it. It’s Annabelle. By her bed, a figure moves: Alec.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Day 21: 8 a.m.

  Alec and I wander over to a building called Twain Hall, which backs from the university onto St. Mary’s hospital. I remember looking out at Twain Hall during Mom’s cancer treatment. It’s four storeys high, and on the fourth storey on the side closest to the river is a random wooden beam—maybe half a metre wide—that sticks out but goes nowhere. I point it out to Alec as we sit on the too-cool, damp grass. I hear a message come in on my cell, and I check it.

  Alec, who is in a coma,

  who cannot be smiling . . .

  Another vanishing message. The words chill me. Alec in a coma? But it’s not true. He’s here, right here with me. I swallow back my fear and chuck my cell into my backpack. I lie back, telling myself it’s just a glitch, it means nothing, it’s no big deal. The sky is soft blue, scudded with clouds. The smell of fall carries on the brisk breeze. But my heart is hammering.

  “Hey,” he says, climbing over me and rubbing one hand over my arm. “You okay? You’re shivering.”

  “I’m fine,” I murmur. “I just . . . You remember what I told you happened at the hospital when we went to see Annabelle? How I thought I saw her cry a tear? And the other stuff.”

  He nods.

  “Well, I’m just”—I wave my hand at my backpack—“Well, since the accident, I’ve been getting these weird messages about . . . well, about you, about stuff that isn’t real.”

  “Messages?”

  “But they vanish as soon as I’ve read them.”

  “Has anyone else ever seen one?” His dark eyes catch mine. “I mean, have you considered that the messages themselves might not be real?” Then he backtracks. “Just, you know, after the stress of what happened at the lake, perhaps—they feel real. I mean, they’re real to you, but maybe they’re not?”

  “Not real?”

  “You’ve heard of PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder? We talked about that in Psych class. There are a lot of symptoms . . . hallucinations and stuff.”

  “I’ve heard of it, sure.” I sigh and let the quiet grow. After a minute, I shake my head to show I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I can’t get rid of the disquieting sense I’ve forgotten something important.

  He pulls me toward him, and I rest my head against his chest. God, he thinks I’m a lunatic. His voice rumbles through me.

  “Lark, I’m just going to say it. I really like hanging out with you.”

  “Oh . . .” I slide into the moment and let the feeling flicker.

  “But really.”

  I hold his words like a small flame in my heart and kiss him.

  He rubs his nose against mine. “It’d be good if this was serious. Between us.”

  I nod, the flame flicking and growing to create heat all through me. My mind says, I love you, I love you, I love you, but I shut it up. The word love has been coming to me all week at school. I want to tell him how I feel, but Lucy thinks I’m crazy. I remember the teardrop in Annabelle’s eye, the image of my bedroom. I mentally shake my head: maybe he’s right about the PTSD.

  Alec kisses me, his tongue slipping into my mouth, opening me up. Things get heavy fast, and we’re both breathing quickly, when I stop and say, “We can’t. This is way too public.”

  He smiles cheekily, his hands sliding down my body. He lifts my shirt out of the way to kiss the skin of my stomach. He murmurs, “Why don’t you come to my house? Now?”

  “You want your parents to ‘nearly’ walk in on us. Again?”

  “They’re away all weekend. Believe me, I checked. Triple checked. Let’s go.”

  “And leave that unclimbed?” I point at the ledge. “What sort of an urban ninja are you?” I grab my backpack, jump up and run to the base of Twain Hall. He tries to catch me, but I dart side to side out of his reach, so he gives up, laughing.

  I drop my bag onto the grass and hitch myself easily onto the ledge of the first-floor window, the cold concrete beneath me, the sharp edge of the wall pressing against my hip. I hold on to a jutting brick. I have to go on my toes to reach up, then hook my right foot onto a ledge and strain my biceps to heave myself up. A flock of geese honk and flap overhead, heading south. Fall always comes early to this part of the world, but the geese seem to be leaving even earlier than usual; it’s going to be a bitter winter. I watch them, anything rather than look down. Sweat beads along my hairline.

  Four floors feel a lot higher than they sound. As I shimmy along the narrow window ledge of the third floor, I glimpse my younger self standing in a hospital room across the grassy courtyard, watching Mom fall asleep with the bright green chemo bag attached to her PICC line. I push away the memory and haul myself up to the projecting beam. Now that I’m here, the beam seems awfully narrow. I put a foot on it and walk a couple of steps. Then I carefully sit down to butt-shuffle along to the end.

  Alec has swiftly climbed up behind me, and he frees both hands to clap when I finally balance myself, one leg on either side of the beam. I decide to show him a girl who isn’t scared to do this—a girl I could be. Slowly, slowly, I stand. I hold my arms out. It’s all a bit Titanic, but my heart soars.

