Grace Grows

by Shelle Sumners

  “He’s going to be fine. Really. Look, here he is.”

  They were rolling his gurney toward us. His mom leaned over him and took his face in her hands.

  “I’m okay,” he said groggily.

  “You’d better be.”

  When Nathan came back from smoking, he kissed his son and unwrapped the mystery orb. It was a mirrored-glass Victorian gazing ball. He set it on Ty’s bed.

  Ty was nauseous, sore, more ill-humored than I’ve ever seen him, but the corners of his mouth turned up.

  “We weren’t sure what you were talking about, we figured it must be this,” Nathan said.

  “What the hell?” Ty said.

  “You asked for it, son. You said it sings.”

  Ty looked disappointed. “Oh, yeah. Unless they give me some more morphine, I don’t think I’ll be able to hear it.”

  He looked over at me mournfully. “Gracie. Morphine is the shit.”

  reassigning the angel

  At home, standing in the shower, I thought about the scariness of the day. About Ty, in terrible pain, and the wait for the surgeon. With the water pounding on me, I sat down and cried until I was exhausted. I ate some canned mushroom soup and went to bed with the phone next to me in case Steven called.

  A couple of days later, Ty’s mom rang to say that she and Nathan were going home and would I mind checking on Ty? He was going to rest at home for a few more days, and Bogue had finally gotten a job and wouldn’t be around a lot.

  I swung by after work. The front door to his Hell’s Kitchen tenement was ajar, so I let myself in and crept up the stairs. I tapped on the apartment door.

  “Come in, Fuck-face!”

  It was, as expected, a single room, with a tiny, separate kitchenette. The walls and ceiling were painted dark blue, with not a lot of daylight making it in. There was a futon, a floor lamp, and an Ikea-type white dresser. Besides an electric piano and assorted milk crates crammed with clothes, CDs, harmonicas, and amplifier cables, that was it for furniture.

  Ty was wearing a Metallica T-shirt and black boxers, lying on his back amid rumpled sheets on the open futon. He looked wan and depleted, but sat up on his elbows when he saw me.

  “Oh, hey. I thought you were Bogue.”

  “Good to know,” I said, taking off my coat and draping it over Big Green on the floor.

  “He’s supposed to be bringing me a pizza. It’s been two hours.”

  “Why would he knock? Doesn’t he live here?”

  “Not anymore. He and Allison hooked up and got their own place, up on Fifty-second.”

  “Who’s Allison?”

  “Rash. She changed back to her real name.”

  “Oh. That’s weird,” I said. “Them as a couple.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will you be able to afford this by yourself?”

  “Bogue’s gonna keep paying their part of the rent till the lease is up in August.”

  “What will you do then?”

  He lay back down and stared at the ceiling. “Do I have to figure that out today?”

  “Of course not! I just thought . . . maybe you had a plan.”

  “Did you come here to be a pain in the ass, Grace?”

  Was he cranky! I opened the windows a few inches to give him some semi-fresh air. He had a lovely view of the brick wall next door.

  “I came because your mom asked me to check on you.”

  “Well, don’t do anything you don’t want to.” He turned on his side so his back was to me.

  Sullen Tyler. This was interesting. I sat behind him on the edge of the futon. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry I took up so much of your day on Tuesday.”

  “Ty, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I knocked on your door for help and you didn’t answer.”

  “What? I was—I must have been in the bathroom with the door closed. It’s a thick door.”

  “Why would you close the bathroom door with your boyfriend gone?”

  “I don’t know! I just did.”

  “You heard me, Grace. You didn’t want to see me.”

  “Ty, that’s not true!” I have never felt more lying and evil.

  He looked over his shoulder at me. “It’s not?”

  “It’s not. I swear. Look at how—how surprised and upset I was to see you ill, on the ground!”

  He turned over on his back and laid his hand on my leg, palm up. I set my hand in it.

  After a long moment he said, “Don’t do that to me again.”

  “Ty!” I protested. Apparently he had some of my Dad’s x-ray vision. He would not be bullshitted. “Okay. I won’t.”

  He sighed heavily and laid his arm over his eyes. I wanted to pat him, or brush his hair off his face, do something kind and reassuring. “How are you healing?” I asked.

  “Pretty good.” He pulled his shirt up and the top of his boxers down and showed me the three laparoscopic incisions, covered with surgical tape. One was in his belly button.

  “Those don’t look so bad,” I said.

  “They’re sore.”

  “Well, don’t try to do too much yet.”

  “I’m just lying here, babe.”

  “I brought you a book.” I went and got it out of Big Green and gave it to him.

  He read the title aloud. “A Prayer for Owen Meany.” He eyed me suspiciously. “Is this going to make me cry?”

  “Buckets.”

  “You’re a sadist.”

  “It will make you laugh, first.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “Just trying to keep you entertained.”

  “You want me to tell you how I’d like to be entertained?”

  “No.”

  He sat up and propped pillows against the wall. “All right,” he grumbled. “Then hand me my guitar.”

  I got it for him out of its case on the floor, and went to the kitchenette to see if he had food. It looked like his mother had stocked up.

