“Mason,” Ben whispered. “Um. Is Thera crying?”
I didn’t hear Mason’s response, but he must’ve nodded.
“Is that good or bad?” Ben said in a low, concerned voice.
His voice rich and goose bump–inducing, Mason said, “Good, I think.”
I felt a finger poke against my shoulder. I opened my eyes. Ben was hovering over me, worry etched into his features. “Thera,” he said, “you look funny when you cry.”
I laughed, sending tears scuttling down my cheeks, and then I wiped them off with the back of my hand and smiled up at him.
I stayed on my back, watching the sky until the yellows took it over. Ben had gone to sleep beside me. He looked several years younger in his cowboy pajamas, his mouth cracked open and his limbs spread indelicately across the blanket. Wally—caked with wet, course sand—was lying dutifully beside Ben, watching him as though standing guard, his muzzle supported by Ben’s leg and his nostrils working. Mason sat on the other side of me, resting his elbow on his propped-up knee while he stared at some unknown point on the horizon. He looked as if he were in a photo shoot for Rolling Stone magazine. The thing I was discovering about Mason was that he didn’t try to be larger than life, and this was what actually made him larger than life. He was so understated and so simple that he was grandiose.
All around us were signs of morning, seagull cries and golden light glinting off the sand and horns of nearby boats. But I felt lazy, peaceful, as though I’d just collapsed into my bed after arriving home from a long trip.
“It must’ve been difficult to lose your sight,” Mason said. There was something about the way his words slid out of his mouth, not with pity but with understanding. The sort of understanding you only get from people who have suffered in life.
I didn’t bother trying to lighten up the moment. “Yeah, it’s been tough,” I said. “I’ve had to change an awful lot of things about my life that I never thought I’d have to change.”
He sat up, leaned toward me, and, suddenly looking rather boyish, said, “Are your other senses, like, supersharp now?”
I swallowed.
Jesus.
I should have told him that blindness doesn’t sharpen your other senses as much as it makes you use them more, and I should have told him that my hearing was still a little sketchy compared to my sense of smell, and I should have told him that I was still lousy at telling the time of day from the way the sun felt on my skin, and I should have told him thousands upon thousands of things. But there were only a few inches between us right now, and I seemed to have lost my ability to pull a sentence from wherever sentences come from.
Realizing that I was sitting there with what I assumed was an extremely enchanting look of idiocy on my face, I finally snorted and choked out, “It doesn’t exactly work like that. I just pay more attention to my other senses now.”
Our eyes met for a moment and then twitched away. Needing something to do with my hands, I adjusted the mirror on my lap. And that was when I saw myself for the first time in seven months. Sure, I’d seen my passing reflection here and there since meeting Ben. But I’d never taken the time to actually look at myself. Not like this. I barely recognized the girl blinking back at me. My hair was darker and longer than it had been the last time I’d seen it. It fell in shiny ringlets. My nose was dusted with tiny freckles. Had I always had freckles? I wasn’t sure. I was struck by how much I resembled Teddy’s little sister, Samantha. She was just a young me—stubborn and obnoxious and fiery. But what shocked me most were my eyes. There was a realness there that I’d never seen before, something honest and naked. Unnerved, I placed the mirror beside me.
After a space of several breaths, Mason gestured to the mirror and said, “I understand why you love the sky so much. There’s something about it that gives me the impression that there’s more out there. Stuff I can’t see. Stuff I can’t understand. It’s as though the universe has a huge secret, and if I look at the sky long enough, I’ll figure it out.” He turned to me. “Have you ever gone skydiving?”
“Skydiving?” I repeated blankly. He was sitting so close to me that I could practically fold into his scent.
Mason laughed. “Yeah, you know,” he said, “jumping out of a plane and free-falling at a hundred and twenty miles per hour?”
Suddenly I remembered the skydiving pamphlets I’d seen in his room. At the time, they hadn’t fit the image of Mason I’d formed in my mind. But now I could see how he’d appreciate the absolute freedom the sky offered, if only for a minute or two. “No. Never,” I said, finally answering his question. Back when I could see, I probably would have pounced on the chance to skydive. But now? It felt unnatural to even consider it.
