That Night

by Amy Giles

  The stethoscope is on my back under my shirt. “Take a deep breath, Lucas,” Dr. Patel instructs me. But I can’t. My lungs clamp shut.

  “Deep breath, Lucas,” he says again. I try, but my breath stutters. I’m smothered by the grief and pain that keep hitting me when I least expect. The feeling of Jason’s body on top of mine, squeezing the air out of me. The moment I realized the panicked heartbeat pounding through my body was mine alone.

  At some point the stethoscope on my back is replaced by Dr. Patel’s hand as I work through this latest setback.

  A while later, Dr. Patel walks behind me back to the waiting room. My mother stands up from her chair abruptly, pulling the straps of her purse up to her shoulder.

  “Healthy as a horse,” Dr. Patel says. “Bet he has the appetite of one too.”

  Mom nods and smiles, but it’s weak. “He was coughing so much though.”

  “His lungs are clear.”

  “Oh . . . okay. Well . . . good,” she says, relief easing the worry lines from her face. She used to be stressed about work. Now I’m the cause of those little lines that are deepening around her mouth, her forehead.

  Dr. Patel looks at me and then at my mother. “Lucas, why don’t you have a seat. Mom and I are going to talk in my office for a bit.”

  The alarm is back in my mother’s eyes, as if Dr. Patel is going to tell her in private that I’m suffering from some incurable disease.

  I hope finding out from Dr. Patel that I’m not seriously ill is enough to relax that permanent look of pain from her eyes. But she’s not going to like what he is going to tell her.

  She’s silent on the way home. Every so often she opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something. Then she exhales and closes her mouth again. I should ask her what she and Dr. Patel talked about. But I really don’t want to know.

  Finally she turns to me and says, “Are you feeling better now?”

  I nod and point ahead at the intersection. “Can you drop me off at the gym?”

  She stops at the red light and tilts her head. “Really? After what happened in Dr. Patel’s office?”

  “It helps,” I tell her.

  “You’re sure?” she presses.

  “Positive.”

  “All right,” she says, giving in.

  Maybe the doctor’s visit wasn’t a complete waste of time after all.

  I train with Kenny and Leo for two hours, then come back home to do homework. The doorbell rings a little while later.

  “Hey, Mrs. Rossi.” From my bed, I listen to Pete work his way through the house, making the obligatory stop in the kitchen so my mother can ply him with food. He’s in my room a few minutes later holding a plate of tacos, one lifted to his mouth, kicking the door shut behind him.

  “Damn, your mom can cook. What the hell does she put in here?” The lettuce hanging out of his mouth makes him look like a human paper shredder.

  “Preservatives,” I answer.

  Pete plops down on Jason’s bed with his plate. That’s the kind of thing that would set my mother back several months if she saw it. My mom still changes Jason’s sheets every week, when she’s dusting his shelves and trophies. There’s a picture of Reggie and Jason up there. The same one Reggie has on her desk at work.

  Jason and I shared a room since we were kids. I thought I’d get the room to myself after he graduated, but he didn’t go away to college like we all expected. I can still hear my father hollering, “You’re throwing your life away!” Little did we know going to the movies with me would be his real undoing.

  Jason didn’t even want to see the movie. But Mom was in LA for work, Dad was working late, and I was going to go to a party. Jason was sitting at the kitchen table eating, as always, while I was getting the details from Pete.

  “Where’s the party?” Jason asked after I got off the phone.

  “The old warehouse, on Brunswick.” I was kind of excited to tell him about it; I thought of Jason as more of a friend than a big brother. I mean, two years is not that big of an age difference.

  “You’re not going.” Jason stood up to put his plate in the sink.

  “Who died and made you boss?” I said. (An expression I’ve stopped saying since that night. That and “Drop dead,” “I’ll kill you,” “You’re dead to me,” “I died laughing,” etc.)

  He walked over to me, slowly, menacingly, staring down the bridge of his enormous nose.

  “I made me boss. Mom and Dad are going to blame me if anything happens to you on my watch.”

