The One Thing

by Marci Lyn Curtis

  But she was still crying.

  Nothing was making sense.

  Mrs. Milton let go of me, blew her nose in one loud honk, and then announced that since Ben was so groggy she was heading to the cafeteria for a quick bite.

  As the hallway swallowed up her footsteps, I lurched into the room, slamming into Mason, who grunted his surprise. Taking a fistful of his shirt for balance, I hissed, “Mason, what the hell is going on?”

  “Didn’t the nurse tell you everything when she called?” Mason said, sounding confused.

  My words started coming out quickly, separated by sharp breaths. “All she told me was that I needed to come to the hospital—and she wouldn’t tell me why because I’m not family—and I couldn’t get a hold of you because your cell coverage is lousy here—and I had to find the bus stop—and then when I got here the halls were so crowded and I couldn’t see anything—Mason, I can’t see anything—”

  “Oh God,” he breathed. “You thought...” He was supporting my weight now. Muttering a low oath under his breath, he went on. “I knew I should’ve just gone outside and called you myself instead of asking the nurse to do it. Mom convinced me to have the nurse call; she said it would be the simplest, quickest way to get you here to celebrate with us.”

  Celebrate? “Mason, I can’t see.”

  “That’s because Saint Jude’s is a rehab hospital.”

  It was like he was speaking a foreign language. “A rehab hospital?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t know that, either, when Ben was first admitted.” He exhaled loudly. “Anyway, he got a lot of rest overnight. Between that and the good news, he’s really starting to come around.”

  “Good news?” I murmured.

  Mason’s voice was dreamlike, almost hypnotic, as he said, “Ben’s lab results came back today. The surgery removed virtually all the cancer. They’re still running tests—I mean, he just came back from some sort of scan? So I guess we’ll have to wait for those results, too, but right now things are looking good. Much better than the doctor had expected. He’ll still need chemo, radiation, but his chances are good.”

  I couldn’t let myself believe it. Not yet. I whispered, “But your mom was crying, Mason.”

  “She’s a crier,” he explained. “Happy tears, sad tears. You name it. Maggie,” he said in my ear, and suddenly I was painfully, exquisitely aware that I was smashed up against him. “The doctor told us that Ben’s chances of survival are seventy percent.”

  “And I can’t see him,” I murmured. I could come up with only one theory for these two things occurring in tandem. A theory so perfect that I could hardly even consider it.

  Something warm was mushrooming in my heart. Something like hope.

  “Thera,” Ben slurred from across the room. “You just gonna stand there and slobber all over my brother or are you gonna come over and say hi?”

  Mason and I sprang apart guiltily. I stepped forward, banging into Ben’s bed rails. “Hey, Ben,” I said, trying to sound as normal as possible but failing miserably. My brain kept repeating two words, over and over. Seventy percent.

  But I knew otherwise. His chances were 100 percent because

  I

  could

  not

  see

  him.

  “Thera,” Ben garbled. “You look like crap.”

  I laughed loudly, a combination of Ben’s exclamation-point laugh and my own laugh. I liked the sound of it. “I imagine you do as well,” I said, “but I can’t see you.”

  Ben was quiet as he processed this information. “You can’t?” he said finally.

  I shook my head.

  “Then I feel the need to inform you,” he said, slurred yet serious, “that I’m the best-looking guy in the room.”

  Clarissa caught up with me a few minutes later, after Ben had drifted off to sleep. Mason gave us both a ride home, dropping Clarissa off first. He covered my hand with his as we pulled out of Clarissa’s driveway, his skin sending me message after message—I’m sorry for what you went through today and You’re important to me and I care about you.

  “How are you doing?” he said softly, his thumb tracing tiny circles on my palm.

  “Fine,” I basically yelled. I cleared my throat. “I mean—Ben is okay, so I’m better than I’ve been in a long time.” Understatement of the millennium. The sensation of his skin moving on mine was overwhelming, like nothing I’d ever felt before. Was he just being supportive and kind? Probably.

  Didn’t matter. My entire body was detonating.

