by McCall Hoyle
“We forgot the most important provision.” He backs out of the room.
I examine the dim closet. We’ve got everything that was on my list to get us through tonight and into tomorrow. We agreed candles and matches would be too dangerous. We agreed canned goods would be too messy, which is why we ate before the retreat and stashed only a box of saltine crackers and a bag of gluten-free rice cakes in the closet.
I try to ignore the rain pelting the house harder than ever. These are not the plump drops of a summer storm. These raindrops are sharper, longer, more like miniature knives than precipitation. Hugging myself, I rub my upper arms and try not to think about wind, or rain, or knives.
As I wait for Finn to return, it hits me that this might be my last chance to pee for a really long time. When I scurry back from the bathroom, he’s hiding something behind his back.
“Ta-da!” he announces, whipping out a box of Twinkies.
“How old are they?” I scrunch up my face.
“Who knows? Who cares? These things have enough preservatives to survive the apocalypse with the mutant cockroaches. And they’re yummy.” He places his fingers on my lower back, coaxing me forward.
I step inside again and plop down cross-legged at one end of the closet. He holds his side as he lowers himself to the floor at the opposite end. Sliding off his flip-flops, he stretches out his long legs. When he does, his toes brush my knee. The skin beneath my flannel pants tingles.
“Now what?” I ask, pulling the door shut on its creaky hinges and clicking the flashlight to its lowest setting.
“Truth or dare?”
I shake my head and try not to squirm under his gaze. “Maybe we could just rest for a little while.” I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes without waiting for him to respond.
The minutes creep into hours. The afternoon passes mostly in silence. My butt hurts. If we don’t do something, I’m going to go stir crazy. “You want to play cards?” I ask.
He scans the closet dramatically. “I’d suggest spin the bottle, but there are only two of us and no bottle. How about high-stakes blackjack?”
I pull my knees toward my chest. “Um, I was thinking rummy.”
“Boring.” He picks up the deck of cards, then shuffles in the dim light without glancing down.
“I like rummy.” I wrap my arms around my bent knees.
“Exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, my voice a little too loud in the cramped space.
“Nothing.” He drums his fingers on the cards thoughtfully. “It just seems like you can’t have fun if you never try anything new.”
“I try new things.” I unclasp my arms, sit up a bit, and lift my chin.
“Like what?” He shuffles the cards again, arches the deck, pushes them together, taps them on his leg, then repeats.
“I tried German last year.”
“Oh! Wow! That was daring.”
I don’t need a lot of light to see the mischief in his eyes. Gritting my teeth, I decide not to rise to his bait.
“You weren’t this uptight in ninth grade.” He nudges my knee with his bare foot. “What happened?”
A muscle twitches in my jaw.
“Have I done something to offend you?” He finally gives the cards a rest.
Inhaling, I pause to check my words. Is he so inconsiderate that he’s forgotten he stood me up? Or is he so insensitive that he has no idea how that would affect me—or any girl?
“Of course not,” I lie, not wanting him to know how much I cared about the whole dance thing back in ninth grade and definitely not wanting to go into everything that’s happened to my family in the last two years.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’m just really stressed out, okay?” I force myself to meet his eyes.
“Okay,” he says, interrupting my thoughts and handing me the deck of cards. “If you won’t play blackjack, I guess rummy’s better than nothing.”
The cards are warm from his hands, and the deck’s too thin. I start counting. “We’re missing cards.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just deal.” When he gestures for me to begin, his hand brushes mine.
I press my back against the wall and pull my feet toward me. “We’re missing seven cards. We can’t play rummy with that many missing cards.”
“Dang.” He snaps his fingers. “I guess that means no strip poker either.”
“Darn.” I drop my shoulders and smile in spite of myself.
“I guess we’ll just have to play truth or dare, then.” He grabs the box of Twinkies off the floor and rips open one end.
“I think we’re a little old for truth or dare.” I shake my head when he offers me one of the spongy torpedoes of sugar.
