And me.
And me.
And me.
I see me.
With tubes connecting to places and no end in sight, my head wrapped, my eyes swollen, black, blue, purple, green. Unrecognizable. My hands and arms are scraped and bruised with dirt under my nails—dirt that wasn’t there before the accident.
White surrounds us like it’s infringing on my personal space, suffocating. Sterile. Untouchable.
“I was in an accident.”
Poppy picks at her nails, not making eye contact. Her fingers shift and stroke in a hasty way. “I need to make this quick. There is only so much time you can coexist in both the living and the spirit realms.” She sits up straighter and crosses her hands over herself. “Yes, you were in an accident. And, if you’d been in your right mind, you wouldn’t have gotten into that truck with that drunk, irresponsible young man.”
“Am I going to die, Poppy? Am I dead?”
She stops and looks at me matter-of-factly, and with such a look, I feel her irritation in my bones. “Yes. And no. Let me save you many years of heartache. You don’t drink to have fun, do you?”
I hesitate at first. Not sure where she’s going with this.
Can I lie to my dead grandma?
“No, you can’t lie to me,” she says. “I see everything.” She goes back to her nails. “You drink because you can’t handle life on life’s terms. You drink because you want so badly to be fixed of your own feelings. Secretly, you want to fit in. Though you’ve never felt like you quite fit the mold like Jasper. You think drinking makes you everything er—prettier, wittier, smarter, funnier, nicer. You get the point.”
Stop, I want to say.
“Look, Livia, I understand all those feelings because I was an alcoholic, too.” She pauses. “Why do you think your mother is so closed off to you emotionally? Why do you think she only shows any type of emotion toward you when she’s worried? Because of what I did to her when I drank,” Poppy spits her words.
And, now, I realize she’s not angry with me; she’s angry with herself.
This is why she’s hung on so long with me. She can’t leave the living realm until she’s resolved her need to say she’s sorry to Tracy.
“This is why you call her Tracy. You’ve felt inadequate as her daughter. As if it’s your fault. As if you have the power to fix something that isn’t your fault. And, now, you have the disease. Alcoholism is a disease of perception. It’s the only disease that tells us we don’t have it.” She pauses again, the anger righting itself in the outline of her existence. “Just because we aren’t sitting under a bridge, drinking from a brown paper bag, doesn’t mean we aren’t alcoholics or drug addicts.
“When I hit bottom, I was sixty-two years old. The damage had been done. To your mother. To our relationship—or lack thereof. I had a beautiful home, went to church on Sundays, made casseroles for sick families and friends. But, when all my work was done, when the house was clean and quiet, I felt as though I deserved a drink; after all, I’d worked hard for it.” Poppy purses her lips together just so and ponders her next words.
“And, when the drink went in, I would turn into a monster. When I put alcohol in my body, I had the best of intentions. I just wanted a glow. I didn’t want to do what I’d done the night before—cause fights with your grandfather, be mean to your mother. I just wanted a glow, Livia. Happy, safe, content, like the good old days when alcohol seemed to work for me and not against me. But—when I took the first drink, I couldn’t stop.”
Poppy’s eyes are on me like she’s staring down the devil. My mouth hanging open, I’m grappling with the idea of insanity because it’s my dead grandma pointing out my issue.
“Besides, it’s not the tenth drink that gets me drunk; it’s the first.”
“I just wanted a glow,” she said.
I’ve said this. She said this.
“But, somehow, I seemed to miss the mark every single time. Getting drunker and meaner. You are the only one who knows your own bottom. And you are the only one to decide when enough is enough.’”
I’m not sure what world I exist in right now, the living or the dead, but I’ve spoken those words before. I relate to every single piece of Poppy’s story.
“Save yourself and your family years of heartache, baby. Your dad has the gene. I have the gene.”
“How did this happen so quickly, Poppy?”
“Listen, it doesn’t matter how you got the disease. The point is, you know you have it. And a more important question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m too young to be an alcoholic.”
