by Jen Malone
Oh.
Do I have it? I’d say I do, but maybe there’s some nuance or distinction that I don’t grasp and need someone else to point out. Like, I might think I’m curious but really I’m . . . I don’t know, thoughtful or—or something close but no cigar.
Dad hears my unspoken question and smiles. “The thing that makes me most proud of you—and the reason I’ve never, ever worried about who you would turn out to be as a person—is that you have curiosity in spades, Sunshine. You jump into every new interest with two feet—literally, in the case of derby. But you did the same with your art. And, though my ears have only just stopped bleeding, the ukulele. Heck, it’s because of you I retain the unsettling mental image of Calvin Coolidge’s morning ritual of having his head rubbed with Vaseline and of John Quincy Adams’s daily skinny-dips in the Potomac. I want you to see the incredible person I do when I look at you. If you did, you wouldn’t doubt your identity, I promise you that.”
Something warm and peaceful settles in my abdomen, like an unexpected hug or reggae music. Like a gulp of oatmeal spreading across my rib cage, sticky and sweet.
“Thanks, Daddy,” I whisper.
I like the girl he described better than any other version of me I’ve tried on. I think I could get very comfortable inhabiting Curious Amelia; she feels like the best aspects of all the others combined. She feels like me.
But then my eyes fall on Gramps’s sundial and my confidence whooshes away. Because the one thing I’ve been fighting off any curiosity about, any consideration of at all, is death. Specifically, my possible death.
Even if I did let the possibility of it settle around me as I spoke to the arts commission woman earlier this week, I still haven’t let myself explore what that means for me. What I think about it or feel about it. I mean, other than that it sucks, which is a given. I’ve refused to let myself wonder what might happen afterward or what it would feel like to have to say goodbye to everyone I love or how much it might hurt physically to have my liver fail and how fast things will spiral after that.
Am I ready to stare any of that in the face now?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Dad’s favorite words.
The one thing I have to admit is that nothing else I’ve tried has worked. If the last few weeks haven’t shown me that, I don’t know what could. But it still feels too dangerous; there’s too much unknown. The questions are too big and potentially unanswerable, and then what am I left with?
Dad has begun aimlessly pulling weeds within his reach, clearly picking up on the fact that I’m working through some big stuff in my head. But now he says, “I gotta tell you, I certainly never expected to be having a conversation like this with my kid. God, when you’re young and innocent and caught up in baby fever and considering trying for one, you don’t know what you don’t know. If you even bother to think about those babies one day turning into teenagers, you might imagine having the sex talk or the ‘don’t do drugs’ talk, but this stuff? Never ever.”
“Yeah, but if you had imagined it, would Alex and I still be here?” I keep my tone light, when what I really want to know is, If you’d known you might lose your daughter at eighteen, would you still have had me?
“From this vantage point, knowing you and your brother as two amazing people who’ve made my life about a million times richer? No brainer. As that nervous twenty-five-year-old who wasn’t sure he could hack a diaper change and was more interested in biking the Minuteman Trail on the weekends than pushing a stroller? Am I a terrible person if I say . . . maybe?”
I smile. “Yes.”
He’s trying to turn the conversation light and part of me appreciates that, but another part hates that he didn’t really answer my question.
Maybe because you didn’t really ask it, Lia.
“Don’t worry, I have zero regrets about you and Alex or any other decision I’ve made,” Dad continues, laughing, oblivious to my inner turmoil this time.
“Really?” This surprises me—he’s forty-three, so I don’t see how that could be possible.
“Nope. Not a thing I would have done differently.”
The question lingers in the air in front of me. I know I need to grasp it; need to ask.
“But what if—” I drop my eyes and whisper, “If things go bad from here . . . would you—would you regret it then?”
Would you regret me?
His sigh is shuddering and harsh, and he shakes his head so hard it could almost be described as violently. “Never. Never. Not for a second.”
He pulls me against him roughly and my throat closes up so tight with emotion I can barely breathe.
“Don’t you ever think that, even for one tiny instant!” he orders.
I burrow into his shirt, struggling to keep it together.
“There’s only one thing I’d regret then, because there’s only one thing I want for you.”
“A liver. I know,” I murmur.
His laugh is biting. “I’m pathetic. Yes, that, of course. But that wasn’t what I was thinking of. Two things, then.”
I hold my breath, almost afraid for his next words. What does my father want for me?
“You know earlier, when you asked me if I remembered when I clapped so loud and long at your school play?” he whispers, stroking my hair.
I nod into his shoulder and he continues. “That’s what I want for you, Sunshine. More ‘remember-whens.’ I want you to have a whole lifetime of remember-whens.”
I’m too choked up to answer, and I’m grateful when he simply holds me quietly. After a minute or two he says, “I love you like fireworks, Sunshine.”
He’s been saying this to Alex and me since we were little. It stretches back to the first time my parents took us to the Fourth of July fireworks on the Esplanade. I was only a toddler, so I don’t remember it, but as Dad tells it he had me up on his shoulders as the fireworks burst and I put my arms out wide and yelled, “It’s just like how love feels!”