“Actually, it’s a good icebreaker. Scientific evidence proves that people who know each other and feel comfortable together make better teams, especially in adverse situations. I think a hurricane qualifies as an adverse situation.” He looks down his nose at me, like Mr. Richards does at a defiant student.
“Fine,” I say, slightly taken aback by such technical reasoning to play a children’s game. I’d rather sleep, or read, or have my wisdom teeth removed, but I don’t want to hear another lecture on trying new things or answer any questions about my chilly behavior.
“You go first. Truth or dare?” He bites off half a Twinkie.
“Truth.” I set my jaw, daring him to taunt me.
He smirks but doesn’t comment on my choice. Seconds tick by as he scratches his chin. He’s enjoying making me wait. “Got it. What’s a secret talent nobody knows you have?”
“I can diagram sentences.”
“Everyone knows you can diagram sentences.”
“No, I can really diagram sentences.”
When he lowers one eyebrow, his bottom lip shifts to the side, like he’s thinking hard. “I don’t know—”
“I can diagram the Pledge of Allegiance in fifty-seven seconds.” I cross my arms.
“Impressive.” He nods.
“Truth or dare?”
“Dare.” More smirking.
Of. Course.
Ha! I smile as I reach behind the small stack of books against the wall. His confidence falters. Mine grows as I dangle the bag of gluten-free rice cakes back and forth in front of his face.
“The whole bag, buddy. The whole bag.” For someone trapped in a closet, during an oncoming hurricane, I’m enjoying this a bit too much.
“Fine.” He snatches the bag from my hands.
I lean back against the wall, cross my arms, and settle in to enjoy the show.
He untwists the tie, then lowers his nose to the partially open bag to take a whiff. His face screws up. “They smell like dirt.”
“It’s called real food.”
He shoves an entire round in his mouth. A speck of puffed rice flies toward me as he shoves in a second and a third.
“Truth or dare?” he asks, holding the last cake near his mouth.
“Truth.”
He swallows, then pauses dramatically before continuing. “Most embarrassing moment?”
That’s easy. Waiting for a boy to show up for the ninth-grade dance with flowers in my hair and a dreamy smile on my face.
“Ummm . . .” I pluck the last rice cake from his hand to kill time.
His eyes remain locked on mine as he wipes a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth.
“Tracking horse manure onto the bus in fifth grade.” I’m not being completely dishonest. The horse poop thing was really embarrassing. Kids called me Stinky Sophie for weeks.
“Truth or dare?” I ask.
“Dare.” He smiles and does that cool-chin-jerk thing guys do.
“Lick the bottom of your flip-flop.” I smile my super-sweetlittle-church-girl smile.
Without hesitation, he reaches for his flip-flop.
“Stop.” I smack his hand out of the way. “This is stupid. You’ll do anything. I can lie, and you won’t k
now the difference.”
“Will I really do anything?” He peaks his fingers and squints one eye.
“You will.”
“Okay, then give me a truth.”
I don’t want to play anymore, but I’m curious to know some of his secrets too. “What’s your most embarrassing moment?” I ask.
“There are so many.” He shrugs.
“Are you scared?” I contemplate feeling guilty, taunting him like that, but then I remind myself I’m not doing anything to him that he hasn’t done to me.
This time he rubs his chin. “Probably that time I went to school with a hot dog in my pocket and the cops came with the drug dogs to search the building. The dogs went crazy, and everyone assumed I had drugs.”
Oh my gosh! I had completely forgotten about the peculiar incident of Finn Sanders and the illicit hot dog. I meet his eyes and smile. When I do, I remember something else I had forgotten. He used to walk dogs at the Humane Society and foster them at his house. He had a beagle named Annie for months. The dog had thunder phobia, separation anxiety, and a bee allergy, but a passion for processed meat, especially bologna and hot dogs. He took her everywhere with him to socialize her. He would apologize to strangers in the pet store if she had a fear-incited accident and clean up after her without complaining. Our love of dogs was one of the things other than chess we had in common. And I’d completely forgotten about it.