She smiles and takes my hand in hers. “You’re never too young to be an alcoholic. The truth of the matter is, it’s just timing. When are you going to hit your bottom and say enough is enough before it’s too late?” She looks around the room. “So, in your initial question, you asked if you were going to die. And I said, yes and no.”
I nod.
“Yes, you will die a slow alcoholic death, and I can give you the details if you’re ready. And, no, because, if you give yourself the gift of time and get sober while you’re young, you’ll have all the time in the world to live a happy, joyous life. Don’t wait until you’re an old mucky coot like me. And get that boy, Daniel, back. He’s a keeper.” Poppy shrugs in her pink floral housecoat that shines in the glow of the match that seems to be burning for an eternity.
“Is that why you came to me?”
“I can’t speak for God or divine intervention, but there’s a rhyme and reason for the world and how it flows. Death is inevitable. We live on borrowed days. It’s my opinion that God doesn’t create disease. Disasters are created out of human error, not God’s error. People have free will. And they make choices. God also doesn’t interfere with life plans. And bad people do bad things, as was with the case of Jasper. Jasper was in the classroom when the gunman opened fire that day. Why Jasper was there at that exact time and in that exact moment when everything turned into chaos, we will never know.” Poppy brushes her hand against my cheek. “Truth is hard. He stood up for what he believed in, who he was, Liv. You’ve got to understand that he lived, really lived, in those final moments, Liv. Know that.” Poppy’s eyes begin to water.
“Some are willing to live in denial, in anger, and never stand up for what they believe in. His death was a statement, a testimony in faith. He knew where he was going, and he was at peace with it.” She pauses. “Forgiveness can be hard if we aren’t willing to see the situation with grace. But, if we don’t have forgiveness in our heart, the pain will take front seat, and it will eat us alive from the inside out. We will harbor it, nurture it, keep it alive, and then we will allow the anger to manifest into our lives by treating others badly, depending on alcohol, drugs.”
I look back at Tracy—my mom and my dad, who surround my frail, badly beaten body—in more ways than one. “I can’t hurt them anymore.” A sob chokes my throat. “They have been through too much.”
Losing two children. Watching my father battle his own demons, hiding behind a well-known mask. Knowing I have a disease that will likely kill me if I allow it.
I look back to Poppy, who has vanished but I hear her in my ear. “Then, live.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Are you tired of getting what you’re getting? Are you happy with your life and where you’re at?”
“No. Wait! Poppy! Why did you leave me? Why did you disappear for a while?”
Poppy reappears. “Oh, honey, I didn’t disappear. You just couldn’t hear me.”
And, like a gravitational force, I’m sucked from the corner of the room and into the shell of a body that lies on the sterile white bed. I wait for the hurt to hit me like a cold blast.
“Did you…did you see that?” I hear my mom’s voice hide behind her guarded excitement. “Her eyes just fluttered.”
“Mimi”—I feel my dad’s words in my heart and against my forehead—“if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
I feel fingers in my hand, and I will them to move.
Did they move?
A gasp comes. “Oh my God.”
Someone curls up beside me—my mom, I bet.
And, all of a sudden, I’m conscious of my body—every ache, every hurt, every muscle, every organ, every bone—as I settle in the shell of my existence, the only shell that keeps me human, connected to the living world, and I wait to wake up.
I hear Dr. Miller talking to my mom and dad while I lie awake, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. They’re discussing my discharge from the hospital. The rehabilitation I’ll need to get my muscles and my body back to where it was before the accident.
The physical bruises have begun to heal.
Fade.
Though I haven’t looked in a mirror yet, my mom doesn’t look at me anymore like she’s going to cry every time her eyes fall upon my face.
I hear my mom say, “Hey.”
But I don’t open my eyes because I’m not quite ready to accept a situation with talking. I’d just like to lie here and listen.
But then he speaks, “How’s she doing today?”
