Five Minutes More

by Darlene Ryan

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been very difficult for Seth—for his whole family. Just days ago it was the one-year anniversary.” She clears her throat. “He...um...He wanted you to know he was sorry.”

  Everything is blurry. “How...how...”

  “There was...a note.”

  “I don’t understand.” I reach out blindly with one hand and she takes it. “I thought he was okay. Yesterday he even gave me—”

  An image of that guy, the suicide counselor from the assembly, flashes into my head. “You need to be aware of the warning signs,” he’d said. “Depression. Sleeping a lot or not at all. Giving things away.”

  Oh God. No. The CDs. I press the heel of my hand hard against my mouth because I’m already screaming inside. I get up, shoving Seth’s aunt away with my other arm. The tears roll down my face into my mouth and drip off my chin onto my jacket.

  She reaches for me. “Please, D’Arcy, come sit down,” she pleads. Her voice sounds as though it’s coming from the bottom of a very deep well.

  I have to see Seth. This has to be some kind of mistake. I run out of the waiting room and down the hall. If I can just find his room. 420. 422. 424. The numbers swim in front of me. Where is it? My nose is running. I wipe it with the sleeve of my jacket and keep checking numbers. Somehow I’m lost. These rooms don’t have any beds. There are no nurses.

  I turn another corner. Quiet Room the sign over the door says. I don’t know why I open the door and go in. I don’t want anyone to find me before I can find Seth.

  It makes me think of a church even though there’s no stained glass and no crosses. There’s one light at the far end shining down on a wall hanging of a sun all orange and yellow and red. Under the sun there’s a long wooden table and rows of chairs arranged in semicircles.

  I walk down to the first row of seats. If this is a kind of church, then maybe...maybe God will hear me. Maybe this is one of the places where he listens in.

  I sit down, bow my head and fold my hands. The only prayer I can think of is “Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep,” and that doesn’t seem right. “Please, God,” I finally whisper. “If you’re listening, please help Seth.”

  I can’t think of anything else. My head hurts and my eyes feel as though there’s dirt in them. I lay my head down on the next chair, pull my legs up and curl into a little ball.

  twenty-eight

  For a minute I don’t know where I am. My legs are cramped. I stretch them slowly and sit up. How long was I asleep? I don’t have my watch. My eyes are puffy and raw. I rub at them but it doesn’t help.

  Out in the hall there’s a big window, and I can see it’s getting dark outside. I still need to find out where Seth is. Seth’s aunt has everything wrong.

  I start walking, watching for the room numbers next to the doors. I don’t want to ask for directions because I don’t want to answer anyone’s questions. Eventually I turn a corner and go through a set of swinging doors, and I’m back at the elevators.

  Seth’s aunt is there. All of a sudden my feet won’t move. She’s leaning against the wall, hugging Seth’s shirt and crying. A gray-haired man has his arm around her shoulder and his face close to hers. Not just any man. A minister.

  When my father...a minister came.

  No.

  Seth can’t be...No.

  There’s no air in here. I back away and bang into the stairwell door. They both turn at the sound.

  “D’Arcy!” Seth’s aunt takes a step toward me.

  I can’t talk to her. I bolt down the stairs, down until there’s no more down. I come out the bottom door into the hospital parking lot and run. I run until my legs cramp and I have to lean against the side of a building for a few minutes until I can move again.

  I walk up one street and down another as it gets darker. I don’t know where to go or what to do, so I just keep walking. I end up on the hill without planning it. Or maybe some part of me did. I pull myself up onto the wall and find the path through the bushes. Farther up the hill some kids have a bonfire. The burning wood snaps, and sparks jump into the air above the flames.

  My legs and hands are shaking. I sit on the ground and watch them tremble. I know it’s cold, but I don’t feel cold. All I feel is a dull ache in my chest.

  I hear voices, shouts, laughing, the van coming and going. I just sit. And then, I don’t know how long I’ve been there, I hear footsteps coming through the grass. I don’t move. I don’t care.

