The One Thing

by Marci Lyn Curtis

  I woke up early, even before my parents left for work, and sat on the edge of my bed, trying to figure out what to do to help Ben, trying to figure out how to find Ben.

  I swallowed. What if I was too late? What if the Miltons were gone because Ben had already di—

  My trembling hand covered my mouth. I couldn’t even think it. Not that. Not about Ben.

  I stayed in my room until late that morning, when I walked purposefully to the kitchen and did the only thing that made sense: I made lasagna. Lasagna-making was a skill I’d learned from my mother. Fantastic lasagna snob that she was, she refused to buy the pasta frozen or use ready-made ingredients. She made the whole dish from scratch. It was a long, drawn-out affair, a ritual of sorts, in which the majority of the day was spent leaning over simmering pots of pureed tomatoes, garlic, and spices. For whatever reason the process seemed to set things straight in my head, so I padded through the empty house and got started.

  It took me longer than expected. Back when I could see, I had the system down perfectly: run the tomatoes through the food processor, simmer the onions and garlic, slowly add the spices, et cetera. But now I had to cook with my fingers, my nose, my ears. And even though our kitchen had been organized to the point of nausea, every move I made had to be slow, deliberate, and then checked and double-checked. Had I turned on the correct burner? Was this tomato bruised or just overripe? Where the hell was the oregano?

  By late afternoon I knew what to do: I had to call Mason. Sure, the two of us had a checkered past, but he loved his brother and he was a man of action. He would know what to do.

  I dialed Clarissa’s number, speaking right over her hello. “Clarissa, it’s Maggie. Sorry to interrupt, but it’s sort of an emergency. Any chance you could ask that friend of yours for Mason Milton’s cell phone number? I need to get in touch with him.”

  Thirty minutes later, I had Mason’s number punched into my phone. The line was ringing. And panic was settling in. What the hell was I going to say? My thumb was hovering over the END button when a hello finally boomed over the line. It wasn’t Mason, though. It was Mrs. Milton.

  I held the phone to my ear with an unsteady hand and said, “Hi! It’s Maggie!” Was I yelling? I was yelling. I sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly. Like a human person, I went on. “I was calling for Mason. I thought this was his number?”

  “Hello, love,” Mrs. Milton breathed into the receiver. “Actually, this is his number. I’m just playing secretary for him right now while he takes a turn driving.” When I failed to reply, she went on to explain. “We’re on our way home from my sister’s house in Georgia. We go there every year for the first week of July. Anyway, we should be home in about an hour?”

  I staggered into the wall. They were on vacation. That was all. Ben was okay. I said, “Could you have Mason call me back when you guys get home, please? At this number?”

  “Sure,” she chirped.

  “And Mrs. Milton?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell him it’s important.”

  An hour later, Gramps came banging into the kitchen. My arms were elbow-deep in the soapy waters of the sink, and the lasagna was doing something magical in the oven.

  “What smells in here?” Gramps asked.

  “Lasagna,” I said, rinsing the last of the pots and pans.

  “Heh,” he said, and I heard him clomping to the oven. “You gonna eat all that yourself, kid?”

  “Nope. We are.”

  He harrumphed. “Don’t like casseroles.”

  “Gramps. It’s not a casserole. It’s lasagna.”

  “Looks like casserole to me.”

  I blew a loose curl off my forehead, lifting a pot from the sink and groping around for a towel to dry it off. “Mom and Dad will eat some.”

  “Nope,” said Gramps. “Your parents have that banquet tonight. Remember?”

  “Oh. Right,” I said, although I did not, in fact, remember. Not in the slightest. All I knew was that by the time we sat down to dinner, Mason still hadn’t bothered to return my call. The longer I waited, the more anxious I became, and the more I second-guessed myself for calling him in the first place. My mouth was dry from nerves, so I chugged my milk and then refilled my glass, sticking my index finger inside so I could tell when it was full—slightly unsanitary, but necessary.

  Gramps’s fork tinked on his plate as he stabbed at his lasagna. “Don’t see any meat in here,” he said.

  “That’s because Mom’s lasagna recipe is vegetarian,” I pointed out.

