You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “I guess you heard from your mom.”

  He nods, reaches for my shoulder as though to comfort me, but I stare at his hand as if it is an alien claw, and he draws it away before he can touch me.

  I say, “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  Rest-two-three-four, rest-two-three-four. I check my phone for a message from Arjun, but there’s nothing to rescue me from this conversation.

  “Sarah sounds nice.” I pronounce it Sair-uh.

  “She is.”

  A different cat, an albino with red eyes, stalks into the room and rubs up against Eitan’s socks. He strokes down the cat’s spine, up its tail. Aba is allergic to any animals you’d want to keep as a pet, so we’ve never had them. But I love cats. I love their sleek coats and dainty paws. When I live on my own, I will get a cat.

  It might even keep me company in my final days.

  “Hello there, Tobias,” Eitan says to the cat. “Are you . . . ? Are you seeing anyone?” he asks me.

  “Yes. I am.” What I want is say is that I’m seeing someone older, and he understands me much better than Eitan ever did. I want to win at the ex game.

  “Oh? What’s he like?”

  “Adina, you’re seeing someone?” My mother enters the living room and takes a seat on the couch across from us, Tamar following behind.

  When I glance up, though, it’s Tovah I lock eyes with. She’s lingering in the hall, back arched against the wall. I can’t read her face.

  My hand buried in the cat’s fur, I turn back to the mothers. “It’s nothing official, so I didn’t want to say anything. . . .”

  Ima tightens her knitted shawl around her shoulders. “You could have told me.” Because of course I tell her everything. Or I used to, before I came home from the doctor’s appointment that changed all our lives.

  Before she gave me her disease, an accusation I know is illogical yet I cannot help thinking sometimes.

  “Don’t you know enough about my life?” I fire at her, too ferocious. A kitten with her claws out. “We have plenty of other things in common.”

  The silence that follows makes me wish I could spool those words back into my mouth.

  “Ima, you know I didn’t mean that.”

  “I understand,” she says. “You’re going through a lot.”

  Her stung expression is the only thing that makes me waver about my plan. Some days I’m not sure whether I want to distance myself from her so my death is less tragic, or cling to her while I still can. I usually land somewhere in the middle, unable to make a choice.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I announce, because I cannot bear another moment of indecision. In my hurry to get up, I knock over Tamar’s wineglass, spilling bloodred liquid onto the expensive carpet and scaring the cat, who dashes out of the room. “Oh my God! I’m so, so sorry.”

  I reach for a napkin, but Eitan holds his arm against mine to stop me. The sudden heat of sweater against sweater freezes me in place. The touch is so casual, as though we’ve never unbuttoned each other’s clothes and pressed our bodies together. When you’ve done that with someone, when they have seen you at your most vulnerable, a simple touch never means the same thing.

  “It’ll wash out. Club soda and salt. I’ll grab some,” Eitan says, although I am thinking about how I did the same thing this morning, splashed orange juice all over the kitchen table.

  This was how it started for Ima. Basic acts of clumsiness that, when strung together, made a disease.

  I race out of the living room, down the hall past Tovah, who is leaning against the wall, smiling at her phone. I open my mouth to say something to her, then close it. I have bigger things to worry about right now.

  Bypassing the bathroom, I head farther down the hall to Eitan’s childhood bedroom. Where everything started. A couple suitcases on the floor, a simple bookshelf, a sloppily made bed. I have to grab on to the wall to hold myself upright. The memories are dizzying, yanking me back in time. I can smell his body spray and sweat, hear the Mozart—so predictable—playing in the background.

  I imagine Eitan and perfect Suh-rah having sex. I bet they always come at exactly the same moment, and afterward I bet they cry about how fucking beautiful it was.

  Part of me wonders what the hell was wrong with him. What kind of eighteen-year-old sleeps with a freshman in high school? Do I look fourteen to you? I had asked him.

  The last time we slept together in this room, on this bed, I wasn’t fourteen. I was sixteen, and he was home for winter break. We messed around for a couple weeks; then he went back to college, got his degree early, and moved to Israel.