“You’d love it,” he said. “People who really love the sky? They love to skydive.”
“What does it feel like?” I asked.
His face lit up. “Like nothing else. At first, your stomach completely leaves you. Then you hit terminal velocity and you’re weightless. There’s this tremendous wind hitting you in the face and you’re just...there, you know? For forty-five seconds or so, you are nothing, but you are everything.”
“Wow. That sounds...”
“Perfect,” he supplied. His eyes slid down my face, clear to my lips. Suddenly I got the impression that he wasn’t talking about skydiving anymore.
We looked at each other for longer than the acceptable amount of time, and then I jammed my toes into the sand and blurted, “Were you scared? The first time you jumped out of a plane?”
He blinked. Cleared his throat. “No. I did it for Dad,” he said. When he saw the question mark in my expression, he went on. “Dad always wanted to go skydiving, but he died before he had the chance.”
I felt as though I should say something to him like I’m sorry for your loss or My condolences or something, but those responses seemed cheesy and canned. After a substantial pause, I said quietly, “It must’ve been really difficult.”
“Yeah. It sucked,” Mason said, his voice wavering a little. “The worst thing? Watching my mom go through losing him. It sort of made me crazy, you know? I knew she was hurting, but there was nothing I could do. Nothing. And Ben...” His words trailed away and he shook his head. The pain in his expression was so intense that I felt as though I should turn away. But I couldn’t. So I just nodded.
Mason fidgeted for a moment, glanced at his watch, and then gave Ben a little poke. “We should probably start heading home, buddy.”
Ben’s eyes opened to slits. “Yup. Home,” he repeated, his voice gummy from sleep.
Mason helped Ben to his feet. He was right in the middle of saying, “Ben? Why don’t I just carry you—” when a terrible cracking sound punctured the morning. Ben’s eyes slowly, horrifically, rolled back into his skull. And he collapsed face-first into the sand.
I couldn’t move or blink or process my thoughts. All I could do was stand there, gaping at Ben, whose right leg was twisted away from his body at an unnatural angle.
I was only partially aware of a god-awful sound—a horrible, raspy sound that I would later come to find out was Wally’s barking. And there were voices. No. One voice: Mason’s.
“Richardson’s Cove,” he said into his phone. He was talking quickly. So quickly I could hardly make out what he was saying. “One mile north of Chester Beach. It’s on a gravel road off Ocean Drive. In the dunes.” There was a pause in which I could swear that I heard Mason’s heartbeat crashing in my ears, but it was probably mine. “How long?” Another pause. He raked a hand through his hair. “Tell them to hurry, for Christ’s sake. He’s only ten,” he said, his voice pleading. He nodded as though the person on the other end of the line could see the motion, and he snapped his phone shut.
A fierce, biting sense of panic climbed up my chest and out of my mouth. “What the hell is happening?” I asked Mason, my head jerking back and forth from him to Ben. “He was just lying here, and he was fine. He was fine. How could he just...” My mouth wasn’t
working anymore. I was shaking too badly to form words.
“Maggie,” Mason said, grabbing me by both shoulders. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. But listen to me: you need to focus. I need your help. You have to watch Ben. Don’t let him move. That’s very important. I need to go to the road and wave the ambulance down. They’ll be here in a few minutes.” Then he was gone, his massive frame rocketing over the dunes and disappearing from sight.
Terror surged in. This could not be happening. Not to Ben. I stared down at his broken-looking frame. He looked small, crooked in all the wrong places. Mangled. I tried to swallow, but it was an incomplete motion. A choke. Crashing on my knees beside him, I cleared the sand under his face.
Tears ran down my cheeks. They plunked on the sand beside him. I leaned down so my mouth was beside his ear, and I said, “Benjamin Milton. I don’t know what’s going on right now, but you will not die on me. I haven’t beaten you yet in Twenty-one Stones.”
I didn’t know what I had expected. For him to jump up and say Gotcha? For him to roll over and tell me that I look stupid when I cry? For him to call me Thera one more time?