Even though I’ve heard the expression from Dad a million times, it’s never hit me with the force it does now. I lean my forehead into his chest. “I know, Daddy. Same.”
He collects his breath in his lungs and it’s shaky when he exhales.
We sit like this for a few more minutes before he says, “I guess I should go start dinner before Mom sends a search party out.” He releases me and stands, brushing grass from his legs. “Think you might feel up to joining us and experiencing a meal at an actual table today?”
I inhale deeply and try to compose myself too. “I could probably hack that.”
Dad stretches his neck. “Good. Then we await the pleasure of your company.” He leans down and picks up my iPad, passing it to me. “In the meantime, I’ll be sorry to miss out on that tattoo artist’s sewing room mayhem. Maybe you can give me the SparkNotes version over burgers.”
“Count on it,” I tell him.
We stare at each other for a second, something indefinable passing between us, then Dad nods and heads toward the patio.
Before he reaches it, I call out, “Wait! I have a question about your theory.” I struggle to remember one of Dad’s recent “I wonders,” then say, “Even the most curious person isn’t going to be able to figure out an answer for, say, ‘What is the exception to the rule that every rule has an exception?’ So what then?”
He winks. “That just means some of life’s mysteries aren’t meant to be solved.”
He ducks around the flip-flop I throw in his direction.
26
THE UNEXPECTED KNOCK ON MY BEDROOM DOOR THE NEXT afternoon sends my pulse jumping. My parents dropped me off at home after my doctor’s appointment—no MELD score change!—and left again to run errands. The only other people who have keys to our house are Sibby, who’s not due back until tomorrow afternoon, and our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Taholi, who needs one of those motorized lifts to get up a set of stairs these days.
I wish interior doors had peepholes.
>
“Who is it?” I venture, creeping closer.
“Special delivery” comes the reply, in a deep, familiar voice.
“Alex!” I yank open the door, my jaw dropping. Of course there’s someone else with a key to our house: its other occupant.
My brother stands in front of me with a Scrabble board held in both hands like an offering. “You were ghosting me on Words With Friends, so . . .”
“Mom said you were coming up the weekend after this one.”
“I am.” He shrugs. “Also.”
I grin at him. I said I didn’t want him here because I knew he’d try to tease me out of any wallowing I wanted to do, but I am ridiculously and unexpectedly happy he ignored me. And it turns out he doesn’t even need to resort to teasing, because my mood takes an instant lift just seeing him in my doorway. Despite the fact that we’re not all that physical with each other and it doesn’t feel completely natural to do it, I throw my arms around him and squeeze tight.
He hugs back hard. After a few seconds, he peeks over my shoulder, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like ass in here. Or maybe it’s you. Slap on some deodorant and meet me in the kitchen.”
I narrow my eyes, but I’m secretly grateful he’s being the same Alex as ever.
“You’re going down so hard,” I tell him. “There aren’t any cheats to save your butt in analog.”
“Cheats? Why would you think I—” He gasps, pretends to be scandalized. “Wait, do you use cheats when you play me?” His eyebrows are in his hairline.
“Oh, please. As if you don’t!” I laugh and close my door in his face.
He clomps down the back stairs as I search for my phone, open Words With Friends for the first time since last week, and play “owned.” Then I open the chat box within our game and type: That’s what you’re about to be.
A few seconds later his bark of laughter travels up the heating vents.
27
ALEX DROPS ME OFF AT SIBBY’S APARTMENT ON SATURDAY afternoon with a pep talk. “If she gives you a hard time, we’ll ditch her and buy you a cuddly koala from Australia instead.”
I steal his baseball cap and fling it onto the sidewalk, ignoring his yelp as I slide from the car.
“You’d better not make me get out for that,” Alex calls from the driver’s seat.
I don’t answer, but I do dip down and retrieve his hat, dangling it through the open window.
He snatches it from me. “Anything you want me to tell Will when I see him?”
Alex hasn’t pushed back on my vague answers about Will, but he does know from Mom that his BFF was the one to bring me to the hospital last week, meaning he knows we were continuing to hang out together after that first time. I have no idea what Will may or may not have said to him about it.
I smile and shrug. “I texted him yesterday—we’re good.”
I did, too. I thanked him for being there when I needed him, and he responded to say he was so sorry about my not getting the liver and that he understood if I wasn’t in the right headspace to hang out, but he’d be a text away if I ever was. We’re cool.
Although I’d never admit this to my brother, Will was the exact right guy for the job and I’m grateful he was around. But hanging out with Will was all about keeping it light and breezy, and I realize now that my much bigger priority is setting things straight with someone who pushed me to keep it real.
My person.
It’s been a week since our fight—nine days, technically—and Sibby and I haven’t spoken a word to one another. Not a text, not an Insta tag, not anything. That’s never happened before and I have no idea how she’s going to react to my apology today. I haven’t been in the position of having to utter one to her before.