He pronounces how’s she doing today with the accent. I know it’s him, and my heart begins to flutter. The machine that detects my heartbeat begins to freak out. Through my squinty eyes, I see my dad, Tracy, Dr. Miller, and Daniel staring at me. Dr. Miller walks to me and takes out his stethoscope.
I slowly open my eyes. “I’m all right.” I look at Daniel. “Hey,” I say mushier than I want it to sound. Weaker and incredibly lame.
Dr. Miller and my mom figure out why the machine changed temperaments.
My mom touches Daniel’s arm and gives him a look. She walks to me, kisses my forehead, and whispers, “We will be out in the hall.” But, before she leaves, she takes the lip balm and puts some on my lips. “Dad says you like him. We like him.”
Daniel keeps his distance, standing across the room. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi.” The heart machine starts to flutter again.
Daniel walks to my bedside and reaches across my bed, so my chest is almost flush with his. He hits a button, and the machine stops.
“How’d you know how to do that?”
“I’ve learned a few tricks along the way during your mini vacation.” He smiles, only partly, as he pulls back. He slides a chair over and sits down. Guarded.
I look down at my once dirty nails, trying to figure out what I want to say next. And it isn’t because I have nothing to say; it’s because I have everything to say to him.
“Daniel, I’m really sorry.”
He starts to talk, but I reach for his hand and give it a squeeze.
“Please, let me finish.”
“I never in a million years thought I’d fall in love at seventeen years old. I also never thought that the two of us would have to grapple with losing two of the most important people in our lives right around the same time.” I ponder my next statement.
“I’ve been a jerk. An asshole. But I deserve you. Here’s why.” I reach to the bedside table and read him a list I wrote two days prior. This is an old-me move. A move I would have done before Jasper passed. A move that tells me that girl is still inside me.
“I deserve you because, the moment I saw you, you saw me for who I was, not for the girl who’d just lost her brother. I really enjoy your English accent and your red hair. I deserve you because, when I talk to you, my mouth won’t shut up, and it feels the need to keep babbling; I deserve you because I really like your bacon sarnie. I deserve you because, when I thought you went back to Hull, I died. I deserve you because I don’t think my heart can ever feel the same way with someone else. Nobody’s ever had that effect on me. Not even Twenty One Pilots when Cao and I saw them in concert. Though, if we are comparing, I think Cao might have loved Twenty One Pilots more than Ed Sheeran that night. But don’t tell her I said that.” I give a half-smile. “I deserve you because, when your mom passed away, I saw your heartbreak from the inside, and I wanted nothing more than to mend it. I deserve you because I love you, and nothing will ever change that. But, most of all, I deserve you, but you deserve more. In order to be the person you deserve, I need help.”
I contemplate these last words in a selfish way, praying I don’t screw things up with Daniel, but knowing, in my heart, it’s the right decision for him and for me. This isn’t written down in the notes, and I begin to panic, but I feel a warm presence on my shoulder, perhaps Spirit, Poppy, reassurance that I’m not alone.
“Daniel…I’m an alcoholic, maybe a drug addict. Before I can love you the way you deserve to be loved, I need to fix me. Love me first. What you saw me as a puddle on the floor, that was me making poor decisions with my life. I don’t want to make those anymore. I want to be happy. I want to be free to love you and treat you the way you deserve to be treated. But I can’t until I get the help I know I need.” I pause, looking up at him.
This was so not on the sheet of paper I prepared earlier. Too much, too soon.
I roll my eyes at my completely idiotic candidness. “I don’t know how to grieve the right way. I sought the easiest solution, and I couldn’t stop, Daniel. I can’t stop.” I’m being honest for the first time in a long time. And the metaphorical noose around my neck loosens. I can breathe a little more easily. I’m becoming free.