  “I should cram some bologna in it,” Gramps mused.

  The ring of my cell phone interrupted my reply. I swallowed the mouthful of lasagna I’d been chewing. It stuck somewhere halfway down my throat. Two rings. Three rings.

  I didn’t move.

  Gramps’s chair ground on the tile as he stood up. Seconds later he said, “Hello?”

  He’d answered my goddamn phone.

  “Uh-huh,” he said after a moment. “She’s right here. Eating dinner. No, no, it’s fine. It’s just a casserole.” Then he stuffed the phone in my hands.

  I glared in his general direction and put the phone to my ear. I felt like a tiny, wounded bird trapped in a cast-iron cage. Finally I took a deep breath and squeaked, “Hello?”

  “Maggie.” Mason’s voice was clipped and annoyed, but damned if it wasn’t dead sexy.

  My palms started to sweat. A lot. I lurched out of my seat and paced into the living room. “Um. Hi, Mason. Is there any way you could come over tonight? There’s something important I need to tell you.”

  He was quiet for several long moments, and then, still sounding not at all amused, he said, “Well, I have to drop Ben at swim practice. And later on, I have rehearsal.”

  This was going better than I’d expected. He had actually spoken to me. With words. “How about after you drop him off?” I asked, unable to keep desperation out of my voice. “Can you swing by my house for a little bit?”

  He exhaled loudly into the phone. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever.”

  Mason pulled up to my house thirty-five minutes later. All he said to me when I opened the front door was hello. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting from him—concern or curiosity, maybe?—but I was taken slightly aback by his curt tone.

  He was still furious with me. That much was clear. I could sense his annoyance radiating off him like acrid damp heat on summer pavement as he followed me to the living room. He sat on the couch while I stood stiffly, several paces away, my back to him and my arms crossed. Silence pressed hard on my eardrums. Finally I opened my mouth and started talking. Since I didn’t know where to start, I started at the beginning.

  “I haven’t been completely honest with you,” I said, my voice shaking, “but I guess you already know that. The truth is, I’ve been blind for several months now, since I came down with bacterial meningitis.” I paused. Hold it together. I took in a breath, and in my exhale, I said, “When I first met Ben, I’d just fallen and hit my head. I was lying on the floor with my eyes closed, trying to shake it off. When I finally opened my eyes, Ben was standing over me.”

  As I told the story, I could still picture Ben’s wide smile that day. I could still hear him bellowing that I was his girlfriend. It made my chest ache. “I could see him and a little bit around him, like he was a lightbulb or something. I was shocked and amazed and so freaking happy. It was the first time I’d felt normal in months.” I paused for a moment, waiting for Mason to say something. But he didn’t. He just sat there and judged me with his silence. “At first, I thought I’d gone crazy,” I went on. “I mean, hitting my head and seeing someone?” I exhaled loudly, shaking my head. “Life just doesn’t work like that, you know? But the thing is, I wasn’t crazy—I’m not crazy.” I spun around to face Mason, my entire body shaking as I grappled with the words I knew I had to say.

  There was no sound from the couch. No movement. No words. Nothing. Just the musky smell that was Mason.

  “I’ve seen two
other people since then,” I said. “The first time was in a Chinese restaurant. The man I saw was so old. He looked...well, wrong, I guess? But I couldn’t put my finger on it. When I look back on it now, I can see that he was probably sick. And yesterday, I saw another person. A woman. My mother happens to know her. She’s—” My sentence stopped abruptly. The word dying had fallen from my mouth before I could speak it. It would be so much easier if Mason would just say it for me. I wanted him to. Needed him to. To take the weight off my shoulders for me. So I silently stood there as the living room clock marked off the seconds. We stayed like that for exactly fifty-two ticks: me, standing in front of him, a single word frozen on my lips, and Mason, sitting noiselessly on the couch.

  The gravity of the situation would become desperately, crushingly real to me when I finished that sentence. It would not be a theory I’d pieced together in my head, but a conclusion. There was too much finality in that. I didn’t know whether I could take it. Tears pricked at my eyes. I blinked them away.

  “The woman I saw is dying,” I said finally, my voice cracking. “And the man I saw in the restaurant? I’m sure he is dying as well.”