I mean, over minor stuff, sure. I’m sorry I forgot to grab you a Gatorade when I stopped at 7-Eleven on my way to practice. I’m sorry I didn’t notice your “Save me” eyes when you got stuck talking to Carmen Moreno about League of Legends for twenty minutes. I’m sorry I accidentally barged in on you making out with Justin Bolt.
Never I’m sorry we’ve been giving each other the silent treatment for nearly the entirety of our last-ever school vacation week. Or even just at all.
But as much as Alex’s showing up and my parents’ nudging has helped pull me back from the brink this week, things will never really be okay if I don’t have my best friend. I need to fix us.
I wave bye to my brother and enter Sibby’s apartment building, climbing the stairs to stand in front of her door. I’m not completely sure what time their train was scheduled back and whether they’ll even be home yet, but Sibby answers on my first knock, her eyes wide when she sees it’s me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Someone in one of the nearby apartments is cooking something that smells like extra-pungent fish and it assaults my nose, but I force my expression to hold on one that I hope conveys true repentance.
She shifts her stance to lean against the doorway casing. “Me too.”
When I exhale, her chin juts out a bit and she adds, “But I can’t take back what I said the other day, even if I wasn’t expecting you to react the way you did.”
“I don’t want you to. Turns out you were right anyway.”
Her eyebrows flicker. “Which part?”
I purse my lips and sigh. “Probably most of it. Maybe the part about me not being brave.”
Sibby’s posture relaxes at this, and her eyes soften. “Lia! You know I wasn’t try to drag you. I think you’re totally capable of being brave, I just don’t think you’ve been letting yourself go there lately and I thought maybe if I pointed it out, it might, you know, shake you up a little. But in a good way.” She pushes off the door casing. “I was trying to help.”
I nod. “I know. At least, I know that now. Turns out losing your shot at a liver and locking yourself in your room most of the week to mourn makes you realize some stuff.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Can I come in?”
She rolls her eyes, another sign that we’re gonna get past this. “What are you, a vampire? You need an invitation?”
I follow her down the hall toward her room and we assume our regular positions—Sibby on her stomach across her bed and me sprawled out on one of her floor cushions.
“So I got the call,” I say.
She sits straight up, her eyes wide. “Holy shit,” she whispers. “What—how—”
I fill her in on the stuff at the hospital, scooting closer to brush away her tears when they fall.
“I’m the worst friend in the world,” she says. “I was watching Hamilton and you were prepping for major surgery, and then having to deal with not having it, without me by your side cheering you up.”
“Yeah, well, the Worst Friend Award is all mine for making everything about me lately and for being so all over the place.”
“Will this award be hand lettered? Because if so, I want it.”
I make a face. “Might as well use my talents there, since I won’t have the chance to anywhere else.”
I tell her about quitting the mural.
“Was that a heat of the moment thing, or is it still what you want?” she asks.
Leave it to Sibby to know instantly that I’ve been regretting my decision for days now.
Shrugging, I say, “Now that I’m feeling a tiny bit better again, I wish I hadn’t done it, but it’s too late now. The arts commission lady was already super worried that I wasn’t going to be able to finish by May fourth—”
Sibby interrupts me to say, “May the fourth be with you.” She turns her palms up in apology. “Sorry, it’s physically impossible for me to hear that date and not finish the saying. You know how I feel about all things Carrie Fisher.”
“Yeah, yeah, Jedi Master. Anyway, I’m sure she was on the phone lining up a replacement the minute we hung up.”
Sibby pulls at a thread on her quilt. “Oh, babe, that sucks. I’m sorry. And I really am sorry about the other night t
oo. I think maybe . . . I think maybe I was trying to start a blue that day, just to get that stuff out of my head and into the open.”
“Does blue mean fight, you Aussie freak?”
She nods. “But it wasn’t because I was angry at you specifically, I’m just pissed off about all of it. Although, I’m kind of pissed at you because I don’t feel like I can talk to my best friend about how I’m feeling, since you don’t want to delve into anything related to all of this. I get that it’s happening to you and this is your way of dealing with things, but . . .” She pauses and lifts her eyes to mine. “It’s also kind of happening to me too, and my way of dealing with anything confusing is usually to talk it to death with my best friend—argh, sorry. Terrible word choice.”
I shake my head and gesture for her to continue.
“Except if I complain about how I’m feeling, I come across as a twit because it’s so much worse to be in your shoes and I feel like the biggest wanker ever, whining about how much this is all tearing me apart.” Her voice cracks and a tear slips down her cheek when she adds, “But it is.”
She raises her eyes to mine and sees that I’m about to cry too, and then we both burst into teary laughter. Because what else is there to do?
“I messed everything up,” I say. “With me, with you, with—just with everything. I want you to be able to whine to me. I want to be able to talk about it with you too, and to find a way to stare down some of the stuff I’ve been avoiding, I’m just not sure how to do that yet.”
“I’ll help!” Sibby says, without hesitation. She tumbles off her bed and crawls over to me, wrapping her arms around my neck. I grab back and hang on for dear life.