  “I know you,” a voice says. It’s the girl from the other night, the one who was looking for a cigarette. This time she’s wearing baggy overalls and a grey hoodie. “You don’t smoke,” she says.

  I shake my head. She turns to go.

  “You got anything to drink?” I ask.

  She turns back to me. “Maybe.”

  “I have money,” I tell her. “A little, anyway.” I fumble in my purse and pull out a twenty. There’s more than that but I might need it later.

  She eyes the money. “That’s not going to get you much of a party—four or five cigarettes and maybe a bottle if you’re lucky.”

  “You can keep the cigarettes,” I say.

  Her eyes flick up to my face. “Shares on the bottle.”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  She grabs the twenty from my hand. “C’mon,” she says.

  I follow her up the hill to the road at the top. The broken pavement curves down around the hill. At the first turn there’s another fire burning in a metal trash can. Farther back off the road, I see a wooden picnic table. Two guys are sitting on top of it. A third is lying on the bench, arms folded behind his head.

  “Stay here,” the girl says to me.

  She heads across the grass. I fold my arms across my chest and watch her. She talks to one of the guys sitting on the table. They’re arguing. She holds up one hand and shakes her head so hard her hair whips across her face. He shrugs. She says something else but he ignores her. Finally she holds out the money. He snaps it from her fingers, and it seems to somehow magically disappear.

  The other guy slides off the picnic table and starts toward me. The girl follows. He walks past me like I’m not even there and heads toward an old, dark-colored truck parked off the road under the trees. A yellow port-a-potty is tied in the middle of the truck. He climbs into the back of the truck and unlocks the potty door.

  “Cool, huh?” the girl says. “What cop is ever gonna search a toilet?”

  The guy’s holding a plastic bag now. “Hey, Harmony,” he calls. “Here.”

  She gets the bag and comes back to me. “C’mon, let’s go,” she says.

  We walk back along the road and down the hill again. Harmony picks her way around the broken foundation until she comes to a place where there’s a corner section of wall that stretches over our heads. “This is a good spot,” she says. “Nobody much comes down here because it’s kinda cold, but this way we won’t have to share with anyone else.” She hands me the bag and starts shoving garbage out of the way with her foot.

  There are five cigarettes in the bag. I hand them to Harmony. “You sure?” she asks.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  She tucks four of the cigarettes into the front pocket of her hoodie and pulls out a book of matches. She lights the other cigarette, takes a long drag from it and closes her eyes. Smoke streams out of the corner of her mouth. She opens her eyes and catches me watching her.

  “Yeah, I know they’re bad,” she says with a shrug. “But I figure, to hell with it. You gotta die from something. Right?”

  The wine bottle has a screw top. I wipe my hand on the front of my jeans and twist it off. The first mouthful makes me choke and cough. Harmony whacks me between the shoulder blades a couple of times. “You okay?” she says.

  I nod and wave her away. I take another drink and then another. It burns all the way from the back of my throat to my stomach. I offer Harmony the bottle. She wipes the top on her wrist and takes a couple of swallows, then hands it back.

  I take
another drink.

  Harmony uses her foot to scrape a clear spot on the cracked concrete. She sits, hugs her knees to her chest and takes a drag from her cigarette. I hand her the bottle again and make a place for me to sit down against the other wall.

  For a while we pass the bottle back and forth without talking.

  Harmony puts her cigarette out on the concrete and kicks the butt away. She leans back against the red brick wall, tucking her hands in the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt. “So what’s your name, anyway?” she asks.

  I don’t want to be me anymore. I look down the hill at the cars circling the harbor along Water Street. A nursery rhyme suddenly pops into my head:

  Jack and Jill

  Went up the hill

  To fetch a pail of water.

  Jack fell down

  And broke his crown

  And Jill came tumbling after.

  I look at Harmony. “Jill. My name is Jill,” I say.

  Harmony lifts the wine bottle like she’s toasting me. “Hey, Jill,” she says. She takes a drink, then hands the bottle back again. “I’m Harmony.”

  I set the wine bottle on the concrete, tent my hands on top and lean my chin on them. The bottle wobbles for a second but stays upright. “Harmony. Like the song?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and her hair flies into her face again. “No. Like everybody loving each other and not fighting and stuff.”