  I check my phone again. Nothing from Arjun. Staring down my twin in the mirror on the back of the door, I run a hand through my hair, use a fingertip to brush away a mascara crumb. This dress fits all wrong; I was right: too low in the front, my bra straps visible through the fabric.

  I’ve never thought to demand more than the physical from guys, and now I can’t think why. I trace the curves of my body. This can’t be all I have to offer.

  The door swings open, and I jump back.

  “Adina?”

  Eitan enters, making me shrink back. His childhood bedroom is too small for him now, definitely too small for both of us.

  “I wanted to grab an Israeli newspaper from my suitcase,” he says. “To show your mom. What are you doing in here?”

  He should not make me this fucking nervous. I take a deep breath, collect myself. Summon the power I usually have around guys. “Wanted to see if your room looks the same.”

  He takes a few steps toward me, and I inch back, as though if he gets too close, he might pounce. Tear me open with his claws. He reaches for his suitcase. “I really need to get this for your mom. She wants to see it.”

  I cut my eyes at him, straighten my spine, make myself as big as possible. “I’m curious. Does your fiancée know about me? Does she know how old I was?” I drag the words over his skin like they are sandpaper.

  Eitan crosses his arms over his chest. “You should get out of my room now.”

  He should be terrified of me, and one look at his face confirms that he is, a little bit. My power, restored. I hope I never have to see him again.

  On my way back to the living room, I check Arjun’s flight info on my phone. He was at a professional conference in Philadelphia this week, and he was supposed to get back to Seattle tonight. His plane wasn’t delayed and he must be home by now, so I send an innocent text: How was your trip?

  Arjun will love me the way Eitan couldn’t. I don’t have time for anything less.

  He hasn’t replied. It’s three in the morning, and he was supposed to be home hours ago. What if he got in a car accident on the way home? Since I can’t sleep, I crawl out of bed and check the local news, the police blotter. There are no mentions of a sexy viola teacher perishing in a fiery crash.

  I try to rationalize Arjun’s silence. His plane must have arrived late, and he was tired, and he didn’t want to wake me up. Philadelphia is three hours ahead. So it’s really six in the morning for him. He didn’t forget. He’s just tired.

  Repeating those words eases my anxiety only an infinitesimal amount. If I could see him now, I’d brew some tea, ask questions about his trip, stay up all night talking. Relationship things. I toss and turn for another couple hours, scripting conversations in my head.

  I will be too tired for first period tomorrow, so I turn off my alarm. On days I skip school entirely, I ride the bus around Seattle, pick up shifts at Muse and Music, practice viola. Sometimes my mother doesn’t realize it’s a weekday and I should be in class. Other times I am able to convince her we’re off for the day or I am not feeling well enough to go.

  Having half convinced myself everything will be fine and I’ll hear from him in the morning, I take my phone with me into the bathroom. I grab the nail scissors and start trimming my nails; I have to keep them short for viola, considering I’ll be auditioning soon.
I make sure my hands are steady. No shaking. I was so calm a week ago, and now I’m not.

  Drastic mood shifts: one of Ima’s first symptoms.

  It makes me wonder if it will soon be time to set my plan in motion, a thought that fills me with a cocktail of adrenaline and terror.

  As I wash the white half-moons down the drain, I get an idea. The only pain I’ve ever felt has been accidental. Tripping on the sidewalk, stubbing my toe, slashing my finger with a box cutter. What would it feel like to hurt on purpose?

  I pull down my pajama pants so my thighs are exposed and aim the scissors at my skin. I need to prepare myself for what is going to happen.

  For an early death.

  A death that might be pain or infinite peace or nothing at all.

  At first I poke at my right thigh with the metal point. I’m too cowardly, I think, until finally I grit my teeth and dig the metal into my skin. A whimper catches in my throat as I drag the small scissors across my thigh. The blade is sharp and it goes in much deeper than I thought it would, much deeper than I thought I’d be able to stomach. Red comes to the surface, and though I’m biting the inside of my cheek because it hurts, it feels like something else. . . .