  “You’re crazy.” I hear approval in his voice and then his quick steps along the beam.

  I giggle. “Crazy Lark. A whole new me.”

  He wraps his arms around me. “I’m the king of the world,” he deadpans into my hair.

  “I was thinking about the same thing.”

  “My heart will goooooo onnnn!” he sings, loudly and completely out of tune.

  I giggle. “That old movie made me cry.”

  “I bet.”

  We can see the river from up here and a tapestry of golds, reds, maroons, greens and striking yellows. For a while we linger. Then it’s my turn to follow him, as he scoots along the beam and down. It’s way harder climbing down. I can’t help glimpsing the too-far-away ground. My fingers hurt,
my arms are trembling. My foot slips, but I cling on so I slam against the wall, a groan escaping me.

  “Jesus, Lark. You okay?” He’s a couple of metres below me, terror in his eyes.

  I pull in a shuddery breath. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  He climbs back up a little and helps me find better footholds, and I follow him down shakily. As I land, he yanks me to him and crushes me in a hug.

  My cell sounds from my backpack, which I’d left on the grass, but I ignore it. It goes off again, so I unfold Alec’s arms and get it.

  Nifty:

  Show secured!

  Everyone in for brunch practice. You?

  We need it.

  Alec leans over my shoulder and says, “Is there still time to come to my house—you know?”

  “Do I know?” I tease.

  “Yeah. You know.”

  “Can I come by after practice? I should go. I skipped last Sunday because of you and Wednesday after what happened at the hospital, remember?” I turn to him and kiss him, lacing my fingers at the back of his neck. “I’ll make it up to you,” I say.

  “Really,” he says. “It’s no big deal. You’re worth waiting for.”

  “And you”—I giggle—“are getting the feels.”

  “You love it.” There’s that word again. He kisses me.

  Eventually, reluctantly, I pull away. He leans over and whispers, “Maybe you could walk me home, then go practise.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “No, you probably shouldn’t.”

  “Maybe I can be just a teeny bit late,” I say, unable to stop smiling, as we walk. “I’ll text the others soon.” I chitchat about things I spot along our walk. A dog straining at its leash, a police boat on the river, which snakes below us as we turn onto Alec’s street.

  We arrive at his house. I’ve been here before, of course, but as the sun disappears behind a cloud, I notice how imposing Alec’s house is, with two columns and a flight of steps to the white door. It seems old-fashioned, but it’s actually brand new, with a triple garage on the left.

  Nifty:

  Answer me.

  Answer me.

  “I gotta go,” I groan.

  Lark:

  On my way.

  Alec pretends someone is strangling him and falls dramatically to his knees. “No, no, noooooo . . . So close!”

  “And yet so far,” I tease. “I’ll be back soon.”

  I lean over to kiss him while he’s on his knees. He reaches up to hold my face gently in his hands. Then he pulls me to him, harder. He tangles his hands in my hair, tugging me, and because of the awkward angle, I stumble, bumping against the door frame.

  “Ow,” I say, laughing.

  Alec gets up from his knees.

  Nifty:

  Sweet. See you in ten.

  I slip my phone into my pocket. I still have a couple of minutes. Alec pulls me fully into the house and pushes me against the wall. I melt into him. I am honey stirred into boiling water.

  “I’ve got to go rehearse. I can’t miss it again,” I murmur. “Next time.”

  “I’m not stopping you. Go. Go. Go.” He lifts my shirt and begins to undo my bra.

  I wriggle free.

  He puts both hands to his throat again and feigns dying.

  “I’ll be back,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Nifty and Iona won’t let it drop. Moaning that I’m hard to get hold of, that I show up late, that I haven’t been focusing, that I haven’t been writing any new material, that even my singing voice isn’t as strong.

  “Come on, that’s not true,” I reply, my cheeks flaming with fury. But I haven’t been singing much, and the muscles of my throat are maybe a little underused.

  Reid is in my spot on the blue couch, staring fixedly at his phone, blatantly listening.

  “Reid?” I go to stand in front of him. “Do you agree with these guys?”

  He puffs his cheeks and expels a sigh. “Are you surprised, Larkette?”

  I cross my arms. “Surprised that you’re all giving me a hard time? Yes. I’m surprised.” I stalk away from him to the corner by the door. The three of them stare at me like I’m a tiger at the zoo. “When you were all loved up with Cole, Nifty, we left you to it.”

  “Ouch.” Iona hits the cymbal. She rubs under one eye, smudging one of the three red stars she has painted there.

  “Yeah, and look how that worked out.” Nifty toys with his e-cig, gaze down.

  “What?”

  “We broke up, Lark. Like, yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I remember a couple of weeks ago he had asked for my advice about something, but I forgot about it.