  “I thought it was the song,” I say. “Old song—my dad used to sing—’Harmony and Ivory.’” Now I’ve said it out loud, it doesn’t sound right. “No, that’s not right. It wasn’t Harmony, it was Emony.” I start to laugh because it feels like there’re bees buzzing in my head, and I can’t get the word out the way I want it. “Not Emony,” I say. “Enemy...no...Enum—”

  I have another fit of giggles and my chin slides off the wine bottle. The bottle hits the concrete and starts to roll. Harmony and I both grab for it. She gets it. I end up sprawled in the dirt, still laughing, and I don’t even know at what.

  Harmony leans over me. She’s laughing too. She tips some wine into my mouth. I cough and choke but I swallow most of it. I open and close my mouth like a baby bird, and she gives me another drink, then takes a drink herself.

  “All gone,” Harmony says, holding the bottle upside down and shaking it.

  I try to put my head underneath to get whatever’s left, but all I end up with is a few drops on my face.

  Harmony holds the bottle like it’s a baseball bat and swings, but she lets go and it goes sailing out into the dark.I hear it shatter against something. “Strike one,” I say and start laughing again.

  She pulls out another cigarette and her matches. “Strike two,” I say when the match flares into flame. I can barely get the words out, I’m laughing so hard.

  Harmony shoves my hip with her foot. “You’re drunk,” she says. She blows a smoke ring and then another. I watch them spread out into nothing.

  twenty-nine

  Someone is using the left side of my head for a drum. I touch the side of my head. There’s dirt on my hands and in my hair. I open my eyes. I’m lying on the ground. There are bits of leaves and dirt stuck to my face and something gritty in my mouth.

  I sit up and the pounding in my head gets worse. I try to brush the crap out of my hair but even it hurts.

  Harmony comes up the hill toward me. “Hey, you’re awake,” she says. She offers me a take-out cup with a straw stuck through the plastic top. “Want some? It’s a root beer Slurpee.”

  My stomach slingshots into my throat at the thought of drinking root beer—or anything else so sweet. I shake my head, which turns out to be a very bad idea.

  “You should eat something,” Harmony says. “It’ll help the hangover.” She leans down and starts picking stuff out of my hair. “There’s a Burger Doodle up the hill from here, and they stop doing breakfast at ten. If you’re there at about ten after, they throw out a lot of the leftovers and they’re still hot.”

  Breakfast out of a garbage can?

  I press my fist against my stomach and feel the strap of my purse crossing my body. “I still have a little money,” I say. “I can buy breakfast.” There’s dirt on my tongue. I pull the neck of my shirt up and try to wipe it off.

  “You mean for both of us?” Harmony asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, getting to my feet. The ground feels wobbly, like I’m standing on a boat.

  “We should go to the library first then,” she says. “It’s closer than the park.”

  “What?” I say.

  “Bathrooms. You know that little park with all the trees where people skate in the winter? There’s a good bathroom there at the back of the lodge. Unless you’d rather just pee behind a tree.”

  “No,” I say. I don’t want to pee behind a tree.

  “Library’s even better. You can get cleaned up there. They have a big bathroom in the kids section, you know, for people with babies, and crips and old people who can’t use the regular bathrooms.” She brushes some dirt off the back of my jacket. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  She starts down the hill and I follow. At the bottom we scramble over the wall and down onto the sidewalk. But Harmony doesn’t stay on the sidewalk a lot. She cuts through a lot of alleyways and dodges behind buildings. At the end of one narrow alley, she suddenly stops beside a green dumpster. “Bang on the side if anyone comes,” she says.

  “What do you mean?” I say, but she’s already pulled herself up the side of the dumpster and is lifting one side of the top. She balances on the lip for a second and then flips inside like some kind of garbage diver. After a minute a pink sweatshirt comes flying out of the garbage, followed by a dark blue T-shirt. Then one red high-top sneaker arcs over the side and lands at my feet. A second later the matching sneaker drops by the side of the dumpster.