Nothing happened, of course. Nothing at all.
I smoothed his hair away from his face. Against my will, I was memorizing everything about this morning—the sound of Mason’s disappearing footsteps, the color fading from Ben’s cheeks, the heat of the sun dying behind an unseen cloud, the low, lonely blast of a passing boat.
Everything was slipping away from me.
I prayed that Ben wouldn’t.
Sirens approached, screaming their way through the morning, their sounds foreign alongside the crashing waves and seagull cries. I leaned down again. “Ben? You’re going to be okay. They’re coming to help you.”
But even as I said it, I didn’t believe it.
They left me there. At Richardson’s Cove. I’d watched the paramedics as they’d loaded Ben onto a stretcher. I’d followed them as they’d hurried to the ambulance. I’d listened as they’d informed me that there was room for only one extra person. I’d seen Mason hesitate before climbing into the ambulance, and then he’d said, “Can you get a ride to the hospital?”
I’d just nodded.
Then they were gone. They stole Ben’s light as they sped away from me.
And I was alone.
I walked my hands down the length of Mason’s car until I found the door handle. It was unlocked. Legs shaking horribly, I collapsed into the backseat, leaving the door wide open.
I yanked my cell phone from my purse, intending to call Sophie, but I couldn’t remember her number. I didn’t know how to find it in my phone. I couldn’t even recall how to use my phone.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there before I felt a breath on my leg. A paw on my foot. Wally leapt into the car and sat beside me. I didn’t know where he was going with this, but I didn’t move. I wanted him there. He might be the only thing holding me up. Taking a shaky breath, I used voice commands to call Sophie, but then hung up before it even started to ring, suddenly remembering that Sophie had moved.
I tried Gramps, who picked up almost immediately. Not even giving me a chance to speak, he said, “Would you people stop bothering me so goddamn early? I’m on the no-call list.” And then he hung up.
Shit.
Clarissa picked up after only one ring, her voice overly chirpy and energetic. “Hi, Maggie! Wow, you’re up early. I’ve been meaning to call you to—”
My phone made a telltale click that signified its battery had gone dead.
No no no NO.
I threw it and screamed a four-letter obscenity.
What the hell was I going to do? Walk to the hospital? I barked a derisive laugh. I could barely get down a sidewalk on my own. And besides that, I had no clue where I was. I’d worn a blindfold on the way here, so I hadn’t even seen a road sign or the edge of a yard, let alone the hospital.
I buried my face in my hands and rocked back and forth, tears leaking through my fingers, my brain stuffed full of the image of Ben’s broken frame, facedown in the sand. How had he gone from looking so normal, so healthy, to collapsing into a lifeless heap?
What had happened?
My hands fell to my sides and I stared off into the nothingness, wishing I hadn’t dodged my last session with Hilda, wishing I’d figured out what was wrong with Ben, wishing I’d insisted on riding in the ambulance.
Wishing
I wasn’t
blind.
A seagull cawed, and I swiped the wetness from my cheeks, furious with the circumstances, the morning, and, most of all, myself. For never pushing past the uncomfortable. For always taking the easy way out. For never trying.
Bullshit.
I slid jerkily out of the car and did the only thing left to do: I yanked my cane out of my back pocket, fished around in the backseat for Wally’s leash, and started walking.
I let Wally lead, let him yank me down one quiet street after another, hoping he had an inner compass that would direct us to his family. He wasn’t a guide dog by any stretch of the imagination, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to protect me—he’d just as soon lick his balls as ward off an attacker—but he was tugging me persistently and that gave me hope on some obscure level.
But when I heard the familiar smack of the cove’s waves, I realized we’d somehow ended up back where we’d started. I lurched to a stop and leaned over, hands on my knees, my breaths coming out in great heaves. Then I stood up and screamed, “IS ANYBODY THERE?!!”
Nobody answered.
I held perfectly still, quieting my breathing and doing my best to gather clues from my surroundings. There was only wave after wave. A sharp, briny smell. Warm pavement on the soles of my flip-flops.
Yet.