  He keeps his eyes down.

  “I’m really sorry, Nifty. But—and I’m not trying to be a bitch here—we gave you space at first, right?” I lean against the wall. “And what about you, Iona, when you’re busy with Roller Derby? Or you, Reid, when everything was all about that coding competition? Or when you were puppy-eyed over Sharbat?” Reid glares at me. Something clicks. “Is that why you don’t like Alec, Reid? You’re jealous that he dated Sharbat, and you didn’t?”

  “Sharbat switched schools after breaking up with Alec.”

  “Her parents made her. They didn’t like him.”

  Iona comes around the drums and puts her arm over my shoulder. “Ease off. Enough rumour mill, Reid. And Lark, listen, Reid doesn’t have a problem with Alec. We’re just saying you’ve missed practice a lot—you missed it on Wednesday and blew it off last week. We’ve got a show in three and a half weeks.”

  I shrug off her arm. “I like Alec. Like, really like him.”

  Iona laughs. “Uh, wanna articulate that, songwriter? Like, do you like him? Or really like him? Like.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  She squares off. “I’m not joking. Songwriters write about what’s happening to them—think of the great love songs. But even a terrible love song would be better than nothing.”

  Nifty puts his e-cig away and waves his guitar between me and Iona. “I know what it’s like, Lark. At least, I did.” He presses both his hands to his heart and pouts dramatically. “But,” he cries, “my darling, gorgeous, darling songwriter, we need you now. The show is coming up. We’ve no new songs. Not even a name.”

  “‘Saturday Drowning,’” Reid says.

  We all look at him. I swallow hard.

  “I mean . . .” Reid flips his phone over in his hands. “I’ve been thinking about that little girl. Trying to honour her. I want the band to mean something, to say something.”

  “It’s good.” I use the wall for support as my eyes fill with tears. “Shit, guys, I’m sorry. Something’s wrong with me today.” My phone announces another message: again there’s no sender.

  The shift—we’re suddenly,

  truly a band.

  I hug Iona hard.

  A spider walks up my spine, each tiny leg a shiver. At exactly the same moment, I catch a glimpse of the date on my phone. No. Today. It’s today.

  “What? Alec just messaged?” Iona whines. “You gotta go?”

  “Nothing like that.” Anger scalds me. “Fair enough—I’ve been a crappy bandmate. But I’d forgotten . . . Just leave it. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Lark, come on, I didn’t mean . . .”

  I hurry out of the garage without even looking at them. I can’t believe I forgot what day it is. Anger at myself and memories of Mom fill my mind: I’m watching her on stage, the crowd hot around me. I’m fighting with her about a sleepover at Lucy’s. She’s bursting through the water at the pool, shaking water from her hair, smiling at me. I run as fast as I can, cursing that I don’t have my board, and slam through the front door of my house.

  Dad appears from the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. He takes one look at me and grabs me in a hug. “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay.”

  Dad and I walk to the cemetery like we do every year on the anniversary of my mom’s
death. He asks, “Any news of the little girl? Annabelle?”

  “Suzanne replied to a text yesterday. There’s no change. I’ll call again later today or tomorrow and see if I can go and visit.” I haven’t told Dad how weird it was last time. I’m not even sure I want to go again, so for the moment, I’m just letting it slide.

  He winces, and I turn to him. “What’s wrong?”

  He brushes off my concern with a wave of his hand. “I’m fine. Just a little . . .”

  “A little what? Is it your heart?”

  “Maybe a tiny flutter. It’s fine, Lark.”

  “We should go to the doctor.”

  We reach the cemetery. The fall is turning everything now—some of the trees have lost all their leaves, and the ground is littered with their bodies; spindly branches reach like a river delta to the crisp sky, the grass is turning brown.

  “Honey,” Dad says, “don’t worry. I’m fine.”

  “Tell me if it happens again. Okay?”

  He nods. Our feet lead us to the place where my mother’s ashes are scattered. She wanted them to be in a quiet corner under an elm tree, next to a row of wild rose bushes, the leaves of which are now furling in. Dad told me he had thought she’d want to be flung from a boat in the ocean somewhere exotic, or from the top of the mountain, something free-spirited, but she said, more than that, she wanted to be near us. Near me.

  I hug myself. “I wonder what it would be like if she hadn’t died.”

  He puts his arm around me. A breeze flips up leaves that swirl around us. “Your seventeenth birthday letter. I have it here.” With his free hand, he pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket.

  “I wondered if there was one.” I’ve had two other letters from her since she died—one for each birthday. And one video too. Her death came so quickly in the end, Dad told me, that she didn’t have time to make more.

  “After what happened on your birthday, and with you being busy with Alec, I decided today would be a better day to give it to you.” He hands me the envelope.