  “Do you think Bogue is coming with your pizza?”

  “I doubt it. He probably got called in to work and forgot.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Driving a limo. He has to grab it when they call him ’cause his old man is cutting him off.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, he had twelve hundred dollars in parking tickets and his dad told him to get his shit together or come home and manage a store.”

  “I’ll make you something to eat. I don’t know if you should be eating pizza yet, anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  I fixed him chicken and rice soup, and toast, and brought the plate to him.

  He was playing guitar quietly. “Just lie it there,” he said, nodding at the upside-down milk crate on the floor next to him.

  “Lay.” I sat cross-legged on the end of the futon.

  “Huh?”

  “Lay is a transitive verb. Lie is intransitive. You lay the plate down.”

  He smiled, still lightly strumming. “Okay, Brainiac. Lay. That should be easy for me to remember.”

  He showed me the lyrics of a new song he was working on, and played “Calling” for me, finally. It was so pretty. I loved it and said so. He seemed inordinately pleased; he actually got a little flush in his cheeks, which amazed me. With all the adulation he was receiving, why on earth did my opinion matter so much?

  “Ty, eat,” I said.

  He set the guitar down. “I got the hospital bill,” he said, slurping soup.

  “How bad?”

  “Twenty-four thousand.”

  “Those bastards.”

  “I hope they’ll consider twenty dollars a month for the rest of my life sufficient.”

  I took one of his crackers and nibbled an edge. “You scared me, Ty.”

  “I promise, you will not have to deal with any more gangrene organs. Only fresh, strong, healthy, big ones. Or one, I should say.”

  “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  He laughed, then s
aid “ouch” and got quiet, watching me wash his dishes and put them away. I picked up my raincoat.

  “Don’t go,” he said.

  “I have to.” Steven had come home from London while I was at work.

  Ty sighed. “That sucks.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hated leaving him alone in his dark little flat.

  In my coat pocket I had the tiny, silver guardian-angel medallion that Edward gave me; I had brought it for just this purpose. When I leaned over to pick up Big Green, I tucked it firmly into a crevice in the blue velvet lining of Ty’s guitar case.

  “Hey,” Steven said when I came in the door. A kiss, and a big bear hug. After so much worry the past few days, it was a relief to lean into him.

  “I missed you,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

  We went to our favorite burrito place a few blocks up. He told me about London, and I told him about the Indiana textbook I was working on. I told him about the movies I’d been to with Edward. I briefly sketched for him the story of Ty’s appendectomy, keeping it light and humorous. I didn’t tell him how wrenching it all was. I didn’t need to.

  “You must have been so scared for him,” Steven said.

  My eyes filled, maybe from post-traumatic stress, or maybe the right-now trauma I was feeling, telling Steven about it. Guilty butterflies. Which annoyed me. Why should I be feeling guilty?

  “Grace, you are so caring.” He took my hand. “Listen, why don’t we take a trip Memorial Day weekend? A guy at work told me about this beautiful old B-and-B up near Woodstock.”

  “Oh . . . really?”

  “Yeah, he said the room he stayed in had a canopy bed.”

  “A canopy? No way!” I am a sucker for canopied beds.

  Steven nodded, looking particularly pleased with my reaction. That’s when I knew that he planned to propose. He didn’t give a crap about old furniture.

  Late Sunday night, Ty called.

  Sorry, I mouthed to Steven, who had just fallen asleep. I took my phone to the kitchen.

  “What are you trying to do, woman, kill me?”

  He’d been crying. I was coming to know the sound of it.

  “You finished the book.”

  He’d spent the past hour pulling himself together and rereading the last twenty pages. He sounded changed. I remembered how deeply moved I’d been by the devoted friendship and sacrifice in the story.

  “I promise, next time, something you will laugh at.”

  “I’m playing tomorrow night. Will you come?”

  “Already? Shouldn’t you rest a few more days?”

  “Too much rest is bad for me, Grace. I’ve got to get up now.”

  “Okay, but no heavy lifting.”

  “Right. Will you come?”

  “I don’t think I can. Steven just got back.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well. I’ll see you around, then.”

  “Okay, Ty.”

  Steven was sitting up in bed. “Who was that?”

  “Ty,” I said, and watched a tiny, uncharacteristic flash of irritation cross his face.

  “It’s kind of late, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sorry. He just wanted to tell me something about a book. I’m not sure he pays all that much attention to the time.”

  “Hm,” Steven said, punching his pillow and nestling into it. “I guess he keeps musician’s hours.”

  There was no ignoring Tyler now. After going through the appendix episode with him, it felt like, well . . . like I’d been through something with him. Like we’d been through something together. He would call with an activity in mind, and I almost always said yes. We met a few times here and there—for hot dogs in the park on my lunch hour, a Saturday-afternoon Film Forum showing of To Kill a Mockingbird. What a softy—he cried more than I did.

  He told me about every horrific injury he ever suffered in childhood. And there were some doozies. My reaction to each new story was surprisingly visceral. I got queasy. Light-headed. I had a couple of nightmares.