I shake my head and try to change the subject again. “Let’s read instead. Okay?” I hate the weak sound of my voice as I lift the stack of paperbacks to my lap.
“Whatever you say, Bookworm.”
As I sift through the books, he sits up straighter. He looks all studious, but I know he’s mocking me.
“Deliverance?” I hold up a yellowed paperback with a couple of commando-looking dudes on the cover.
“Way too dark for the circumstances.” He snaps the rubber band securing the deck of cards.
“The Last Song?” I hold up a book with an almost-kissing couple on the cover, but I already know no self-respecting teenage boy would pick the Nicholas Sparks book.
“Don’t those books always have sad endings?”
“Yeah. Somebody usually dies . . .” My voice trails off when I realize I’ve circled back to the subject I’d hoped to leave back in the living room.
His brow furrows. “There’s a difference between sadness and dying, Sophie.”
Straightening the blanket near the baseboard, I wait for him to go all mystical philosopher on me. Whether or not I meant to, I did bring this on myself.
“Sadness is being stuck. Not pursuing your dreams. Sacrificing. Compromising. Death can be really beautiful.”
I try to look unconcerned, but I feel my face quivering, threatening to cave in on itself. My knuckles whiten against the blue book in my hand. Tears salt behind my eyes. I’m not sure whether I want to cry or hit something.
Losing someone you love is not beautiful.
Period.
“What else you got?” he asks, almost as if he can read my mind. Almost as if he knows I need him to change the subject.
“Stephen King.” I hold up a book with a horrific clown on the front. “Somebody named Dean Koontz and a biography about some guy—Henry Van Dyke.”
He reaches for the King novel. “Yes! It. My favorite.”
“If guys being hunted in the woods is too dark, I’m pretty sure demonic clowns are too. The biography looks—”
“Safest.”
“Well, it does.” I shrug. The wind howls. Something scrapes across the roof, reinforcing my point. “I just don’t think we need anything to put us further on edge.”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to explain. Henry Van Dyke it is. I think we studied him in Lit.” He rests his head on the wall behind him and rubs his side. “I’d kill for some beef jerky.”
I ignore the jerky comment. “I didn’t study him in my Lit class. I’d remember.”
“I’m pretty sure I did.” He closes his eyes. Clearly, the debate isn’t worth his energy. “Just read. Okay?”
The first page reads like a history textbook, basically tracing Van Dyke’s life from infancy through school. On the second page, I have to raise my voice a little. The rising wind is an unwelcome reminder of the serious situation outside the sanctuary of the closet. The author goes on to explain Van Dyke’s work as an author and pastor. Chapter one ends with a long list of his songs, poems, and short stories.
I pause, listening for Finn’s breathing over the racket outside. Nothing. But I see his sides rise and fall in a relaxed rhythm. He’s asleep. I’m pretty sure it would take a gallon of allergy medicine or an elephant tranquilizer to put me to sleep right now. Yet he’s totally unfazed by the threat of the hurricane.
I flip ahead a couple of chapters in hopes that Mr. Van Dyke’s story picks up. Maybe he had scandalous affairs or addiction problems like so many famous writers. I need something to keep me distracted, especially if Finn isn’t awake to do so, so I continue to read aloud.
My voice rises, battling the storm. By page twenty-seven, I’m pretty certain Van Dyke has no skeletons hiding in any of his closets. Chapter three closes with an inscription he wrote for a sundial to be placed in a friend’s garden: “Time is Too Slow for those who Wait, Too Swift for those who Fear, Too Long for those who Grieve . . .”
I pause mid-poem to digest the words. They’re familiar, but I have no idea where I’ve heard them. Maybe it’s a text Lit teachers use. Maybe Finn’s right. Much to my dismay, he frequently is. Maybe I did read Van Dyke for school.
Without opening his eyes, Finn finishes the last lines. “Too Short for those who Rejoice; But for those who Love, Time is not.”
I close the book. “Is it from Lit?”
He shakes his head.
“Where?” I uncross my legs, straightening them alongside his down the center of the closet.
“My dad’s funeral.”
