Wake

by Abria Mattina

  Jem stays for dinner. I make beet soup with fresh mint leaves. It’s a starter for Frank and I, and a main course for Jem. I’ve got mararoni in the oven and vegetables on the stove for the entrée. We’re just sitting down to eat when Luke shows up unexpectedly and lets himself in. He takes a chair like his presence is nothing out of the ordinary, and Frank asks him how Doug is doing. I wonder if he drove all this way for a meal or if he was in Smiths Falls already on some errand.

  “Not bad,” Luke says. He lifts the cover on the soup pot and smells the contents. “Looks good.” He takes a helping and gets red lips along with the rest of us.

  “Okay, where’s the real food?” he says when I get up to clear away three soup bowls. He jumps up to help me take the pork out of the oven and serve it.

  Jem’s face is practically buried in his bowl. It would be easy to mistake his posture for eagerness to eat, but he’s spooning his soup slowly and his shoulders are hunched. Just working his way through his ‘fake’ food, I guess.

  “How’s the soup?” I slide a serving of pork Frank’s way.

  “It’s good. Thank you,” he says quietly. Luke tries to make conversation by asking Jem how he’s been since they last met, that night at Joe Moore’s house.

  “Fine. Did you have fun last night?”

  The question perplexes Luke. He looks to me for help, and I can only shrug. I don’t know what Jem is referring to.

  “The party,” he says like we’re the slow ones.

  “What party?” Luke elbows me.

  “It was his sister’s birthday last night,” I tell Luke, and elbow him back.

  “Cool. Sorry I missed it.”

  Jem looks like he couldn’t possibly disagree any more.

  “Hannah and I ended up going together.”

  Jem looks from me to Luke with something like curiosity, or maybe suspicion. Luke steals a cherry tomato off my plate and Frank, who is never good at making conversation, asks Jem how Dr. Harper has been lately.

  When the meal is done, I pack up a container of the leftover soup for Jem to take home. He might need a filling snack later to balance the strain of a trying day.

  After the day I’ve had, I’m emotionally exhausted, but Luke is a bundle of energy, and it’s contagious. He helps me with the dishes while Jem hangs back, quietly putting the dry dishes away. He watches me intently out of the corner of his eye, looking for something. Luke, in turn, is eying Jem. The way he does it makes me think that he wants Jem to leave. Clearly Jem thinks that too, because the moment the last dish is put away he quietly announces his intention to go home.

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  We hug goodbye in the foyer. Jem makes another unnecessary apology and says, “Thanks for the blanket last night.” He’s got this look on his face like he isn’t sure he phrased that right.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches up. There’s nothing left to say, so he quietly takes his leave. I stand by the screen door, watching him go to his car. He drives away quickly.

  “You doing anything tonight?” Luke says from right behind me. I jump and he chuckles.

  “You’re gangly as hell; how can you walk so softly?”

  “It’s a gift.” He smiles cheekily. “There’s a bonfire at my place tonight.”

  It’s a Saturday and I’ve had a hard week. A night out of the house might actually be a good idea. I grab my jacket, call my plans across the house to Frank, and we’re off.

  The bonfire is an excuse to dispose of the dead brush that the Thorpes have pruned from around their property, and is attended by a few of Luke’s friends, his sister Briana, Doug, and Mr. Thorpe. Everyone is in good spirits besides Briana, who maintains a sullen glare in between biting comments to the rest of the company.

  “She’s been a real pain in the ass lately,” Luke says.

  “Shut your stupid mouth, Luke,” she barks at him.

  “Don’t listen.”

  “I’ll leave if you don’t want me here.”

  “No you won’t,” he laughs. “It’s your mission in life to annoy the crap out of people.” So she stays, sitting like a bump on a log, sullenly tossing twigs into the fire. I don’t like to look at Briana. She’s stained and starving in places that can only be seen if you know what to look for. It gives me shivers. Luke mistakes these for cold and puts an arm around me. He’s getting touchy, but he’s warm, and we’re supposed to pretend that nothing happened, so I let him.

