Fix

by J. Albert Mann

  He drives smoothly, making every turn and downshift with my spine in mind. Did he hear the loneliness in my voice? Is he done with me now? Like her?

  We pull out onto the interstate.

  We drive without speaking for what feels like a very long time. The wind blows the rain against the windows. I might have fallen asleep. Or maybe this is all a dream. I don’t even care if it is. I look over at him. He keeps his eyes on the road.

  “The glass museum,” I think he says, but I’m not sure.

  “What?” I ask.

  “We’re going to the glass museum, in New Bedford.”

  “A glass museum.”

  He takes a quick look at me from the side of his gold rims.

  “We don’t have too long. It closes at five.”

  I look at the van’s clock. It’s 3:30 p.m. “We have an hour and a half,” I say. “In glass-museum time, that’s like six days!”

  He laughs. “Glass is cool. It’s useful and beautiful. What else can you say that about?”

  “Underwear,” I suggest.

  “‘Underwear’?” he repeats, totally thinking about me in my underwear.

  I look out my window. “Stop it,” I say.

  “What?” he says, grinning.

  “You know.”

  “Thinking about you in useful and beautiful underwear?”

  “Don’t forget to picture all the scars,” I say, wishing I hadn’t.

  “Can you describe them?” he asks. “Where they start from. Where they go to?”

  “Just drive,” I say, feeling every inch of my scars.

  Five minutes later we pull into the glass museum’s parking lot. There are only two cars in the lot.

  “I hope we can get in,” I say.

  “You’re going to like this place,” he says.

  I leave my backpack in the car. He opens the door for me. I let him help me out. He hurries me through the rain into the museum.

  We stand in front of a ticket booth while he stomps the rain off him and I try to catch my breath. I haven’t moved that quickly in months. The man in the booth looks up through his own gold-rimmed glasses.

  Behind me, he pulls a card out of his wallet and shows the man behind the counter.

  “Have a great time,” the man says, waving us on.

  We walk through a turnstile and into the museum. “You have a membership?” I whisper.

  “Don’t judge,” he says.

  We stop at the first big piece. It’s a gold glass window-looking picture of a man wearing a crown and riding a fish.

  “Edris Eckhardt,” he says in my ear. His breath tickles and makes my entire head tingle. “It’s called The Four Horsemen.”

  It’s strange, yet pretty. I stand very still, hoping he’ll whisper more.

  Outside the museum windows, the rain continues to fall. Inside, the museum is warm and filled with glass cases—glass behind glass.

  The rooms are small and lead into one another. Everything glows in yellow lights. The carpets stifle all sound. It’s like a colorful cocoon.

  He pulls me into a room that contains a series of stained-glass windows of what look like saints all done in collage. Men and women. Broken up and put back together. Maybe there is some deeper religious purpose, although all I see are the brilliant oranges, electric blues… and shapes, thousands of tiny shapes. All different. All perfectly placed—each one contributing to the whole. These are my brothers. My sisters. Pieced together in bright, jagged beauty. Standing in front of them, I feel as beautiful as they are. And I only move on when my spine begs me to.

  Together and apart, Thomas Aquinas and I drift from room to room, from work to work, looking, reading. Sometimes he finds me next to something and whispers interesting facts about it and sometimes we just collectively stare. It’s not all vases and goblets, which is what I thought it would be, but sculptures and windows and lamps and jewelry and syrup bottles.

  The syrup bottles are fun. There is a whole wall of them, a big rainbow of funky shapes. I stand in front of them for a bit.

  “I like these, too, Eve,” he says.

  It makes me shudder… the way he says my name.

  We stare at the colorful display together, and the question just falls out.

  “Why do you like me?”

  His eyes scan the bottles, like he’s looking for the one with the right answer. His hesitation has me folding up inside.

  But then there’s something about the way he holds his shoulders, the stillness of his chest, his lips stretching out just the smallest bit.

  “You’re interesting.”

  He says it to the display, not me.

  “I’m ‘interesting’?” I repeat, grinning. And I admit, in a pretty goofy way.

  He looks at me. “Don’t get all syrupy.”

  I grin bigger. I might have tears in my eyes.

  “Syrupy, because we’re standing in front of syrup bottles.”

  “Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand. “I better get you to the gift shop.”

  “I love gift shops,” I say. And I do. I love everything right now. Because I’m interesting.

  The gift shop is full of glass—of course—although in here we can touch it. It’s weird how much fun it is to touch stuff. Although I don’t pick anything up. Since the surgery, I’ve been noticing that the message from my brain to open and close my fingers doesn’t seem to correspond well with the actual opening and closing of my fingers. Instead, I run my fingertips down the sides of the vases, feel the vast smoothness of the giant bowls and platters, and clutch the chunky pendants in my fist right where they hang. When I find a pool of glass marbles, I plunge both my hands in and let the marbles filter through my fingers like loud, clanking, colorful flour. An electric-blue one catches my eye—the color that winked brightest at me from the glass collage of the saints. I pick it out from the pool and let it roll into the center of my palm.