  Mason wasn’t stupid. He knew what I was insinuating. But he still remained silent and unreadable. And it infuriated me.

  “Has Ben gone to the doctor lately?” I practically screamed. “Has he seemed sick at all?”

  Mason didn’t answer me. He just huffed disbelievingly.

  Where the hell was the guy from the night at the Strand? Had he been a mirage? A fake? Hurt and anger thundered out of me as I said, “Goddamn it, Mason. Ben could be—Can you say something?”

  I heard him stand up and head for the door.

  “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?” I bellowed, stomping after him. “Where are you going?”

  Silence.

  “Do you just leave when things get uncomfortable?” I yelled furiously. “Is that how you cope?”

  Nothing. Not an answer. Not an utterance. Not a word. Just the swuff swuff swuff of his gigantic boots on the carpet as he made his way out of the house.

  There was a bomb inside me now, ticking off seconds. Stomping after him, I answered on his behalf, sarcasm coating my every word. “Why yes, Maggie. That’s what I do. Because I’m an egotistical, self-centered jerk who only cares about myself.”

  His footsteps came to an abrupt halt. We were close to the front door now. I would be willing to bet he’d turned around and was glaring at me. I could feel his anger all around me, a sharp electrical current quaking in the air between us. I ignored the alarms blaring in my head. The ones that were telling me to shut up. Not long ago, Mason had beaten the crap out of some kid for almost no reason whatsoever.

  And I couldn’t care less.

  I said derisively, “You know, you sort of remind me of someone. He’s been assuming the worst in me for weeks now.” I paused for half a second, waiting for him to say something. But he didn’t, so I plowed on. I was on a roll now. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the theme song from Rocky was playing. “You might know the guy. Lives in Chester Beach? Sings with the Loose Cannons? What’s his name again?” I tapped an index finger on my chin, in a sarcastic parody of thought. “I’m terrible with names, but I’m pretty sure it’s something like...Asshole.”

  I heard the front door jerk open and his footsteps stride outside, and that was when I completely snapped. I stomped after him, weeks of frustration and hurt pouring out of me all at once, too big and too wide and too explosive to be contained anymore. I reached out for him and snatched him by what felt like his upper arm. It was flexed. Tense. Ready to fight.

  The air crackled between us.

  We were too close. My emotions were detonating. I wanted to melt into an ocean of tears and I wanted to shake the hell out of him and I wanted to fling myself into his arms.

  My hand sprang free. “WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?” I screamed. “Would it kill you to talk to me? Listen to me? Consider what I have to say? What makes you think that you are entitled to treat other people like complete crap? Because you’re in the Loose Cannons? Do you seriously—seriously—think that I would go through the trouble of faking my blindness just to get near you? What do you think, that you’re some sort of goddamn gift to the world?”

  He was maybe a foot or two away from me. Too close. I could feel his breath. It was hot, choppy, enraged. But I didn’t step back. I leaned forward, taunting him.

  A phone started ringing—some electronic ringtone I didn’t recognize. Mason’s, no doubt.

  “Are you planning on answering that?” I said through my teeth.

  He growled, and a second later, I heard him say in a tight voice, “Hey, Mom....At Maggie’s.” He said my name as though he were naming the dog crap stuck on the bottom of his shoe. Silence as he listened some more, then he exhaled heavily. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. Sad, almost. “Where?” he asked. “Okay. Of course. Leaving now.” His phone snapped shut, and then it was dead quiet. “I need to run an errand for my mom,” he said finally, almost more to himself than to me. I heard his boots slap against the concrete walkway as he clomped away.

  I followed him, fury and desperation in my every footfall, misjudging my steps and slamming into a landscape boulder that had been in our front yard since the day we’d moved in. I growled and cursed under my breath, rubbing the sting out of my shin. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Mason that might have been concern. But he didn’t say anything.

  “I’m going with you,” I informed him. “I’m not finished with this conversation.”

  He didn’t answer me, but he didn’t stop me from getting into his car.