  Luke drives me home when Frank calls to tell me that it’s getting late. It’s not, really, but he’s concerned and the Thorpes respect my brother too much to keep me here longer.

  “Sorry about Briana,” Luke says as we pull out of the driveway.

  “She’s alright.” I ask Luke what happened to her, and he tells me about Briana getting involved with the wrong people at school. She’s on probation for possession until July. Not so bad in the general scheme of things, but disturbing when I consider that she’s only fourteen.

  “She’ll be okay.”

  “I hope so. Her attitude is getting old.”

  When Luke drops me off he tries to kiss me. I don’t let him.

  “That stuff on the couch doesn’t mean anything, you know.”

  Luke kisses my cheek instead. “Yet.”

  That cocky, is he?

  Sunday

  I wake up at six and can’t fall back to sleep, so I get up and take a shower. I eat a big breakfast, read the morning paper, and barely wait till eight o’clock before getting in my car and heading over to the Harper house.

  Ivy is awake when I get there—go figure. She lets me in and we chat over coffee while we wait for everyone else to wake up. Dr. Harper comes downstairs first and offers to make pancakes. Ivy declines. Elise drifts in next, bleary-eyed with wild bed-head and pajama pants about six inches too long. She pours herself a giant cup of coffee and tries to drown herself in it before saying good morning.

  “How’d you sleep?” Ivy asks her.

  Elise grunts dully. “Did he wake you up?”

  Ivy’s smile fades to a look of worry. “Again?”

  Elise nods and lifts her mug. “And he never has nightmares after dialysis. Every freaking night, now.”

  “Shit, I know,” Eric concurs loudly as he enters the kitchen. “How’d you hear him? Your room is all the way down the hall.”

  “Light sleeper, remember?”

  Eric opens the breadbox and Elise leans back on her chair legs, arm extended. He tosses her a muffin without looking.

  “I think it’s the prednisone,” she says.

  The Harpers are such gossips. They talk so casually behind Jem’s back and justify it with love.

  The object in question this morning appears at the kitchen door just as Elise pours her second mug of coffee and Eric goes for a fourth muffin. Jem looks like hell; the circles under his eyes couldn’t possibly get any darker and he shuffles his feet instead of walking.

  “Morning, sweetie,” Ivy says. Jem doesn’t respond. He just stands in the door like an idiot and stares at me.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He looks at the breakfast table suspiciously, like this is all an elaborate ruse to conceal some ulterior motive.

  “Sit down,” Eric says. So he does. Slowly, like he’s wary of his own family.

  “Plans for today?” I ask. Jem studies my face and shakes his head no. “We’ll stay here, then.” Jem nods and Elise slides the tub of yogurt his way for breakfast. It takes him a few minutes, eating plain yogurt amid his family’s morning chatter, but eventually a smile does creep onto his face.

  We spend the day on his turf, moving at his pace. Most of the morning is wiled away at the piano, messing around together or listening to him play. He’s totally transported when he plays. Something about music takes him to a higher plane while I stay below, watching him float with that special smile on his face. When I ask Jem where he ‘goes’ when he plays his face turns red and he shrugs. “Nowhere, I guess.
” I let him have his secret.

  “Can I hear you play your cello some time?”

  “I haven’t really played it since last fall.” Jem extends his hand to me, palm up, and shows me the damage to his skin from graft-versus-host. “It hurts to depress the strings for more than a few minutes.”

  “You’ll get back to playing eventually.”

  Jem shrugs like he doesn’t care, but his eyes are sad. He misses it.

  *

  After lunch Jem and I go for a walk. The rain holds off long enough for us to stroll to the corner and back, discussing bands. He likes The Eels but can’t stand Spiral Beach. He knows Great Big Sea but has never heard of Spirit of the West (how is that even possible?) and he thinks that Beggar’s Banquet is the best of the Stones’ albums.

  “Nuh-uh, Exile on Main Street. Maybe Emotional Rescue as a close second, but only maybe.”

  “Oh what do you know?” he dismisses me with a scoff. “I bet you can’t stand Neil Young too, right?”

