“I’m saying you get me.”
“I do?”
Willa shrugs. This woman is frustrating as hell. “Do you think you get me?” she asks.
“I don’t understand a single word that comes out of your mouth.” She laughs and tells me I’m full of shit.
Saturday
Elise makes a crack at me for running late on a Saturday as I rush around the house getting ready. Shower, clothes, breakfast, missing keys—all annoying little things that get in the way of me going over to the Kirk house.
“What time will you be home?” Elise asks, following me around like a puppy. If she’s going to do that, she could at least help me look for the car keys.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we can do something tonight?”
“We’ll see.”
“Jem,” she whines.
“What?”
“You don’t want to spend time with me?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Call Carey or something.”
“She’s busy.”
“So am I.” Where the hell could Mom have put those keys?
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“Why not? Willa likes me.”
“I said no, Lise.”
“Fine. Hmph.” She sits cross-legged on the kitchen floor and folds her arms, pouting profusely. She’s about ten years too old to be pulling this shit. I set a cup of water and a bag of Bits’n’Bites next to her, because “Pouting is tiring work,” and leave her to sulk. She’ll get over it.
*
When I walk up to the Kirks’ porch the door is open and there’s a sticky note attached to the screen: Just come in, Harper. I like how she expects me now.
I step inside and follow the sound of the Stones’ “Everybody Getting High.” From the foyer I see Willa slide across the kitchen tiles on socked feet, singing along loudly. She’s in her standard weekend outfit: torn black jeans, oversized plaid shirt (probably either stolen or a hand-me-down) and holey socks. I can’t imagine how she could look any better.
Willa turns the music down when she sees me and says good morning.
“Good morning to you too.”
She turns away and walks into the living room, so naturally I follow. Willa has three laundry baskets on the couch and chairs and has organized the wash into several different piles on the floor and coffee table. The whole room smells of warm laundry and I just want to get comfy and breathe it in. I have a thing about the scent of fresh laundry. I used to crawl into the dryer when I was a kid. Mom has pictures of me napping in the dryer barrel on a pile of warm towels.
Willa takes a stack of folded dishtowels to the kitchen. I contemplate burying my face in a nearby pile of t-shirts, but she might catch me and freak.
“Want to go for a walk?” Willa calls from the kitchen. “It’s a nice day and I need air.”
“Okay.”
“We won’t go far,” she promises as she comes back to the living room. She grabs Frank’s piles of shirts, socks, and jeans and loads them all into one of the baskets.
“If you need air we’ll go as far as you want.”
“Can you handle it?”
I give her a look and take the basket from her. “I’ll be fine.”
*
It’s a nice day for April. The sun makes more of an impression through the cloud cover than usual, and there’s a slight breeze. Willa and I stroll down her block slowly.
She looks over at me and smiles. “Nice hat.”
“Thanks.” It’s blue today. Elise took one look at me when I came downstairs this morning, sighed ruefully, and said, ‘Well at least it matches your eyes.’
“You look healthier today.”
“Yeah?” That’s a real compliment, coming from her and considering that I look the way I do.
“Am I still not allowed to ask about your cancer?”
“You just said I look healthy; can’t we leave it at that?”
“Sure.” We walk in silence for a few minutes. Willa swings her arms slowly by her sides. I’ve got my hands in my pockets, as usual. I got into the habit as a way to hide the scars. I do it around Willa as a matter of routine, even though she said she likes my hands. Whether or not that’s true is an open question.
“I have a similar but related question,” Willa says after awhile.
“What?” I’m curious to know what it is, even though I may choose not to answer it.
“How’d it feel to find out you had cancer?”
I snort. “Like a bomb went off in the middle of my life. It’s enough to make your skin crawl, knowing there’s something living inside you that can kill you—that is killing you.”
“But it didn’t.”
“I got lucky—a lot.”
“Hot nurses?”
It takes me a second to get it, and then I tell her to bugger off even as I chuckle. “Nice nurses, but not many hot ones. I had some cool roommates, though.”
“Anyone interesting?”
“My first roommate was a year older than me—Evan—and he’d been sick a few times. Lost his eyes to cancer as a kid, and shit. He had this massive stack of Braille books on the side table and he used to read them out loud, except when I knew him he had a brain tumor and he’d have these weird spells where he’d forget stuff and read the same passage over and over again.”
“Did that bug you?”
“No, actually. He was just this guy who had it so much worse than me, but he was still knew who he was and enjoyed his hobbies in spite of all the shit. I liked to think that I got him in a way that the nurses and everyone else didn’t, ‘cause I was sick too.”
“Did he know he was repeating passages?”
I shrug. “I never told him. I don’t think any of the nurses did, either. He didn’t have visitors very often, to tell him he was losing his mind.”
Willa stops and looks at me searchingly. “He’s dead now, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. He had a grand mal and went into a coma. His family pulled the plug after a few days.”
“Was it scary to watch that, being so ill yourself?”