  “Look at this one, Thomas.”

  It’s the first time I’ve called him by name. He seems to realize it, too, because he focuses all his attention on the marble. And as if not being able to stop himself from touching the beautiful piece of glass in my hand, he reaches out a finger and moves it gently in a circle around my palm, looking into the very center of it. The movement stops my breath and sends shivers crackling through me. I pull away.

  “I’m going to get this one.”

  My legs shake as I head to the counter where the same man in glasses who checked us in waits to make the marble sale.

  Thomas follows.

  “Let me.” He pulls out his wallet. “I get a fifteen percent discount with my membership.”

  I laugh, and it ends in a wide yawn. He notices.

  “I’ll get you home.”

  After he pays eighty-five cents for my marble, we turn to leave. We head out in the rain. It’s almost dark, but the streetlights aren’t on yet. The sky glows an eerie white.

  I lumber as fast as possible toward the van and then literally crawl inside. He shuts the door. I sink back into the seat with my backpack in my arms and close my eyes.

  Thomas climbs in the van, starts the engine. He’s talking. His words sound sweet.

  I want to respond, to say thank you, for the marble, for the museum… but it’s too much work to bring up words from inside me and push them out. I hug my backpack and drift off as the the motion rocks me to sleep.

  Mary Fay’s voice reaches out through a fog.

  “Homemade fish sticks in five.”

  Blinking, I look around. I’m on the couch. Mary Fay is banging about in the kitchen.

  She pops her head into the living room. “Orange juice?”

  I’m so confused.

  “Oh, no. Cranberry, right?” she corrects.

  “Yes, please, cranberry. I love cranberry,” I blurt, attempting to hide the fact that I have no idea what is going on, what day it is, what time it is, and whether or not this is really happening. She disappears, and I drop my head back onto the couch.
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br />   How did I get here? Where had I been… somewhere.

  With him.

  Him?

  My hand moves to my pocket, where I find it. The cool, hard glass of a marble, and the world lights up in electric blue. Because Thomas Aquino thinks I’m interesting.

  Trying

  “MORNING, METALLICA,” MARY FAY SAYS THROUGH a half-opened door. “Time to haul out the old saddlebags.”

  This woman does not stop. I ignore her and sink back into a gloriously deep sleep.

  The light switches on.

  I cry out in pain and hear her laugh from down the hall. “It’s just morning, Eve. Not a colonoscopy.”

  Music blasts on from the kitchen.

  I’m learning the easiest path with Mary Fay is to just do whatever she wants. Which sucks.

  I throw back the covers and bring myself into a sitting position using a Nancy-taught technique—allowing gravity to work on the weight of my legs while I propel myself upright in a single motion.

  My second motion is to reach for my orange bottle, but a bright blue marble catches my eye. And as my hand closes around the smooth glass, visions of beautiful saints, softly whispered words, and rows and rows of syrup bottles flood my head, and before I know it, I’m carrying a pretty polka-dot sweater and my favorite pair of skinny jeans out to the kitchen.

  Mary Fay takes one look at them and sings, “We’re trying, we’re trying.” And I tell her to quit it and just help me get them on, although I’m smiling. Because I am trying.

  This time, it’s me, waiting for him. Standing at the bottom of my front steps. I’m sweating a little. It could be my buttoned-up coat on a warm spring morning, or it could be how hot my hands are in my pockets, one hand clutching a blue marble, or it could be that Thomas Aquino thinks I’m interesting. I’m interesting. My stomach flips with… hope.

  Shit. It’s true. I’m hoping. I’m hoping Thomas Aquino really does think I’m interesting. Because I like him. I like Thomas Aquino.

  These thoughts jump around in my head, affecting my heart, my lungs, my entire body. I’m standing in a weird position—a position I want him to find me in when he pulls up. And as silly as it is, I’m too scared to reposition myself, like somehow he will see me do this. Though he isn’t here.

  He isn’t here.

  Cars roll by. None of them a gray minivan. Coldness spreads through me and the first remotely cute outfit I’ve worn in forever. I picture him waking up and remembering the museum, the syrup bottles, what he said. And then I picture his face, crumbling. A mistake. He’d made a mistake. I was a mistake.

  A gray minivan slows and pulls to the curb. I breathe. Breathe deeply. Tears stinging my eyes, at how incredible it feels. How incredible I feel.

  He steps out of the van.

  “Eve.”

  “Thomas.”

  We both laugh. He has a beautiful smile. I’d never noticed it before, his smile. I was always so afraid of it.

  I climb into the van, feeling the warmth of that smile through the back of my rib cage.

  We don’t speak. I focus on the road to keep myself grounded while my thoughts flit about the museum, landing on color, shapes, him.

  “Why do you always wear that T-shirt?”