  “Are you nuts? Who doesn’t like Neil Young? I bet you think Wintersleep is fluff.”

  “Nuh-uh. The Tragically Hip are over-rated, right?”

  “If you honestly think that you’re a stunned twat, Harper.”

  When we get back to the house, Ivy is singing country music in her office. The night of rough sleep and an active morning have tired Jem, so we go into the living room and put on a movie. He chooses Addams Family Values.

  “Seriously?”

  “Why not?” He smiles. I sit at the end of the couch while he lies down on his side. He curls up at first, trying to give me space, but he looks so cramped that I take his ankles and pull his feet onto my lap.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” I’m probably spoiling him, giving him a day of my undivided attention and a foot-rub too, but I really should make up for trying to cut him out last week, and he basks so sweetly in the attention that I can’t help but give him more.

  “Thanks,” he murmurs as I massage his soles. I try to pull his sock off but Jem draws his foot back to stop me. He winces at my questioning look and says, “I’m anemic. My feet are always cold.”

  “Okay. Socks stay on.”

  Jem has very ticklish feet. I have to massage slowly and carefully or he spazzes all over the couch and makes the funniest little ‘ack!’ sound. I don’t do it on purpose…much.

  Jem is fighting to keep his eyes open when the movie ends, but he tries to stay awake and be a good host. He’s obviously tired so I offer to leave.

  “No, stay, please. Do you want to look around the library?”

  He knows how to tempt me.

  When we go upstairs I head straight for Dickens. Ivy’s anthology has better footnotes than my second-hand novels, with beautiful prints of important scenes inserted throughout the chapters. It’s a lovely book, with a leather cover and strong spine.

  “You’re quite an adorable nerd,” Jem tells me. He slouches against the bookcase, smirking at me. The poor guy looks ready to drop.

  “You need a nap.”

  Jem’s smirk falters, but he doesn’t argue outright. “I’ll be okay.” I can’t decide if it’s sweet or stupid of him to lie just because I’m a guest.

  “Come on.” I link my arm with his. “I’ll read in your room.”

  *

  I make myself comfy against the headboard while Jem excuses himself to the washroom. Beyond the bathroom door I can hear the sound of a pill sorter being opened and a cup filling at the tap. He doesn’t want to take his medication in front of me. I guess I owe him one now, since he’s being so considerate. He understands that it flips a switch in me to know what poisons he’s taking.

  When Jem comes out of the bathroom he tries to sit next to me against the headboard.

  “Your neck will cramp if you fall asleep like that.”

  He grimaces. “You don’t mind if I sleep a little bit?”

  “Of course not. You need it. And I’ve got Pip and Company for entertainment.” I tap the cover of the collection. I decided on Great Expectations while arranging the pillows.

  Jem lies down on his side, facing me, and folds his arms loosely around his front. He closes his eyes and sighs purposefully, but the silence is awkward.

  “You don’t have to stay in here if you don’t want to,” he offers. It would be rude to say, “Shut up, you goof,” so I open the book to the first chapter of Great Expectations and read aloud.

  He’s asleep in less than five minutes. Absolutely no appreciation for classic literature….

  I read the first few chapters of Great Expectations before my back starts to cramp from sitting against the headboard. I close the book softly and very carefully move off the bed to stretch. Jem slumbers on without the slightest hint that he registered my movement. Still, I don’t want to disturb him by climbing back onto the mattress, so I pull out his desk chair and turn it around so I can watch him sleep. I enjoy doing that far too much.

  The first time I watched Jem sleep, it was on the couch that first Saturday he showed up at my house. His feet twitched in his sleep and his mouth fell open slightly. He looked like a little boy, tuckered out and bundled up. And then there was Easter weekend, when he had the blankets pulled up to his chin and his cheek squished against the pillow. I thought it was funny that he napped with his hat on, but Jem is so self-conscious that I shouldn’t have been surprised. He probably only takes his hat off to bathe and sleep through the night.

  “What a strange creature you are,” I whisper to his sleeping back. His breath comes softly through parted lips.