  I sat unmoving in the passenger seat, my arms crossed tightly on my chest. Silence squeezed on me from all sides, heavy and thick. I was so far beyond mad that I could hardly breathe. I’d never met anyone as difficult as Mason. I had a handful of personas that generally worked on everyone, but none of them had worked on him. Not Deep Maggie. Not Sarcastic Maggie. Not Self-deprecating Maggie. Not even Funny Maggie. I was fresh out of Maggies.

  And I was running out of time. Correction: Ben was running out of time. His life was falling away from him, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  I rubbed my temples with my index fingers and leaned against the headrest, heaving out a massive gust of air. Think. I was so unprepared to hear Mason speak that I flinched in my seat as he said, “Somebody reported that a stray dog has been struck by a car off of Second Avenue. Mom wants me to bring it to the vet hospital for treatment.”

  All I could do was nod. Then I counted. Twenty-eight words. The most he’d ever said to me. Realizing my mouth was hanging open in shock, I promptly shut it. Then, pitifully enough, I analyzed his tone. As always, his words had been smooth and buttery as they’d slid from his mouth. But unlike the other times I’d heard his voice, a dozen different emotions fought for control over his tone.

  We drove in silence for several minutes. I tried to organize my thoughts. Mason obviously hadn’t believed me, so I needed to find another tactic. But what? I’d given him the truth. He’d rejected it. I didn’t have anything else to give him.

  We finally slowed on a quiet road, the car crunching to a stop on a graveled shoulder. Mason climbed out and hustled off, but I stayed planted in my seat, my eyes shut and my head leaning back. I didn’t know where Mason had gone. His footsteps had gotten fainter and fainter until they had faded away completely. What felt like hours later, I heard him hurrying back to the car. To my surprise, he opened my door. My eyes jerked open as he placed a tiny, shaking dog in my lap.

  I could see it.

  It was one of those miniature dogs that women carry in their purses and decorate with bows. The kind that yips instead of barks. It lit up a small puddle of light inside the car. I could now see the dog, my lap, a crunched-up napkin in the console, a blue guitar pick that said FENDER, and, as Mason started the car, a snatch of his tanned fingers gripping the keys.

  Suddenly, I didn’t kn
ow what to do with my hands. “Is it...is it going to be all right?” I whispered as Mason pulled back onto the road.

  He sighed and said, “She. It’s a she. And I hope so.” I could hear something different in his tone. I wondered whether he’d noticed that I’d gone from completely blind to semisighted once he’d placed the dog in my lap, whether he saw something different in my expression now, whether he was starting to believe me. I had no way of knowing.

  The dog shifted in my lap. I went to catch her, to keep her from sliding to the floorboard, and my fingers found her soft muzzle. Long, tangled fur. Skinny legs. She nudged my hand with her wet nose, saying, Comfort me, please.

  I swallowed and then ran a tentative hand down her torso, afraid to touch something that might cause her pain. She felt small, ribby, unloved. I swallowed again, this time pushing a huge lump down my throat. “Where does your mom work? Is it close?” I asked.

  “Chester Beach.”

  The ride to Chester Beach dragged on forever. I didn’t notice any bloody, twisted limbs or obvious signs of trauma on the dog. But I knew they were there. I could see them hiding in the labor of her breath and her too-slow heartbeat on my thigh.

  The vet hospital was crowded for some reason. Full of people and chatter and healthy animals that didn’t need to be there. Mason’s mom had gone on break, so she wasn’t there as I stood stiffly at the front desk in a tiny pool of light, the dog cradled in my arms. Mason spoke in a low voice to the people at the front counter. He seemed to know everybody who worked there—his name floated over my head in a half-dozen different voices, all friendly and appreciative.

  A nurse took us back to a room that smelled of rubbing alcohol and bleach. As the vet inspected the dog, I gripped the exam table, my stomach twisted in knots.

  “Mason,” the vet said as he worked, “we appreciate your helping us out again.” I couldn’t see the vet’s face. It was just past that dim area where the light dwindled away. But he had a low, kind voice, the sort of voice that generally doesn’t have the title “Doctor” stapled to it. His hands were wide and freckled, with fat veins crawling from wrist to knuckle. There was a thin scratch on his thumb. A battle wound, presumably, from working with animals.