  We were sitting on a bench at the Reservoir when he told me the worst one yet, about the time when he was twelve and he fractured his skull falling off the roof of his house.

  “Okay, that’s it!” I jumped to my feet.

  He stood up. “What’s wrong?”

  “You could have died! What if you had a brain hemorrhage or something?”

  He laughed. “I guess I wouldn’t be standing here with you.”

  “I have to get back to work now.” I race-walked toward Central Park West. He kept up with me.

  “You’re acting like you’re mad at me.”

  “Ty! Ever since the hospital you have been telling me the most upsetting stories. The broken wrist. The near-drowning. The splinter in the eye. The nail in the foot. Need I even mention the incident with the chainsaw?”

  He shrugged. “I was just a typical boy.”

  “Dear God.” I laughed humorlessly. “That cannot be true.” I continued briskly toward the park gate, done with him for the day. Maybe forever, I mused. Yes! Done with him forever. For my own good.

  “I like telling you these stories.”

  “I know. Because you love torturing me.”

  I could tell, peripherally, that he was smiling. As usual, it made me want to smile, too. My sense of humor peeked out at me to see if it was okay to come back now. I ignored it and him, not ready to give in.

  We reached the street. I raised my hand and a cab veered toward us.

  “I like how much my stories bother you.”

  “Stop.”

  “I do.”

  “Don’t.” I kept my eyes on the approaching car.

  “Grace. . . .” And that was unnecessary, by the way, how close he was standing. Probably looking at my mouth.

  He did that a lot.

  One time over coffee I told him about the Webbers and the abstinence-only health textbook. I told him how worried I was about teens not being given real-life information and skills.

  “That’s retarded,” he grumbled. Then he got all fired up. “What is their problem, anyway? Fucking is fun! Natural! It’s good for you.”

  “Darn, if only you’d been there with me at the meeting with Delilah and Forbes.”

  That wasn’t the only thing. I told him about imagine. You know it’s something bad when it makes Tyler Wilkie become grave and quiet.

  “Shit,” he finally said. “Those people are really fucked up.”

  “I know.”

  “What are you doing, Grace?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you still working at that place?”

  “Ty—”

  “Doesn’t it matter to you what you do with your life? With your mind and your heart and your hands?”

  “Of course it matters! You’re being simplistic.”

  “I like simplicity.”

  I got quiet.

  He nudged my foot with his under the table. “Just be real, Grace. That’s all I’m saying. Try to be real.” He nudged me again. “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “I’m getting my period.”

  He smiled. “You are so full of shit.”

  Except for minor excursions across the flirtation line, Ty was pretty cool to spend time with. Probably because he was having a hell of a social life. Really, the guy was just fine without me.

  He got phone calls from girls all the time. He’d either look at who was calling and let them leave a message, or he’d answer, but keep the exchange brief. Monosyllabic even. He’d hang up and then not look at me right away. He’d jump right back into the thing we’d been talking about.

  One time, walking up Sixth Avenue together, he did meet my eyes. I smiled teasingly. He smiled and looked away.

  “One word, Tyler,” I said. “As your friend.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Prophylactics.”

  He studied the ground ahead of us. “That is not an area I need your advice on, Grace.”
>
  “I’m sorry,” I said. I really, really was.

  The week before Memorial Day, I e-mailed Julia and Dan to let them know that Steven and I were going up to Rhinebeck for the weekend.

  Julia called me. “Something important is going to happen, don’t you think?”

  No point in denying it. “Probably so.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  I put some energy into it. “Nothing! I’m excited!” Anything, to cool her jets.

  Dan IM’d me at work:

  DanB: Have fun, but don’t do anything you don’t want to.

  SueGBee: What do you mean?

  DanB: I had a dream.

  SueGBee: Oh crap. And?

  [three minutes of cliff-hanging]

  SueGBee: Don’t make me come over there.

  DanB: Sorry. FedEx, downstairs. The dream: you were driving a car with bad brakes. You wanted to stop it, but you couldn’t.

  SueGBee: I don’t like that. Would it kill you to dream something nice?

  DanB: Sorry . . .

  DanB: Are you there?

  SueGBee: Sorry. Thinking. I guess that brake thing could maybe apply to a few things in my life.

  DanB: Apply it then, my darling.

  Friday morning I got my hair cut for the summer in breezy layers, chin-length, with bangs. I looked about twelve years old.

  I went to work just for a couple of hours, to do some filing and show Edward my hair.

  He touched it with faux-reverent fingers. “Shiny.”

  Edward was in holiday weekend mode already, too, jeans and a linen shirt. He and Boris were going to the Jersey shore.

  “Be careful,” I said, “you may run into my mom and José there.”

  “Lord no, not Julia Barnum.”

  “I’m serious. They’re going to Ocean Grove. Staying in one of those little tent house things.”

  “Those are so cute! And you and Steven are going to Rhinebeck?”

  “Yeah, he found this three-hundred-year-old farm house B-and-B. We’re going to play golf.”

  “Golf.” He made a face.

  “He swears it’s not boring. We’ll do other things, too.”

  “And you still think you’re going to come back with a ring on your finger?”