  “The thing is,” Mason explained, “you won’t be able to see anymore.”

  I started to refute this but then promptly stopped. He was right. Unless I deliberately hung around emergency rooms and hospices—a thought as disgusting as it was tempting—my eyesight was basically a memory.

  Fact was, I was blind.

  Mason’s thumb hitched. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he whispered.

  I hadn’t noticed the tears creeping up on me, but they were there now, falling slowing down my cheeks. “It’s okay,” I said, swiping them away. I tipped my head against the window and sighed.

  One of the things I liked about Mason was that he knew when to leave me alone with my thoughts. He turned the radio on low and we spent the rest of the ride in silence. There was just me, propped against cool glass with a massive, heart-wrenching realization beginning to press down on me, Mason’s hand on mine, and the music. As Mason came to a stop at my house, he said, “Um. There’s a police car in your driveway.”

  Nerves fluttered in my stomach. “I didn’t tell my parents I was leaving the house today,” I said, my voice wavering. “They must’ve called in the cavalry.”

  I was in so much trouble.

  “It’s my fault that you ran off to Saint Jude’s,” Mason said in an exhale. “Want me to go in with you? Help you explain?”

  I squeezed his hand once and then pulled away from him. “You’re sweet to offer, but no. This thing with my parents goes way beyond today—and none of it is your fault.” I yanked open the door and stepped out with one shaky foot. “Just keep me updated on Ben, okay? I have a feeling I won’t be leaving this house for a long time.”

  I could hear Mason’s car backing out of the driveway as I crept up the porch steps to the front door. Pausing for a moment, I drew in a deep breath, and then I turned the knob and stepped inside. I closed the door quietly with two flat palms and stood perfectly still, waiting for the screaming.

  It didn’t come.

  What came instead was a sharp inhalation of breath, my father’s collapsed “Thank God,” and my mother’s ragged “She’s here.” And suddenly Mom was closing in on me, all jagged bones and hair, embracing me fiercely and muttering, though seemingly not to me. She was either sobbing or laughing “She’s okay” over and over. Eventually she stepped back, but her hand clamped down hard on my forearm, as though I were a balloon that might drift away.

  I wanted her to yell at me. I was ready for her to yell at me. But the only words passed came from a rumbly-voiced police officer. He asked me only cursory questions—Where had I been? Had I been taken against my will? Was I all right?—and then he left the house in a trail of strident footsteps.

  Then it was just the three of us.

  And my mother’s grip on my arm.

  It was terrifying to me, that grip.

  I heard Dad walking in my direction, stopping right in front of me. “Maggie,” he breathed, “we were so worried about you. We thought...” He cleared his throat. Started again. “We kept trying to call you and you didn’t pick up. We were so afraid that after everything...” He cleared his throat once more. “We were terrified that you’d run away. That you’d done something dangerous and gotten hurt.”

  My father’s distraught voice, the way my mother was clutching my arm—it all surged over me, and suddenly I felt my throat jam up. “I thought Ben was about to die, Dad,” I explained. “So Clarissa and I took the bus to Saint Ju
de’s.”

  “You took the bus?” Dad sputtered.

  “Dad,” I said. My voice was quiet. Small. We’d never spoken like this, Dad and I. We’d always been masters at avoiding confrontation. “I’m perfectly able to walk two blocks from my own house and catch a bus to Saint Jude’s. If you don’t believe in me, in my ability to get around, to live”—I tried to pull free from my mother’s grasp, but couldn’t—“how do you expect me to believe in myself? You have to let me figure things out on my own.”

  I heard him swallow. “I don’t know how to do that,” he said. He didn’t sound much like my father. His voice was old and quiet and crumpled. “I don’t know how to stand by and watch you get hurt.”

  “But Dad, your worrying about my getting hurt—that’s what’s hurting me.” I felt my eyes well up. I knew that I’d already cried too much today, knew it was pointless to start up again. But I also realized that my next several sentences wouldn’t come out without tears. “I’m still Maggie. I still want to spend time with you. I still want to search for music together on Saturday mornings.”