  Like a release. Like relief.

  Someone knocks on the door, startling me, and the scissors drop to the floor.

  “Adina?” Tovah.

  “I’m in here!”

  My phone lights up on the counter.

  Jet-lagged. Sorry.

  I have been balancing a grand piano on my shoulders, buckling beneath its weight, and with these words I can finally stand upright. I breathe out a sigh mixed with a laugh that takes with it all the tension in my body.

  I need to see you. I can’t wait until my lesson. I delete it, then type, I miss you so much. Delete that. I want to see you is what I finally decide on.

  Tomorrow evening?

  Yes, I text back, remembering how good it feels to breathe deeply when my chest isn’t knotted up like one of my mother’s balls of yarn. We can still make this work. I have time.

  Tovah bangs on the door. “I need deodorant. I’m going for a run.”

  The blood has formed a thin river across my thigh. I clean the scissors and return them to the drawer.

  “I’m still in here.” Here she is again, acting selfish: She is the only one who matters. Her run is so important. She cannot always get what she wants, even if it is something as simple as deodorant.

  “It’s four in the morning. What are you even doing in there?” She smacks the door again. “Come on. Are you five years old right now?”

  “Yes.” I take my time searching for a Band-Aid, smoothing it across my broken skin. Through the transparent bandage, the red of my blood spreads. I add another Band-Aid.

  “Can you just hand me the deodorant? I swear, I won’t look at . . . whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “In a minute.” I pull my pajamas back up and sink to the floor, rereading Arjun’s texts.

  “Are you . . . okay in there?” Tovah asks.

  I groan. Embarrassing. “God. Yes. I’m fine,” I say, and finally open the door.

  Tovah and I pass each other in the hall. I refuse to meet her eyes, as though, even though it is impossible, she knows what I was doing in there.

  Twenty-four

  Tovah

  OVER AND OVER, WE FAIL miserably at starting a campfire.

  “This is probably an embarrassing time to mention I was a Boy Scout,” Zack says. “Though I never did earn my fire-safety badge.”

  “Not helping,” Troy says as Lindsay holds up her phone so all of us can see the how-to YouTube video. “We should arrange the logs in a triangle shape, like this. . . .”

  The four of us spent the day trekking through old-growth forests, and though Zack and I have had plenty of alone time, I haven’t yet figured out how to talk to him about what Adina said after school the other day. On one hike, Zack pulled me against a tree, leaned in, and whispered into my ear: “Sleeping next to you tonight is gonna be amazing.” That helped me feel significantly better about it all.

  Eventually, we borrow a lighter from some nearby campers and get a small fire going. The smoky-wood smell fills the air around us. As the sky turns bruised, then black, we cook hot dogs on skewers and drizzle mustard onto them.

  “Anyone know any good ghost stories?” Zack asks, licking mustard off his hot dog before it drips onto his hand.

  “No ghost stories, please,” Lindsay says. “I’d like to sleep tonight, thank you very much.”

  Troy flicks a pebble onto the fire. “I should have brought my guitar.”

  “You can’t play guitar.”

  “Yes, I can!”

  “You know four chords.”

  “And that’s all you need to play a punk-rock song.”

  I scoot closer to Zack. “I have an idea. My sister and I used to play this game on long car trips when we were bored. Each person says one sentence, and the goal is to make them into a story.”

  “Let’s do it,” Zack says, and we try our hardest to turn the story scary, but Lindsay foils our plans every time it gets creepy.

  “It was a dark and stormy night,” Troy begins.

  “The wind rustled through the trees,” I say.

  “It sounded like the screams of children,” Zack adds.

  Lindsay glares at us. “Suddenly, the sky opened up and it started raining gumballs!”

  We tell stories until the fires in the distance start going out. Around midnight, Troy pours water on our pit, and Lindsay gently tugs my elbow so she can speak into my ear.