  The last time I watched Jem sleep, just this past Saturday, he did so with the defeat and peace of a dead man. He didn’t twitch or stir, except to whimper in pain. His cheeks were still lined with red tracks from crying—it’s the poisons in him; his own tears are enough to burn the skin slightly. The tracks ran directly down both cheeks from his lids because his sparse, fledgling lashes weren’t enough to funnel the moisture out the corners of his eyes.

  Jem’s fingers twitch. Maybe he’s dreaming about music. They flutter and relax several times, but he doesn’t wake.

  His breathing changes after a while. No longer quite even, he makes little snuffling sounds when his fingers twitch. When his hands quit, his feet start. They tremor just slightly and his toes curl. I wonder if he’s a sleep-walker, because most people can’t even twitch in deep sleep.

  “What are you dreaming about?” I whisper with a smile. If I asked waking Jem, he probably wouldn’t tell me. He would call me nosey and demand to know why I was watching him like some sort of creep. Maybe I am a creep. I do enjoy watching him sleep. When his face is relaxed it’s easy to see what he must have looked like as a little boy.

  As long as I’m being a creep, I might as well make it worthwhile. I open the drawer of his nightstand and peek at the contents. Harper is quite the packrat. I carefully sift through three half-empty medication bottles, a lot of crumpled receipts, notes-to-self composed in acronyms and half-sentences, and elastic bands of all shapes and sizes. There’s also a postcard wedged in the back of the drawer. It’s one of those generic ones with a picture of a sunset over the beach and Wish you were here! on the front. I flip it over and find a short note in very feminine penmanship:

  Hey, Cancer! Give up while you still can! You’re never going to beat him. He’s too strong for you!

  I throw the postcard back in the drawer and shut it tight. Jesus Christ…

  Jem snuffles again and I lean over him to make sure the pillow isn’t blocking his airway. His jaw is relaxed, but his eyes are tight and worried-looking. His fingers twitch again. Whatever he’s dreaming doesn’t seem pleasant.

  I put a hand around his shoulder and call his name softly.

  Jem wakes with a gasp and jerks his arm up, like I’m a threat that needs to be pushed away. I grab his wrist before he can hit me in the face and push it back down.

  “You’re okay. It’s me.” He still isn’t quite awake. I hold both
his wrists against his front like a human straightjacket. “You were dreaming.”

  “Shit,” he whispers, and pulls in several deep breaths as though he’s been starving for air.

  “Nightmare?” Elise said he’d been having them lately. Jem makes a hum that passes for yes. “What was it about?”

  “Drowning,” he answers shortly, and sucks in a steadying breath.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re alive and well.”

  Jem turns his head to look at me over his shoulder. “I’m not well.” He says it with the surprise and disappointment of a kid learning that Santa isn’t real. Break my heart, why doesn’t he?

  “Regardless, I’ve still got you.” I give him a little squeeze to prove it. Jem turns his face away again, but squeezes me back where our arms overlap across his front.

  “You must have been cold. You’re more likely to have nightmares when you are. I’m sorry I didn’t realize—I would have covered you up.”

  “Why are you so fucking nice to me?” he says bitterly. I smile at the back of his head and nudge his temple with my nose.

  “Because you’re such a fucking peach.”

  That deflates him a little. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Jem carefully dislodges my arms and sits up. He scrubs a hand over his face to clear his eyes and pulls his hat lower over his ears. “How long was I out for?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t keeping track.”

  Jem swings his legs out of bed and stops there. For a moment he just sits there and studies me, frowning slightly, like there’s something puzzling about the way I look. Then he reaches out and grabs the sleeve of my sweater. Jem pulls on me so hard that I practically fall off the chair and onto his lap. He couldn’t just ask for a hug like a normal person—if this can be called a hug. It feels more like he’s trying to squeeze the living breath out of me.

  “Air!” I gasp, and he lets go all at once. I lose my balance and fall flat on my ass.

  “Shit! I’m so sorry.” Jem puts a hand on my arm to help me up but I brush him off.

  “Screw it.” I lay back on the floor to regain my breath. “I’ll be down here.”