If I really listened, I could barely make out a hum of inland traffic. Whether I was just imagining it I had no clue, but it was better than anything else I had right now, so I started walking. This time I took the lead.
The thing about walking with a cane is that you have to walk quickly if you want to stay in a straight line. And the other thing about walking with a cane is that a brisk pace tends to lead you into trouble at warp speed. So after a dozen or so steps, I turned my ankle on a wrinkle in the street and stumbled, my hands catching my weight on rough asphalt. I could’ve stayed down there—God, I wanted to stay down there—but I jerked back up and kept going, wiping sand and blood and chunks of pavement on my shorts and leaving the ocean behind me.
It took one hundred and twenty-three steps until a sidewalk lifted under my feet, three hundred and forty steps until a car passed by, five hundred and eleven steps until I heard the click of high heels approaching. “Excuse me,” I said when the woman got close. And then I realized I had no clue what to even say. Finally I opened my mouth and asked the only question that mattered. “Can you help me get to Memorial Hospital?”
Probably climbing into an unknown car with an unknown woman to travel to an unknown address was the stupidest thing I’d ever done. Still, when the woman had offered to take me to the hospital, I’d climbed into her backseat with Wally without a moment’s hesitation. And anyway, she’d had a kind, soft voice—a mother’s voice—and so when she’d asked if I wanted a ride, my knees had gone doughy and I’d blinked away tears. All I’d done was nod.
And now, as I stood frozen in front of Memorial Hospital, I was all too aware that the place was lit up like a Christmas tree that had been decorated by a four-year-old. All the lights were jammed up in clumps. The places where patients were dying, I presumed. The ICU and the ER, et cetera. A siren shrieked in the distance—getting louder and louder as it approached. Beside me, Wally whined.
How long had it been since Ben had arrived? Two hours? Five? Did the doctors know what was wrong with him?
Was he alive?
The ambulance sped past, lit up by whatever tragedy it carried, and I followed it to the emergency room, tying Wally’s leash to a pole outside the building and walking inside. T
he burnished light of heartbreak illuminated the place perfectly. Mason was not in the waiting room. Whether that was good or bad, I didn’t know.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked as I approached the desk.
I ran a shaky hand along my forehead. “I’m looking for Ben Milton,” I said, a gale of emotion crashing into my chest as I said his name. My next words tumbled out as part of my breath. “He came in by ambulance and he was really sick and I need to know how he is.”
She blinked at me for a moment and then asked whether I was a relative, and I—stupidly—replied by saying, “I’m a friend,” to which she replied by saying, “Then I cannot give you any information on his status,” to which I replied by saying, “Well, that’s complete horseshit,” to which she replied by telling me to sit down and wait.
And that was that.
I collapsed into a plastic chair next to a little girl—a couple years old, maybe?—who stared at me with blatant shock. I looked like I’d just gotten out of an exorcism, no doubt. Rangy, frizzed-out hair. Puffy eyes. Banged-up knees. Bloody palms. I smiled weakly at her. She scrambled into her mother’s lap, casting uncertain looks at me over her shoulder.
Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes into days.
Finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I walked back to the receptionist and said in an apologetic tone, “Um. Could you maybe send out a family member to tell me what’s going on?”
She gave me a curt nod and picked up her phone.
This time I didn’t sit down. I literally couldn’t. My feet were cinder blocks on the floor as I stood in place and stared at the double doors that led to the ward.
My breath hitched when Mason came out. His lips were drawn in a tight line, tension in every slope of his body. His eyes met mine for only a fraction of a second, and then they shot to the floor. He said, “I have bad news.”
Mason led me to a quiet corner of the waiting room. I didn’t know how I managed to walk, only that I did. He opened his mouth and then let it drift shut. Then he opened it again and said, “You were right. Ben’s...” He swallowed. Looked at the floor again. I groped for the wall. You aren’t going to throw up, I told myself, and because I’d always been an ace liar, even to myself, I didn’t hurl. Finally Mason blurted, “Ben’s leg broke spontaneously because he has a rare form of bone cancer.”
The One Thing Page 21