  He unloaded a heavy sigh. “After you...” He stopped and then started over. “Time and time again, I invited you to come along, and you always said no. I figured it was too painful for you, so I stopped bringing it up. I’m sorry, Mags. I guess I should have kept asking.” He put a heavy hand on my back, let it slide around to my shoulder to give me a one-armed hug. He smelled like spicy aftershave and laundry detergent and sweat. I wiped the tears off my cheeks, struck by how small and young I felt in his embrace—like I was Ben’s age, maybe even younger. He gave me one last squeeze before pulling away.

  My mother’s grip tightened on my arm, and I turned toward her. “Mom.” It was just the one word, but sounded so much like a plea. Truth was, she was scaring me.

  Seconds slid by.

  “Maggie,” she began finally, bordering on hysterical. She gulped in a breath before continuing on, her words choppy, rushed. “You were right, about how I left when you...when you were...” She stopped and sucked in a breath. I didn’t move, just waited her out. “You were always the strong one. The strongest person I knew. So much stronger than I could ever be. It was terrifying to see you in that hospital, so sick and weak.”

  I nodded, though I didn’t know why. Maybe I just wanted to encourage her to keep talking so I didn’t have to speak. I was afraid to open my mouth. I could feel a sob surging up from my chest that was so massive, it was going to shatter me in half.

  “I felt so goddamn guilty,” Mom went on, her voice louder now, adamant. “I knew that if I’d taken you to the doctor that morning—if I hadn’t gone to work—you probably wouldn’t have been lying in that bed, fighting for your life. And the truth is, I just didn’t know how to deal with all of that, so I stayed with my sister for a few days, trying to pull myself together.” She paused, and I heard her take a deep breath. “It was an awful thing to do, sweetie. You needed me, and what did I do? I left you.”

  “You could have just told me all of that, Mom,” I said, my words quiet, shaky. “I would have forgiven you.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you were lucid enough to even realize I was gone. That sounds like an excuse—and I guess it is.” She exhaled tiredly and was quiet for several heartbeats. Finally she said, “I’ve been waiting for you to stand up and dust yourself off, stronger than ever. You’re Maggie, after all. Tough as hell.” I heard her swallow. Take in a breath. “And you have started to move on; you’ve discovered new ways to do things. You’ve made new friends. I’m proud of you, Maggie.”

  “Are you moving on, though?” I choked.

  “Of course I am. What do you—” She broke off, heaved out a breath, and started again. “Oh honey, is this about soccer? You think I’m disappointed that you can’t play like you used to? Of course it’s been hard to see you lose all that, hard to see you lose your...hard to see you...”

  I just stood there, motionless, waiting for her to say it. But she didn’t, and so I said it for her. “Blind, Mom. I’m blind.”

  And as I said it, I knew that it was true.

  That it would always be true.

  I couldn’t cling to the scraps of my past while the present carried on without me. I’d had my sight. It had been fleeting and beautiful and overwhelming, and I’d loved every moment of it.

  And now it was gone.

  It struck me hard, that truth, and I crumpled from the weight of it.

  Thank God she was still holding my arm, because she caught me as I fell and we went to the floor together. “I know you are,” Mom said, rocking me back and forth, “and that’s okay. You have to know that it’s okay. That we are all okay.”

  I felt like she was giving me permission to let go of all the pain and guilt and fear—all the resentment and hurt I’d been carrying. Chest heaving, I collapsed into her and sobbed, suddenly aware that I’d been holding myself upright for seven-plus months, and I was too exhausted now to do it on my own. After my tears subsided, I untangled myself and sat up, wiping off my cheeks with the back of my hand. I drew in a deep breath, held it for just a moment. And then I exhaled, letting it all slip away.

  Ben started chemo after he got released from Saint Jude’s. He spent most of his time lying in bed or hanging over a trash can, either sleeping or throwing up.

  It was a Sunday, a couple weeks into his treatments, when I strode into Ben’s room and ceremoniously deposited a heavy package on his bed. “Got you a present,” I said.

