The next thing I do is to call Spencer, who answers on the first ring.
“Thanks for the car.” I can picture him sitting in the black armchair in his room, his legs draped over the side, a book in one hand and his phone in the other waiting for me to call and tell him that both me and Sweeney made it back. “I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”
He laughs. “Is it in one piece?”
“Very funny. Yes, it’s fine,” I answer, neglecting to tell him that Ally did most of the driving.
“Are you in one piece?” he asks more cautiously.
“I’m … ” I pause long enough that Spencer finishes the sentence for me
“Speechless? Smitten? Besotted?”
Sometimes it’s hard when you have friends who know you so well that they can read the meaning behind every intonation in your voice. Sometimes, like now, it’s the best thing in the world.
“Besotted?” I laugh. “Only you would say besotted.”
“You aren’t answering my question.”
It’s like that tree falling in a forest thing. If I don’t tell Spencer something, if I keep it to myself, anything can happen. I can wake up and it will have gone away. I can change my mind and it won’t matter. It isn’t real until he’s heard it.
So answering his question is a commitment to swinging at the ball. Once I’m in, I’m in. I hesitate but only for a second. I want this to be real. “Yes, Yeats, I’m besotted.”
“About time,” he says. “You can thank me later.”
“Is this … ” I start, trying to choose the right words. “I mean, you and Rob … I can’t imagine feeling like this and not … ” I’m mangling the question, but, as usual, he gets it.
“Yeah,” he says and then there’s silence.
“What?”
“Cal, you and Ally aren’t two thousand miles away from each other. And Rob hasn’t even told his parents that he’s gay. I don’t want to be anyone’s secret. It’s just … complicated.” Spencer sounds sad and I wish he’d go for the thing with Rob even though I’m the last one to talk.
“But there’s email, and webcams, and I’ve heard they’ve got these metal birds that fly called planes, and … maybe you can help him?” I think of all the times that Spencer pushed me to talk to Ally. I guess it’s always hardest to take your own advice.
I can hear his smile on the other end of the phone. “Yeah, mister expert, I get it. I’m … working on it.”
When I hang up the phone, I send Ally a text.
Is it odd that I feel I know you so well when we haven’t talked that much?
I don’t use typical text abbreviations because Lizzie never texted and Spencer is a word snob. Text speak is one of the few things that sets him on edge so I’m just out of the habit.
After I send it, I head downstairs and take my evening meds right on time. It takes about ten very long minutes but then my phone chirps and Ally’s name pop up.
We’ve talked a lot. Just not with words.
I wonder, for a minute, if all of the stars I’ve wished on have had a conference and decided to band together to make this possible. I don’t know how it’s possible that she’s forgiven me for so many things, when I can’t forgive myself.
Twenty-Two
“So you’ve asked Ally out, right?” Spencer is sitting on the floor of my room rolling a baseball back and forth between his hands. We’re supposed to be studying for a chem test, but neither of us is having much luck focusing on it.
“I’m having lunch with her on Mondays,” I answer. “It’s kind of a thing now.”
“It’s a thing ? What does that even mean?” Spencer picks up the ball, my phone, and a stapler and starts to juggle them. It’s kind of hypnotic.
“It’s the only time you and the play aren’t monopolizing her. She doesn’t have rehearsals on Mondays. So we have lunch.”
“In the school cafeteria? Wow, that’s romantic.” Spencer catches the ball and sets it down, followed by the stapler. When he catches my phone, he stares at it. “Call her,” he says, holding it out to me.
“Why?”
Spencer tosses the phone and it lands near me on the bed. Then he lies back until he’s flat on the floor looking up at my stars. “It’s your turn. She started your lunch ‘thing.’ Now you need to move forward or you’re just going to get stuck in a rut.”
Something in his voice, the way he’s lying stretched and tense, makes me wonder if he’s really talking about me and Ally at all.
Do it. You have nothing to lose. Have some balls for a change.
For once, I kind of agree with Lizzie. After that first week, Ally and I have had lunch together for the last couple of Mondays and we’ve been hanging out at practice. I’m pretty sure she’d say “yes” if I asked her to do something else. So I grab the phone and call her.
“Hey Ally,” I say to her voicemail. “It’s me. Cal.” I think fast. “My parents are going to some foundation dinner tonight and I was wondering if you wanted to come over and grab a pizza or something.”
I glance at Spencer, who is leaning forward on his elbows and staring at me with his eyes wide open. He never thought I’d go through with it. “Pizza?” he mouths at the same time that Lizzie says it in my head. I know it isn’t the healthiest option or the most romantic one, but they’ve obviously forgotten that I can’t cook.
“Or something,” I repeat. “Anyhow … give me a call. Later. Okay, bye.”
I disconnect the call and throw my phone back to Spencer. “Your turn.”
“My turn what?”
“Call Rob,” I say. For some reason the whole thing reminds me of Lizzie’s truth or dare games.