I don’t respond. Thankfully, I don’t have to.
“My dad picked it. Mom loved it. The preacher agreed it would be perfect. It’s true if you think about it.” When I still don’t respond, he opens his eyes. “You don’t believe me about the beautiful death thing, do you?”
I can’t lie. Honestly, I can’t speak, so I just lift my shoulders in a noncommittal shrug and pray he changes the subject.
“When we found out he wasn’t going to beat the colon cancer, we made a pact to enjoy the time we had left.” His eyes bore into mine.
I can’t look away, so I open my big fat mouth. “I thought colon cancer was pretty treatable.” Okay, that was stupid and insensitive.
“It usually is if you catch it early. His doctors didn’t suspect it, though, because he was young, and healthy, and had a high tolerance to pain. By the time they did, it had spread. That’s why we moved—for an experimental treatment in Charlottesville.”
I refuse to open my mouth, refuse to spew some stupid medical thing I’ve read on the Internet, refuse to say anything about a stupid ninth-grade dance that suddenly seems trivial in the face of the loss he suffered. I bite the inside of my cheek instead.
“He had something called Lynch syndrome. Anyway, at the very end, he had to go to hospice for pain meds. They said he’d only make it a few days. He made it closer to a few weeks. Eventually, Mom and I had to take shifts. Life goes on outside even when someone you love is dying.”
He isn’t telling me anything I don’t know. I mean, Mere isn’t dead in the real sense of the word, but the big sister I knew and loved is gone forever. Granted, she’s still physically alive, and I adore her, and I would do anything for her. But she’s a different person now. She’ll never dance again. She’s not the big sister who ended the Stinky Sophie comments when I couldn’t end them myself, or the sister who taught me how to apply eyeliner, and definitely not the daredevil who taught me to run barrels on old Jack. And I’m not the little sister urging Jack into tight turns at breakneck speed either.
In a weird way I
can’t even explain, her survival makes things more confusing. To people who didn’t know Mere very well, there she is in her physical body, alive. They see an emotionally flat young woman who lacks physical coordination and seems to struggle with short-term memory issues. And there’s nothing wrong with that, but that’s not the sister I grew up with. She was a whirlwind of joy who left everyone she met floating in a wake of delight. She moved like a swan or a cheetah, depending on her mood.
Losing Mere as I knew her was the worst part of the accident for me. Part of me ended with her that day. My world got knocked out of orbit, but everybody else’s lives, even Yesenia’s, just kind of went along like nothing happened—like a gnat died, not my big sister. The doctors told us to be thankful she was alive, to create a new life for her and for ourselves. And we’d been trying, and I’ve been so thankful she’s here.
But now I realize I’m still grieving.
Hard.
Sitting alone with Finn in a closet in the middle of a hurricane, I start to grasp what my school counselor has been trying to tell me for months. An idea swirls in my head like a cloud. It’s there. I can see it, but if I reach for it, my hand goes right through. Are Finn and my evolving awareness of my feelings somehow connected?
After a long pause, Finn continues. “I was sitting in Algebra, near the end of ninth grade, at a new school. Dad had been at hospice for a while, but all of a sudden I just had to be there. I called Zeke to get me. As much as he hates leaving home, he drove all the way up to Virginia. We swung by the house and I grabbed a shoe box of pictures. When we got there, nothing had changed. Dad was unconscious like he had been for days. But instead of Mom leaving me with him while she went to return calls or shower or whatever she needed to do, she stayed.” He stares at the wall above my head, reliving the memory. He smiles like he’s talking about a wedding or a family reunion, not his father’s death.
I sit frozen in place, hoping he won’t notice my watery eyes or trembling lip. He covers my hand with his, and I realize he sees the eyes, the lip, and possibly a whole lot more. Oddly, I don’t pull away. We sit for a second, hands touching. I try to remember the last time I intentionally touched anyone other than Mom, Mere, or Yesenia, but I honestly can’t remember. Then something scrapes across the shingles, like fingernails on a chalkboard, and I slide my hand away.