“Please say something. Or I’ll keep talking and really screw things up, and I don’t want to do that right now. Or ever,” I say, toying with my fingers. And I’m not sure if it’s the medication they’ve given me or my rapid heartbeat that feels as though I’m on the last leg of a marathon and making me talk like a crazy person. “Just say something.”
Daniel tries not to smile. “You finished?” He scoots the chair closer to the hospital bed.
“Yes.” I try to cross my fingers and lay my hands across my lap, but I pull my hospital gown to reassure myself I don’t have a stray anything hanging out instead.
“My turn.” He takes his hand and runs it across the length of my collarbone, and then he puts my hand in his. “That is one of the best parts of you.”
“My collarbone?”
“Clavicle is the correct term. Do you know it’s the shape of a Roman key? And it’s one of the only bones in our bodies that’s only protected by skin, not muscle.” Daniel pauses because that’s how he works. Slow, methodical. “Do you also know, it’s the most commonly broken bone in the body for people under the age of twenty-five?”
“I didn’t.”
“It reminds me of your heart. I see your heart. Exposed, though many people can’t see it because you keep it hidden behind a layer of skin—or a brick wall—whereas I see a key. It’s fragile right now. But deserving of the world and everything in it. Do you know that heartbreak is more common in those under the age of twenty-five, just like the clavicle?”
I shake my head.
“I can’t tell you what to do, Liv. The only thing I can tell you is, my heart will never be the same after meeting you.”
Daniel takes my hand, pulls it up to his lips, and gently kisses it.
Through my chills, I whisper, half-hoping he doesn’t hear my question, “Why aren’t you fighting this?”
He smirks. “Isn’t that what love is? Letting go of what you want, so the other one can live?”
I allow his words to sink into my heart, to break through the barrier made up of years of protection from my father, my mother, her lack of emotion, the walls I put up to protect my sanity. My love. “Yeah, something like that.”
I take his cheek in my hand, and he pushes it to his shoulder, allowing no room for escape.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I-I don’t know. I still haven’t told my parents.”
“Do you want me to be here when you do?”
“No. ‘Letting go of what you want, so the other one can live.’ Isn’t that what you just told me?” I
smile through the sadness. “Let’s plan a date,” I say. “Let’s say, in one year from now, we meet at Bob’s…or maybe somewhere in England?” In my head, I start to contemplate the money for an airline ticket halfway around the world. I stumble over the next sentence because just thinking that he might be in a different time zone makes my stomach drop. “Will…will you be leaving Belle’s Hollow?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But your house? It’s totally empty.”
“Yes. My father had the movers move everything back to Hull. I was planning on flying back with him until this”—he looks down at my body—“happened.”
“So, you’ve been here the whole time?” I whisper, my heart sinking lower into my chest, embedding itself in my stomach. “But where have you been staying?”
His face turns red. “With your parents.” A coy smile. “Your father insisted.”
I think about my room and in what condition I left it in. Has he seen Jasper’s room? Does he think we’re crazy for not cleaning it out yet?
“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you about Simon.”
Daniel shakes his head. “Don’t.”
“No, I owe you an explanation. What I did with him was before you—mostly. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“Listen, Livia, we weren’t together, together. I’ve had some time to think about this. A lot of time actually.” He pronounces actually like act-chully.
“But you didn’t deserve to find out that way. Nothing happened with Simon that night you saw me on the bed with him either, Daniel. I swear. My recollection is vague, but I do remember the door opening and closing and then a head coming to rest on my chest. And that’s it.”
“There’s no need to explain, Livia. Did it hurt? Yes. But we didn’t write anything in stone. We didn’t make anything official.”
He pulls his left shoulder back, more like a twitch, uncomfortable, and his face changes. “But I do need to tell you about Sienna.”
Exactly One Year Later
My hands clammy, I trace a heart on my black slacks and look down at my watch. The applause starts, and I use my cane to take the stage but not without the winging of the butterflies that explode in my stomach. I’m back at Belle’s Hollow High.
Standing Sideways Page 23