  “I don’t know about you,” she whispers as the guys watch the flames die, “but we only brought one sleeping bag.”

  My stomach plummets to my toes for more than a few reasons, one of them being that Lindsay and I aren’t close enough to joke like that anymore. She and Troy disappear into their tent, leaving me with Zack and two sleeping bags and an entire night alone.

  We change into pajamas separately, first me and then him, and when he opens the tent to let me back in, he’s wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved thermal tee. We zip the tent closed and use our phone screens to guide us into our separate sleeping bags. My heart rate must be well over one hundred bpm. Does he think we’re going to have sex? Was “camping” code for “sex,” like Lindsay insinuated?

  Virginity is a strange thing to lose. It seems like something you should gain instead: intimacy with another person, a closeness you’ve never had with anyone else. I don’t know if I’m ready for it quite yet. There are too many other things between kissing and sex we haven’t done.

  His sleeping bag rustles as he changes position, propping himself up with one elbow. “Tell me a secret,” he says. Outside, crickets chirp. If we have crickets in the city, I never hear them. “Something I don’t know about you.”

  “Hmm.” I think about it for a moment. “I cheated on a test in fourth grade.”

  He holds a hand to his mouth in mock horror, which makes me laugh. “Tovah Siegel. No.”

  “It was a reading test on a classic book I thought was boring, about a girl who was stranded on an island. I only read half of it and figured I’d be fine for the test. But I had no idea how to respond to most of the questions, so I looked at the girl’s paper next to me. I learned my lesson, though.”

  “You got caught?”

  “No, or it wouldn’t be a secret. The guilt tore me up. I purposely failed the next test to make up for it. What about you?”

  “Well . . . I’m a mutant.”

  “What?”

  “I have four toes on my left foot.”

  “No. Seriously?”

  “Your grin is kinda scaring me.”

  I try my best to bite it back. “The human body is fascinating. Think of all the ways we can get screwed up. It’s a miracle more of us aren’t mutants. Like you.”

  “Right. You could’ve consumed Adina in the womb or something, right?”

  “I guess so.”

&
nbsp; “I used to freak other kids out when I was little. Some kids made fun of me, but Troy told everyone that my missing toe was a mutation and I was actually one of the X-Men, and that shut them up. And my big toe’s really giant. It’s like it ate the missing toe.”

  “That’s not a real secret,” I accuse. “I mean, it’s interesting, but I want something deeper.”

  “Fine.” He’s quiet for a moment, then: “I hang out with you and Troy and Lindsay, and I don’t feel as smart as you guys. He doesn’t always act like it, but dude’s a genius. Aced his SAT, straight As, the whole thing.”

  “Zack. You’re smart.”

  He shrugs. “My grades would disagree with you. And I’m sure my texts are full of grammatical errors you’re too nice to point out.”

  “There are a lot of ways to be smart,” I say, though I probably wouldn’t have considered Zack’s art intelligent before this year. “It’s not all about grammar or tests. Your art, for example, that’s smart. I can tell how much thought you put into it, even when you claim it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “What I’m trying to say is, you never make me feel that way. Like I’m not smart enough to be with you, even though you’re a genius too. And I really appreciate it.” Our fingers find one another between our sleeping bags, and his thumb rubs mine, dragging another confession from me.

  “I have another secret,” I say, and though it isn’t something I’ve intentionally hidden, it all comes out: Huntington’s. Ima. Adina. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t even be sad about it because the guilt is so overpowering.”

  He grips my hand tighter. “I can understand that. Your sister, she’s intense.”

  “We haven’t been in a good place for a long time.”

  “I could sorta tell.”

  “I’ve always felt upstaged by her. She was a viola prodigy, and she’s always been so comfortable in her skin. Until middle school, I felt like the invisible twin, I guess.” I sigh. “She was flirting with you at school the other day.”

  “I’m with you,” he says simply, as though that cancels out whatever Adina’s intentions were.

  “Still. She knows how to charm people when she wants to.”