“I only saw him seize; they took him to the ICU after that. I found his obit later and nobody dies that fast in a coma unless someone yanks the power on their ventilator.”
“He did have a brain tumor. That could have killed him. They wouldn’t have let the family withdraw his vent if he wasn’t already brain dead.”
“Doesn’t matter; I prefer to think of his barely-there family as a bunch of assholes that didn’t want him hanging around on life support.”
“Would you want to hang around on life support?”
“I wouldn’t want to die alone.”
“You don’t know that he did.”
“His obit said that he ‘passed away peacefully in the care of hospital staff.’ I bet his family just phoned in the order to stop wasting the insurance coverage and called the funeral home while he was still plugged in.”
“Did it make you feel lucky?” she asks. “That you have such a caring family, I mean.”
“Yeah. It did.”
“Did you go to his funeral?”
“Yeah. They cremated him. It was weird.”
“My sister was, too. I read up on it after—it’s a sick process. They put the bodies in these cardboard boxes and slide them into giant ovens so their sternum is centered, and then they burn the shit out of the body and roll what’s left around in a mixer with ball bearings to reduce it to dust.”
Uh, gross. And I need to know that why?
“Only you would do research instead of grieving.”
She chuckles. “Hey now, I had a bomb go off in the middle of my life, too. Mine just had a timer on the detonator.”
“It’s not the same. Having your own body turn against you and having a loved one die are different kinds of catastrophes.”
“Did I tell you what Tessa had? It started with lymphoma, but by the time she died it was all through her abdomen. Her stomach was so swollen
that she looked pregnant.”
“Jesus, Kirk.”
“There’s nothing graceful about dying. A catastrophe is a catastrophe, no matter what your role is in it.”
I nod in agreement because I don’t have any argument left, and we’ll never see eye-to-eye on this issue anyway. I can’t live her experience any more than she can live mine.
“We talk about the weirdest shit.”
Willa giggles. “Imagine if we were set up on a blind date or something. It would be the most depressing first impression.”
“But would you call back?”
“This is hypothetical.”
“Spare my ego, Kirk.”
“Oh, not the fragile ego,” she says with a roll of her eyes.
“Seriously.” I nudge her with my elbow and smile to show I’m teasing. “Would you?”
Willa sighs thoughtfully. “But this is hypothetical, right?”
“You’re stalling.”
She elbows me. “It depends. Are we both at the same school in this scenario?”
“Sure.”
“Is it a dinner date?”
“If you like.”
“Would you try for a kiss at the end of the night?”
I try and fail to read the desired answer on her face. “No?”
Willa wrinkles her nose and shrugs. “I’d probably file you under ‘friend.’ That scenario is over-traditional and has the potential to get messy. If we’re at the same school and it doesn’t work out, we’d still have to see each other every day.”
“And what about the real-life scenario?”
“We’re speaking hypothetically.”
“Real life is infinitely messier. And what’s wrong with a dinner date?”
“It’s so conventional. It’s like something out of a bad sitcom.”
“Have you ever been on a dinner date?”
Willa mumbles noncommittally. That’s a no.
“You should go on one before you judge. I’ll take you out sometime.”
“No.”
“In the interest of research.”
“Not interested.”
“In dinner, or dinner with me?”
“Both.”
“Why?” I’m a sucker for punishment. I have this compulsive need to hear her list in great detail each and every specific reason for rejecting me and filing me under ‘friend.’
“Besides the fact that we’d have to go to a vegan restaurant for you to be able to order anything?”
“Very funny.”
“I like cooking.”
“You deserve a night off once in awhile.”
“Not to eat tofu with my asshole project partner on a pretend date—a date which will, if the hypothetical proves an accurate model for reality, end with no action to make it worthwhile.”
“See, I would kiss you on this never-gonna-happen date, but that vitriol you keep in your mouth would probably burn my face off.”
“Chicken.”
“What?”
Willa begins to buk at me. For a few seconds I just stare at this girl doing a bird impression—flapping wings and all—and a thought sneaks into my head like a ninja with Tourettes: Grab her tit. She’ll never expect it.
Willa’s not wearing a bra under that shirt.
“Harper!” She slaps my hand away and glares at me.
“Uh, sorry.”
“Dude.”
“You said you wanted action.”
“You are such a shit.”
“Really, I’m sorry. It was a stupid impulse.”
“Fine, apology accepted,” she says stiffly. I still suspect she’ll kick me when I’m not looking.
“I’ll treat you better when I take you out for dinner.”
“We’re not going out for dinner.”
“We will even if I have to kidnap you.” I smile in the hope that she’ll relax a little and joke with me. I’m not joking about dinner, though—I’m taking her out.
“This isn’t a date.”
“So I can’t grab your tit again?”
She takes a swing at me and I dodge her little fist, laughing. “Hey, don’t hit the cancer patient.”
Willa lowers her fist. “You did not just play that card.”
“You weren’t really gonna hit me.” I wink at Willa and her eyes narrow.