  Harmony reappears then. She swings her legs over the edge and jumps to the ground. She looks at me. “You too much of a princess to pick things up?” she asks.

  “You want this stuff?” I say. I notice she has a plastic grocery bag in one hand.

  “You figure on wearing those clothes forever?” she asks. She picks up the T-shirt. “See? There’s just a little hole here at the neck.” She stuffs it in the bag and snags one of the shoes. “Look at this. These are barely worn but someone drew stuff all over them. Like I care.”

  I pick up the shoe that’s in front of me. The red canvas is covered with stars and lightning bolts drawn with a black Sharpie. Harmony holds up the pink sweatshirt. “This should fit you.” She points to a white blotch on one sleeve. “Only thing wrong is this bleach mark.”

  She takes the shoe and the shirt and jams them both in the bag. “C’mon,” she says. “Let’s go before someone sees us.”

  “What is this place?” I ask her as we walk.

  “It’s a store where people sell clothes they don’t want anymore.” Harmony doesn’t look at me when she talks. She looks everywhere else, watching everything all the time. “Anything that’s damaged they just throw out.” She grabs my arm and pulls me down another alley. “If they catch you in the dumpster, they’ll call the cops. They’d rather all that stuff be garbage.”

  We come out behind the main branch of the library. Inside, Harmony takes me to a washroom at the far end of the children’s department. With the door locked behind us, she climbs up on the toilet, pushes back a ceiling tile and pulls down another plastic grocery bag. She rummages inside, throws a pale blue sweater over her shoulder and tosses me a long-sleeve black T-shirt and a comb. She keeps fishing in the bag. “Now where is that?” she mutters. “Oh. Here.” She pulls out a big tube of toothpaste and hands it to me. “No brush. You gotta use a finger,” she says with a shrug.

  Harmony shoves the bag back into the hole in the ceiling and puts the other bag with the stuff she just got from the dumpster up beside it. Then she slides the square tile back in place.

  “Okay, you can go first,” she says, jumping down off the toilet. “I’ll
wait outside.”

  The first thing I do when the door closes behind her is pee. Then I look at myself in the spotty mirror over the sink. My head is still pounding. My face is sweaty, and there’s dirt and crap in my hair.

  I wash my face with cold water and soap that looks like pink foam. I comb the knots and junk out of my hair and pull it back into a ponytail. Finally I shake off my jacket and change my shirt for the one Harmony gave me. It’s wrinkled but it smells clean, like bleach. I wish I had clean underwear. I wonder if Harmony gets that out of the garbage too.

  I wait outside the door and watch the kids at story time while Harmony gets cleaned up. When she comes out, she’s wearing the blue T-shirt with a couple of sparkly pink clips in her hair and frosted pink lipstick.

  We head down the street and around the corner to a tiny diner I didn’t even know was there. “This place is good,” Harmony says. “The Big Breakfast has a lot of stuff and it’s pretty cheap.”

  We sit at the counter and order two Big Breakfasts. That turns out to be scrambled eggs, a pancake, ham, fried potatoes and toast. I eat everything because suddenly I’m hungry and I don’t know when I’ll eat again. I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do next. At least the food helps my headache.

  After she’s finished eating, Harmony takes a lipstick out of her pocket. There’s a small mirror on the end of the cap, and she uses it to put on more shiny gloss. I look at the gold case and realize it’s not some cheap dollar-store brand. “Did you find that in the dumpster?” I ask.

  Harmony is playing with her bangs, squinting at the tiny mirror. “This?” she says. “Yeah, right. I picked this up at the library.”

  “What? Someone just left it in that bathroom?”

  She laughs. “Someone just left it in their purse and, whoops, it fell out.”

  “You stole it?”

  “Loosen up, Princess,” she says, snapping the cap back on the lipstick and slipping it in her pocket again. “Stealing is when you take money. I just sorta borrowed this. She probably won’t even miss it, and if she does, so what? You shoulda seen that purse. Leather was so freakin’ soft. It didn’t come out of a dumpster. She can afford another lipstick.”