  So, he went online and got us tickets to the latest superhero disaster movie at the Balcony.

  Mom quit her job right after that night. She was pretty high up at an ad agency. A VP or SVP CD or ECD, some combination of letters that said she was very important and very good at making commercials. I’m pretty much her only job now. That puts a lot of pressure on me.

  After Pete inhales his food, he grabs Jason’s football off the shelf and lies back on the bed, tossing the ball in the air. Pete is oblivious; he has no boundaries. He doesn’t respect the shrine because he doesn’t recognize it as a shrine. I’m grateful for his blinders because I’m kind of tired of all the invisible lines we keep trying not to trip over.

  “Want me to pick you up again tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Jason had to have another set of keys to his car somewhere,” Pete says, spinning the ball around in his hands.

  “Not like I can ask him.” It doesn’t even bother me when Pete says stupid shit; the way people tiptoe around mentioning Jason bugs me more. “How was work?”

  “Fine.” He tosses the football up in the air. “So I have news. Reggie hired someone today.”

  “Oh, that’s good. Who?” I told a couple of guys at school about the opening, but no one was really interested. Besides, we need someone who’s not going away to college in a few months. Come August, we’ll need to fill Pete’s position too. But I really can’t allow my brain to travel that far ahead. One day at a time is about all I can manage.

  “Want to guess?” Pete lifts the ball and lobs it across the room to me. I catch it.

  He’s got a goofy look on that tells me it’s not going to be anyone I ever expected.

  “Mr. Riccardi.” I toss the football back.

  Pete and I keep coming across flyers stapled to utility poles on every block for our old tech teacher’s band, the Dead Freds, a Grateful Dead cover band. There are two Freds in their band. They have a regular gig at the Salty Dog every Wednesday night. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Riccardi showed up at Enzo’s one day looking to nail down a third job, since everyone knows teachers, especially tech teachers, get paid shit.

  Pete catches the ball.

  “Younger.”

  “Peachy.” Peachy’s name is actually Pete Chee, but his first and last name just naturally run into each other—and eventually, Petechee became Peachy. Peachy’s father is an electrician. He’s always at our store buying stuff he needs for his jobs. I could see how our employee discount could work out for them.

  Pete scrunches up his face and shakes his head. “You’re not even trying.” He tosses the ball back.

  I catch it, shuffling it from hand to hand while I give it some thought. Someone who will shock me, obviously. But can still physically do the job.

  “Charmaine.” I toss the ball. Charmaine was the first girl ever to join the high school football team. She’s pretty awesome. And strong as hell.

  Pete catches the ball and grins. “Warmer!”

  “Warmer?” I catch it next. “A girl?”

  Pete shrugs, but he’s still smiling, which tells me I’m right.

  A girl. I need to think of another girl as strong as Charmaine. I rattle off a bunch of names, the two of us tossing the ball back and forth with each one.

  Erin.

  Jasmine.

  Natalie.

  Mina.

  Pete holds the ball ready to toss it again. “You’re never going to guess.”<
br />
  I pick up my phone. “This is stupid. I’ll just text Reggie.”

  “After all this, you’d actually consider robbing me of my reveal? Fine! It’s Jess Nolan.”

  He tosses the ball at me. I’m still holding my phone, stunned. The ball hits the wall by my head and rolls onto my bed.

  “Jess Nolan? She’s . . .”

  “Small,” Pete answers for me.

  Actually, that wasn’t what I was going to say. I was thinking she was at the Balcony that night too.

  Now her smile and wave earlier today make a little bit more sense. Did she know then that we were going to be working together?

  This is not good.

  Boxing and work are my escape. Away from the prying eyes of my mother, my teachers. I think of Jess’s expression earlier today. The not-so-secret society-of-survivors look that says we shared something really messed up.

  I have to wonder if other people find some measure of comfort in being around survivors of a shared tragedy. Because I sure as hell don’t. It’s bad enough Reggie and I work together. But she’s like family. I don’t want another person in my life who is tragically and irreparably damaged by the same disease that’s running rampant through our neighborhood. Waking up every morning to Jason’s empty bed is reminder enough. I may not believe in ghosts, but I see them all the time.