“For all you know.” Willa mutters something that doesn’t sound kind and resumes her stroll with a wary eye trained in my direction.
“I won’t grab you again, I promise.”
She snorts incredulously and looks the other way. She’s going to hold this over me like she did when I messed with her phone.
“Hey.” I put a hand on her shoulder to turn her toward me. “Honestly, I’m sor—” Willa lunges at me unexpectedly. She doesn’t weigh much, but she catches me off guard and I step backwards. One of her arms winds around my waist, turning me away as I struggle for balance. And the other hand? It tickles me. Everywhere. I spazz and flail like a moron, trying to throw her off or grab hold of her hands.
She’s the first to fall on the slick grass of her neighbor’s lawn, and she pulls me down with her. I land on top and she makes the quietest little ‘oof!’ sound, like a kitten being squished.
“Are you okay?”
“Peachy.” She lets go of me and I roll off her. “You all right?”
“You tickled me.”
“Is there a rule against tickling cancer patients?” She laughs. It’s a sound I’ve never heard from her before—it’s childish and pleasure-filled, with no sarcasm or wryness.
I roll over and kneel over her legs, pinning her down on the damp lawn while I return the favor. She makes this strangled ‘gah!’ sound and thrashes like a fish out of water.
God, she’s soft.
This is the closest you’re ever going to get to really touching her.
I give her a break when she turns red in the face. She’s got grass on her hair and she’s panting from exertion and her loose shirt is twisted around her body. She looks at me with a smile that says, ‘You win.’
“You’re beautiful.”
Oh snap.
If she suddenly went temporarily deaf just now, there must be a God.
Dude, think before you talk!
Willa pauses for the space of two breaths. “So are you.”
I awkwardly climb off her and stand up. I extend a hand to help her to her feet, but Willa ignores it. Her back is wet from the grass and stray blades stick to her hair and clothes. She brushes them off forcefully and turns back toward the house at a brisk pace.
You screwed up, Harper.
I start after her. “Hey.” I reach out to take her arm and she throws my hand off.
“Don’t.” She holds a finger up in warning. I wouldn’t put it past her to rap me between the eyes with it. I hold my tongue, and after a few seconds she lowers her finger and marches away. I follow at a slower pace, and by the time I get back to the Kirk house Willa is parked in front of the TV, channel surfing.
“Do you want to talk?”
“Do I look like I’m in a talking mood?”
“Point taken.” I’m about to sit down in the easy chair across from the couch when Willa tells me to look in the freezer. “What?”
“Look in the freezer.”
I get up and go open the freezer. The cloud of condensation takes a second to dissipate, and holy shit yogurt pops!
“Did you just hop?”
“No.”
“I distinctly saw a hop—two of them, actually.”
“No you didn’t.” I grab a yogurt pop out of the fridge and unwrap it. Excited or not, I most certainly did not hop.
Willa smirks.
“I didn’t, damn it.”
She lets me sit next to her on the couch, and even though she isn’t in a talking mood, she rests her head on my shoulder while we watch cartoons. Her only remark is to tease me for the four yogurt pops I eat in the space of fifteen minutes.
“Do I need to explain how awesome these
things are?”
“No. I’m just glad you’re eating.”
“Are you still going to care when my stomach gets better?”
Willa sighs. Her face changes as she mulls that one over. “Yeah,” she says. “I think I will.”
*
It’s approaching four o’clock when my phone rings. I check the caller ID while Willa flips through her recipe binder, considering what to make for dinner. It’s Ava.
“Hello?”
“Bitch, pack your shit. We’ll pick you up around six.”
“What?”
“I cleared it with your Mom. You’re coming to Ottawa tonight.”
I look over at Willa, brow furrowed and flipping pages with a shrewd eye. I didn’t actually say I was staying for dinner. Is it implied at this point? Should I tell her that I have plans with others? Should I invite her along?
She invited you out when no one else would.
But Ava did consider cracking her skull last week…
“Um…”
“Dude, you’re not backing down from this. We’re already on our way to your Podunk town.”
“We?”
“Emily and me.”
Do I want to spend two hours in a car with Emily? I could definitely do it with just Ava…but I want to see the others tonight, too.
“Alright, I’ll come.”
“Try not to sound so enthusiastic.”
“Shut up.”
“Slut.”
“Cocktease.” I hang up and Willa gives me a sideways look for the way that call ended. “That was, uh…”
“Let me guess—Eric.”
That makes me snort. “No, um, I’ve got company coming to the house tonight.”
“Cool.” She sounds like she doesn’t really care.
“I have to take off soon to meet them.”
“Sure.”
“And I probably won’t get a chance to call you tonight.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to see you tomorrow, either.”
“That’s fine.”
Is it so hard to pretend that she’s going to miss me?
“Sleep well, okay Kirk?” She accepts a one-armed hug and agrees that she will. Willa offers no similar wish in return.
As I leave the house I call back down the hall to her, “I’ll make that dinner reservation.”
Wake Page 28