  He keeps his eyes on the road. There is clearly a reason.

  “Were you born there? In Minnesota?”

  He glances over at me. He’s deciding. I look out my window so that my gaze doesn’t stop him from saying what it is he’s thinking of maybe not saying.

  “My grandmother,” he says.

  “Was from Minnesota?”

  “If by Minnesota you mean Puerto Rico.” He laughs. “She brought my mom and my aunts to Boston when they were little. She was a… a great person. Anyway, whenever something went wrong, she’d always say ‘Mañana, nos vamos a mudar a Minnesota.’”

  I look back at his profile, waiting for the translation.

  “Tomorrow, we’re moving to Minnesota.”

  I cough out a laugh. Thomas smiles.

  “Yeah, because nothing bad ever happens in Minnesota,” I whisper, thinking about my mother. Thinking about how relieved I am that she’ll be home soon.

  “Anyway,” he finishes, “she passed away at the beginning of ninth grade and I ordered a bunch of these T-shirts the next day.” He turns to face me full-on, the confident Thomas grin back on his face. “I don’t know a damn thing about hockey. I was just playing with you that day in your living room. I ordered it because it said ‘Minnesota’ and I like the color yellow.”

  He pulls under the busy portico.

  “I’m sorry about your grandmother.”

  His hand lifts from the wheel as if he might reach over, touch me, but instead he runs his fingers through his hair and nods.

  Maneuvering around all the buses, he pulls up right where he’d been waiting for me yesterday. Thomas Aquino. Leaning on the van. In his yellow shirt. Reading. What was the book? Poetry. He was reading poetry and waiting for me.

  With my head full of him, I stagger out of the van, grabbing at the door handle. He’s by my side. But he doesn’t move, he waits. For me. To reach out for him.

  His cheek is rough. His breathing shallow.

  “Eve,” he whispers.

  My name. How can my name be the best sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life?

  This time, he kisses me. Under the portico. With a hundred bus engines revving and a thousand voices ringing out around us. Just his lips. Softly tasting mine. The warm smell of him filling my nose.

  When he stops—our mouths lingering close—I catch sight of myself in his eyes. I am so bright.

  The echoing of a bus horn breaks us apart. Looking around at the crowd like they all just appeared out of nowhere and my lips still lit up with the feeling of his, I see her. Seeing me. Seeing that kiss.

  Lidia.

  Me and Lidia

  The gym was still warm from

  the work of many bodies.

  And although the fluorescent lights

  shone brightly overhead,

  the darkness waiting for us

  outside seemed to drift in and

  dim the place.

  Lidia was always last

  from the locker room, but

  I never minded.

  The practice mat—lying in the

  corner by the closed bleachers—was

  my little island. It was a place

  I got shit

  done.

  I’d written up my bio lab,

  read my English chapters, and

  finished the

  pointless

  worksheet for history.

  All to the background hum of

  sneakers squeaking and breathless

  shouts punctuated by the

  slap of volleyball against maple.

  “You ready, weirdo?”

  Lidia asked,

  still flushed from practice,

  clean hair dripping.

  “Yup.”

  Lidia dribbled her volleyball

  while I shoved away my books and

  stood. Each bounce

  following in perfect precision

  to the last—even when she

  wasn’t watching but instead

  noticing a face at the long

  rectangular window in the gym door.

  Thomas Aquino didn’t see her because

  Thomas Aquino was looking at me.

  Lidia popped the ball

  into the air and over to me

  in a single motion,

  missing my face only

  because I knocked it back

  in self-defense.

  “Lid!”

  “You gotta pay attention,” she

  said, sliding her backpack down

  her arm to the floor.

  “Try it this way.”

  Opening her palm, she

  dropped the ball onto it from the

  crook of her other arm,

  popping it up

/>   lightly

  into the air.

  Catching it,

  she demonstrated a

  few more times.

  Pop, catch.

  Pop, catch.

  Pop, catch.

  While my eyes

  didn’t dare

  stray to the window.

  “Ready?”

  “Lid…”

  “Ready?”

  I sighed, dropping my backpack

  to the floor with a clunk.

  “Ready.”

  “Nice and easy,”

  she said, serving.

  I opened my palm

  and smacked at

  the ball.

  It rocketed

  directly at her face. She

  ducked in the nick

  of time.

  “Whoops.”

  I laughed.

  “Come on, Eve.

  Try.”

  “I did

  try.”

  “Try harder.”

  She popped

  me the ball.

  I did try harder.

  I couldn’t help it.

  This time,

  I hit it up and over

  Lidia’s head,

  where it ricocheted

  off two walls. Yet she

  somehow

  managed to return it.

  I darted and,

  despite my brace,

  arrived in time to

  slap at it sloppily.

  The ball wobbled

  but made its way

  to Lidia.

  There.

  Done.

  But Lidia wasn’t

  done.

  Back it came.

  Spiraling left.

  I stumbled,

  brace digging into rib,