  “Grief is uncomfortable,” Dr. Engel said once. “People try to run away from it rather than confront it.”

  “I confront it every fucking day,” I told him, in one of our less productive sessions.

  “That’s just ridiculous. I’m calling Reggie right now.” Her voice mail picks up. “Reggie . . . seriously, Jess Nolan? What’d you get soft or something? Call me back!”

  When I hang up Pete’s frowning at me, his disapproval radiating off of him in sonic waves.

  “What?”

  His frown intensifies. “‘What?’ Dude, are you seriously trying to get Jess fired before she even starts?”

  “No!” I argue, even though I am. “I mean . . .”

  He holds his hands up in the air, indicating he wants me to pass him back the ball. I pick it up from where it landed on my bed and toss it.

  “Here’s how I see it.” He catches the ball. “If Jess is applying for a job at Enzo’s . . . fucking Enzo’s, dude . . . maybe Jess kinda really needs this shitty job.”

  I flop back on my pillows in defeat.

  Jesus.

  I close my eyes and rub them with the heels of my hands.

  Grief is uncomfortable.

  Seriously, Dr. Engel. If I knew how to run away from it, I would’ve done it by now.

  Jess

  I throw my backpack and jacket in my new employee locker and shut it with a loud clang.

  “Ah, I should’ve told you—you’ll need to bring a lock. Anything valuable in there you don’t want stolen? I can hold it for you today,” Reggie offers.

  “Not really.” The only thing worth anything to me is my ancient phone, the one my parents got for me for my thirteenth birthday. Mom and Dad were both working then; the phone to them was a practical investment, in case of emergency. Four years is pretty old for a phone. I doubt anyone other than the Smithsonian would ever want it, but I keep it in my pocket all the time anyway. It’s my lifeline in ways my parents never anticipated.

  She smiles. “Okay, so let’s get you started.”

  Reggie leads the way through a dimly lit corridor that opens to a warehouse, a labyrinth of metal shelves stocked with inventory. Heavy metal doors open up, letting in bright sunshine. A beeping freight truck backs up to the loading dock.

  “Perfect timing,” Reggie says. “You get to help unload the truck.”

  Two guys—one tall and pale, the other dark and stocky—walk into the warehouse, laughing. I recognize the pale one from school, Pete Brickner. The other I don’t know. Lucas comes up a few feet behind them. He’s cracking up too. I must’ve just missed a helluva joke.

  “Guys, Jess is here,” Reggie announces.

  Lucas stops laughing at the sight of me. He leaves the other guys and walks over to us, clapping his hands once in front of him. “Right. Orientation.”

  “Just have her shadow you guys today,” Reggie tells him, and walks away.

  Lucas stares over at the loading dock as the delivery driver opens his rear door. “Are you sure about this?”

  At first, I think he’s asking the truck driver; then I realize, no, he’s talking to me. Before I can answer, he says, “Last chance to change your mind. I promise none of us will judge you if you tear out of here.” He sort of chuckles like he’s joking, but it doesn’t really seem like he is. Besides, it’s just not that funny.

  I shake my head. “No . . . I’m good.” Lucas looks around the warehouse scratching his head.

  “So, should I help unload the truck?” I offer, straightening my spine, trying to fill the gaps between each vertebra to give the appearance of being a few inches taller and a few pounds heavier.

  He exhales again and then hands me a clipboard. “Maybe for your first day you should just start off with inventory. Pete, get the bill of lading for Jess.”

  “Okay.” I nod so he’ll see just how cooperative and great I’ll be at this job. Any excitement I felt about landing a new job is completely overshadowed by his obvious doubt in me. I hate that he’s already managed to shake my confidence.

  Pete walks over and smiles. Lucas is hard to miss at school because of his size; Pete’s hard to miss because he radiates happiness wherever he goes.

  He hands me a bunch of papers. “Bill of lading. Basically just a list of everything that should be on that truck. You don’t want to sign off on something that didn’t come in,” he explains. I nod and clip it to my board, following him.