Spencer goes a little pale and bolts straight up. “No, I don’t think so.” He picks up his chem book and starts riffling through it, but I can tell he isn’t really looking at it. He sighs as he puts it back down. “I’ve been thinking a lot since … ” He closes his eyes and take a breath so deep I can see his black T-shirt rise. “Losing Lizzie … ” He stops again.
I hang off the end of my bed. It freaks me out when Spencer starts to sound unsure of things. I move to the floor and sit down next to him. My chest hums. Lizzie always gets like that when I’m close to Spencer and that freaks me out enough that I move back to sit on the bed.
Spencer gives me a suspicious look, puts my phone back on the edge of the bed, and stares at it. “Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Who knows if we’ll even be here tomorrow? I get it. But Rob and I aren’t even in the same time zone. We have video chats and it’s good. Really good. Just like last summer. But only when his dad isn’t home because his dad would kill him if he knew he was gay. So really I’m just wasting my time, right?”
I try to remember the last time Spencer needed my advice on something. I wish it were about fielding a line-drive, or plotting a star chart, because relationships are probably what I’m most clueless about.
I think about what he said in The Cave about his night with Lizzie. And how he felt about her and wished he could be different. I know that I need to reassure him. Spencer is usually happy but there was something different about him when Rob was around. Like he was both extra happy and kind of sad at the same time. It all felt very big and important. Life changing.
“Lizzie would tell you to call him,” I say although my head is surprisingly silent.
“You think?” he asks. “She was kind of on the fence where Rob was concerned.”
“I’m not sure that had anything to do with Rob.” The dull throbbing in my temples tells me that I’m right on the mark. “But you should anyhow.”
Spencer says, “I’ll think about it,” and I suspect that’s as far as we’re going to get today.
He reaches over, grabs his bag, and stares at me with the concerned Spencer Yeats look I’ve come to know too well lately.
“What?”
/> “Don’t freak out,” he orders.
I take a deep breath. The last time Spencer started a sentence that way, he told me that his parents had offered to pull him out of Maple Grove and send him to a private arts school.
I lower myself back down to the floor, careful to keep enough distance that Lizzie doesn’t start up.
He rummages around in his bag, pulls out his tablet, and turns it on.
“He died,” he says, looking down at the screen.
“Who?”
“Martin Fuller,” he answers.
I try to place the name, thinking of Spencer’s family members. His favorite band. Other kids at school. “Um.”
He holds the tablet out to me, but then pulls it back against his chest.
“He’s the guy who hit us,” Spencer says. And when I don’t answer, he says, “The driver … ”
“Stop.” I know who he’s talking about. I’ve done everything I can to avoid knowing his name or anything about him. Martin Fuller. Now I have to live with knowing that.
“I think you should read this.” Spencer holds the tablet out towards me again.
“Why?” The computer hangs in the air between us until Spencer’s arm waivers and he puts it down on the floor.
“Because he’s done it before. Not killed anybody. But he hit a biker and ran his car into a ravine a couple of years ago while he was on the phone.”
I pull myself up and go to the window. It rained overnight, but now it’s stopped and I really should go for a run. I’m used to a lot of exercise, but I’m not used to being tired all the time and not having games to get ready for makes me realize that exercise for exercise’s sake is just boring.
“Cal?”
“What?” I ask without turning around.
Spencer comes up next to me and we stand, side by side, watching it not rain. Watching nothing.
“Stop beating yourself up. It was this guy’s fault and now he’s dead.”
I’ve heard my parents discussing some lawsuit against the driver’s estate, but they change the subject when I come into the room. I wonder if this will make them happy or if it will be harder to collect, because that’s what they seem to care most about.
“I’ve been thinking about going to see Lizzie’s mother,” I say, which really isn’t changing the subject at all.
Spencer reaches up to put a hand on my arm and then takes it back. This is our punishment for what happened that night in The Cave. I hate that we’ve both gotten so nervous about touching each other.
“I get why you think you should,” Spencer says. “But I also think you’re going to regret it.”
I nod. He’s right as always, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot. “She’s a bitch, but she was still Lizzie’s mom.”
Just thinking about going over there makes my chest feel tight. Lizzie’s mom is about the last person in the world I want to see, but I just don’t know how I’m going to be able to live with myself otherwise. I certainly don’t deserve to take the easy way out.
“You want me to go with you?” he asks.
The idea of having Spencer with me makes my chest ease up. But I think I need to do this one without a babysitter. “Nah, I’ll be fine,” I say.
I’m sure Spencer knows that I don’t really believe it. But like the best friend he is, he just nods and says, “Of course you will.”
After Spencer leaves, I go before I chicken out and by the time I get to Lizzie’s house, I’m sticky with sweat and starting to convince myself that maybe this wasn’t the right decision. After all, how could I possibly apologize? What words do I have that could make up for Lizzie being dead?
And it isn’t just the accident either. Had her mother not agreed to let the doctors use Lizzie’s heart, I’d be dead too. How the hell do I thank her for giving me her daughter’s heart?
I make it as far as the end of her block and stop. It wasn’t like I’d expected much to have changed. It isn’t like the bricks of her house know that Lizzie is gone, not like the trees are missing her as much as I do.