  Ben was quiet for a moment while he processed the information. Then, and with a yawn that failed to disguise the pleasure in his voice, he said, “For real?”

  I sat down on the corner of his bed and tapped the top of the gift with my index finger. “Yeah. For real. Open it.”

  I heard the bed squeak as he sat upright, heard him wildly ripping away the wrapping paper. And then I heard a gulp. For a moment, I thought maybe he was puking. Which made me panic a little, because I wasn’t sure whether to find him a trash can or to cover my mouth and get the hell out before I sympathy-puked. But then he said in a choked whisper, “The Qs.”

  My heart collapsed and inflated at the exact same time.

  Yesterday I’d gotten up repulsively early, showered, and spent an hour combing through the local online classifieds. Then I’d burst into my parents’ room and woken up my father, hollering, “There are fifteen garage sales today, Dad! Fifteen!”

  Because sometimes, you need to be the one to take the first step.

  To-go coffee cups in our hands, we’d wandered around garage sale after garage sale for the better part of the morning, chatting and meandering and goofing off. It hadn’t been exactly like it used to be—we weren’t exactly like we used to be—but it had been a start. And right now, that was all we needed. I’d found the Q encyclopedia at our fourteenth stop. It was part of a set, tucked underneath a table. I might’ve never even discovered it if my cane hadn’t gotten snagged on a wire hanger.

  Ben cleared his throat. “Thera,” he said finally, all casually, like he’d known me for centuries and I’d spent most of that time surprising him with meaningful gifts, “want me to read you some of the entries?”

  A laugh exploded up from somewhere deep inside me, a bubble bursting all over the room. I hadn’t realized until that very moment how badly I wanted to hear the Qs. “Yeah, I do.”

  I almost mowed Mason over when I walked out of Ben’s room. Evidently, and due to a filing issue in my closet, we were wearing the exact same thing—jeans and plain black T-shirts—because he paused in the hallway for a moment and then said in a low voice, “You look a hell of a lot better in that outfit than I do.” His words slid down my spine and made a hard landing at the backs of my knees. And I couldn’t quite recover. Even an hour later, as we lay on the living room floor and babbled about music, my legs felt spongy and inept.

  “How does anyone get to the age of seventeen without hearing a single Operation Scarce song?” I said. “
It’s un-American.”

  “I told you,” Mason said. “I was sheltered.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please. I have one of their songs on my phone if you want to listen to it.”

  “What I want to listen to,” he said, and I heard him turn on his side to face me, “is the song you played that day on the piano.”

  “Oh no. No no no no,” I said, laughing. “That’s just something that’s been circling in my head lately, is all.”

  “Just humor me, Maggie. Please?” he said, hitting me hard with that buttery voice.

  I blinked. “Um. Okay.”

  I rolled upright, taking longer than necessary to make my way to the piano bench. Probably I’d played this song a thousand times over the past several weeks. I knew it backward and forward and backward again. But even so, Mason was a real, honest-to-God, brilliant musician, and I was just a girl who plucked notes out of the air and glued them together however she saw fit. I sat down clumsily on the bench, my hands in my lap. Mason walked up behind me, stopping close enough for me to feel the heat coming off his body.

  I didn’t move.

  Reaching over my shoulder, he gently took my hands, one at a time, and placed them on the keys.

  It was strangely intimate, that act.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, tried to forget about everything but the music, and began to play. The music seemed loud for some reason, like it was rushing at me in a pair of headphones, like I was standing in the front row at a concert next to a massive speaker. So much so that I almost didn’t hear Mason as he started singing the lyrics I’d read that day in his room, the lyrics for “November.”

  I stopped playing. “You’re singing to my music,” I said brilliantly.

  He sat down on the bench beside me. His voice so close to me that I could feel the smile in it, he said, “I am. Keep playing.”

  “Right. Yes, of course. Keep playing. How silly of me.” His non-reply told me he was waiting for me. I cleared my throat and forced my hands to move. He was singing again as I hit the third key, starting smack in the middle of the second verse. I stopped again. “This is weird.”