  As we walk away from Lucas, Pete leans closer like he’s about to share a secret. “So that was a particularly underwhelming welcome, huh? We’re not known for our warmth and hospitality back here.” He sticks his hand out and I shake it. “I’m Pete.”

  “I know. Jess.”

  “I know.” He smiles. “Just figured we should make it official. That’s Joe.” He points at the other guy, who smiles and waves.

  “Pete! Grab a pallet jack and get started.” Lucas speeds past us pushing some kind of handcart with two long prongs in the front. A pallet jack, I guess.

  Pete cups a hand to his mouth and shouts after him. “Back off, brah! I’m helping the rookie acclimate to her surroundings!”

  Lucas turns around and bows with one hand holding the pallet jack. “I bequeath to you my duties, Sir Loin of Beef!”

  “You keep trying to bequeath me your shitty job, dude. Nobody wants it!”

  Pete turns to me and grins. “Reggie put him in charge of all of us for some stupid reason. It made his big head even bigger.” He grabs a pallet jack. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  I’m determined to at least look like I know what I’m doing, even if my insides are curdling. I square my shoulders and get to work, making sure every SKU number on every box is on the bill of lading Pete gave me. It takes them a half hour to unload the truck. When I’m done counting and crossing off, I hand the clipboard to Lucas.

  “It’s all here,” I say.

  “Okay, thanks.” He takes the clipboard from me without making eye contact.

  “I double-checked,” I offer, looking for some kind of approval.

  With the worst attempt ever at a smile, he walks away.

  I follow behind him. “What should I work on next?”

  He stops and runs a hand through his mop of hair.

  “Ummm . . .” He searches around the warehouse for something for me to do. “Why don’t you just break down those boxes over there. That’s easy,” he says.

  Easy? Does he even hear how insulting he is?

  I fold my arms. “I’m not looking for easy. What do you need me to do?”

  Joe calls out from the corner. “I could use some help with these crates.”

  I perk
up. “I’ll do it.”

  Lucas looks uncertain. “I don’t know. That may be too hard for you.”

  My hands ball up by my sides. Rage at being undervalued, underestimated, dismissed surges up inside of me. I don’t want to get fired for telling him off. Let them get to know me first before I start freely expressing myself. So I take a breath to douse the angry flames burning inside of me. Calmly, I ask, “How would you even know what’s too hard for me?”

  He blows a stream of air out his mouth and nods. “Okay. You’re right. Go help Joe,” he says, then walks away.

  Joe watches me approach. He holds up a metal crowbar and wedges it in between the cracks of the crate.

  “Just lean into it and push the lid open. Then unload the boxes onto a hand cart”—he gestures against the wall where there are several—“and once a cart is full, I’ll show you where to stock all the stuff in the store.”

  Sounds simple enough. He hands me a crowbar and I find an unopened crate. I put it exactly where he placed his and push with all my might. It doesn’t budge.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucas watching me from across the warehouse, his arms folded. Waiting for me to fail is my guess.

  I have to crack this open. I have to.

  “Maybe lean all of your weight into it,” Joe offers quietly. At least he’s on my side. Then he looks at me and rolls his eyes.

  I lean against the bar until my feet lift off the ground. The lid pops open abruptly, throwing me off balance. I land on my feet but I can’t stop the forward momentum. The crowbar clatters on the ground as I stumble, my hands reaching out for anything to stop my fall as I crash into a cardboard box. The box and I go down and I hear a crack as I fall on top of it.

  Joe rushes over and gives me a hand up. His eyes dart between me and the box stamped “FRAGILE, THIS SIDE UP.”

  “I heard something break. Looks like it didn’t come from you.”

  My heart thrums in my ears. I feel three pairs of eyes staring at me.

  Joe takes a box cutter out from his back pocket and slices the box open. He looks in and shakes his head. Pete joins him.

  “Our first casualty,” Joe says, and side-eyes me.

  Pete looks in the box next and grimaces. My cheeks are radioactive. I steeple my hands over my nose and mouth to hide my embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.”