On the other hand, it’s impossible to imagine that things could continue the way they were. I mean, her mom was a nasty drunk who was never there when Lizzie needed her, but now that Lizzie is gone, I can’t imagine her not realizing what she’s lost.
I expect her mom to really let me have it and I deserve whatever she’s going to dish out, but for some reason that doesn’t make it any easier. I’ve never heard a story about Lizzie’s mom that made me believe that she’s the type to forgive. I don’t imagine that I’m going to be part of one now.
Don’t do this, Cal. You don’t have to do this.
“Shut up, Lizzie,” I say without thinking. Thankfully, it’s a quiet Sunday and aside from a huge Appliance Depot truck, the block is deserted so no one can see me talking to myself, but it’s really not a habit I want to get into.
Spence’s right. This isn’t going to go well. Trust me this one time.
I start walking, as much to avoid Lizzie’s voice as anything, although I know she’s along for the ride.
As I get up closer to the truck, I realize it’s parked in front of Lizzie’s house. Two guys with muscles in their arms that look like sides of beef are wrestling a stainless steel dishwasher out of the back by the time I reach the house.
I stand and stare because Lizzie’s mom never had money for anything like this. She sometimes barely had money for food and clothes. Lizzie was ace at turning thrift store finds into something she could wear, but her mom was certainly no help.
I’m frozen, so still that I don’t notice one of the guys almost bump into me and I have to step back. Just as I do, Lizzie’s mom comes out of the house. She’s wearing one of those gauzy housecoat things that my mom wouldn’t be caught dead in and smoking a cigarette.
When she notices me, she says, “You here to lend these boys a hand?” and points to the guys on the truck.
“Um … ” I spit out, my brain a tangle of nonsense words.
“Be careful with those,” she yells as the guys strain to lift a huge marble slab down from the truck. “I’m redoing the kitchen,” she says in my direction, as if that’s the only thing on her mind.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen Mrs. McDonald, I know, but still I assume that she has to know who I am. Then again, maybe all that alcohol has done something to her brain.
“Mrs. McDonald, it’s Cal,” I say, bracing myself for her reaction. “I’m Cal.”
“I know who you are,” she snaps. “Do you think I’ve lost my mind?”
She looks into the truck like a kid exploring their Christmas presents. I almost expect her to climb in and peek under the package’s wrapping.
I take a deep breath. “Mrs. McDonald, I just want to tell you how sorry I am about Lizzie. I really, really miss her and I know this must be so hard on you too.”
My words make her turn and stare at me like I’ve said something stupid. Something about that makes me want to cry, but I blink and spit out the rest of my useless speech. “Thank you for signing those papers. For her heart, I mean.”
I wish she’d say something but she just stands there with her eyes squinted like she’s waiting for something else. I don’t know what words she wants to hear.
“You came all the way over here to say that?”
“Yeah.” I gulp. My throat feels raw, like I’ve been swallowing glass. I search her face to see some sign of Lizzie in it, but there’s nothing. No sign at all of them being related.
“You could have called,” she says. “Not like she was going to be able to use the heart where she is. And when your friend offered me that check, well, I’m not stupid.”
Lizzie’s heart starts hammering uncomfortably fast and I’m aware that what had been a sheen of sweat on my forehead has become a river of stress-induced liquid adrenaline. I try to wipe i
t away with the sleeve of my shirt, but it doesn’t make much of a difference.
Spencer gave her money. Of course he did.
Lizzie’s mom glances at the house and looks thoughtful. I hope she’s going to say something about remembering Lizzie, or that she’ll get mad at me or do something that makes sense.
“This whole kitchen thing … ” she says. “It’s from the insurance money. I figured that it’s fitting. I mean, that was her job here anyhow. Keeping the kitchen clean and running.”
It’s just too much. My vision narrows until all I can see is Lizzie’s mom. Everything else is fuzzy around the edges and I feel dizzy, like the ground suddenly isn’t solid anymore.
I stumble down to my knees on the grass and vomit up everything I’ve eaten in the last day.
When I’m done and my head clears a little, Mrs. McDonald looks from me to the mess I’ve made on her lawn. “Well,” she says. “Good thing we’re expecting more rain.”
I feel like shit, but my head is quiet. To her credit, Lizzie doesn’t say “I told you so.”
Twenty-Three
I consider calling Ally and telling her that I’m tired and might have food poisoning and need to cancel dinner. The way I feel after seeing Lizzie’s mom, it isn’t stretching the truth.
But something about watching my parents put on their best “we’re pillars of the community” clothes and get ready to go to their charity dinner makes me not want to be alone. And besides, this is Ally. I may feel like crap, but I’m not stupid enough to cancel plans with her.
She’s right on time, which is great except that I fell asleep on the couch and have pillow lines impressed into the right side of my face when I get up to answer the door.
She smiles when she points it out. “You look cute this way,” she says. “Like a little boy.”
I duck into the half-bath downstairs and splash some water on my face. I’ll take the “cute” but I’m not sure how I feel about the “little boy” comment.
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