Gasp

by Lisa McMann

  “More like a vision?” Ben asks.

  Sawyer laughs weakly. “Well, I’m not—I mean, I wouldn’t say that . . . exactly . . . but . . .” He shrugs. “But yeah. I guess that’s pretty accurate.”

  No one chimes in with a similar story. No one appears to be uncomfortable in his silence on the matter. No one flushes or blanches or reacts with their limbs or eyes or anything to indicate they can relate to what Sawyer just described. But they are sympathetic.

  Sawyer deserves a Tony Award for that performance. Too bad there’s nothing admirable about being a fraud. It’s even less admirable when a few of the students hang back at the end of an hour of sharing, giving Sawyer the names of their therapists and urging him to call. Soon.

  Five

  The truth is, we could all probably use some therapy right now. Hell, we’re a mess.

  “Well, that was good for everybody, I think,” I say later, making myself at home in Ben’s room by curling on the foot of Vernon’s bed. “I mean, we didn’t get what we needed. But at least we’ve established contact with everybody and they’ve got our phone numbers.”

  “Yeah, you can’t expect somebody to come forward in front of everybody to say they’re seeing visions too,” Trey says. He sinks onto the love seat, and Ben sits next to him. Sawyer takes a desk chair.

  “How many victims weren’t able to come to the meeting, Ben?” I stare at the underside of Ben’s mattress. This room smells gross, like a sack of armpits.

  Ben takes the list from Trey. “There are three who have left the school completely, one still in the hospital, and one who lives here in this dorm but either couldn’t come or didn’t want to.”

  Sawyer looks at me. “How are we going to handle this?”

  I think about it. “Start here and work our way out to the ones who left the school, I guess. Who’s the guy in this dorm?”

  “His name is Clark.”

  “Should we go up and see him since we’re here? I mean, he might have avoided the meeting because he thinks he’s losing it.” I sit up and slide off the bed.

  “I suppose we should,” Sawyer says. “But can we just ask him outright? I feel like a big cheat playing things like I just did in the green room.”

  “Yeah. Let me take this one.” I look at Ben. “Will you show us where his room is?”

  Ben’s already getting up. “Of course.”

  We knock on Clark’s door, but no one answers. Ben hollers down the hallway to some guys toilet-papering the doorway to somebody else’s room. “Have you seen Clark?”

  They shrug and shake their heads. One holds his finger to his lips to quiet us, and points to the toilet paper.

  “Yeah, because no one else will notice what you’re doing there if we’re quiet,” Ben mutters, and I’m kind of digging his sarcasm, which we haven’t really seen before today. He looks at us. “I don’t know what to tell you. You can hang around and wait if you want.”

  I look at Trey and Sawyer, and then check the time. “We should go if we want to hit up the hospital tonight, guys.”

  Sawyer nods. “Yeah. Okay, thanks, Ben. We’ll have to come back later this week.” He grabs my hand and tugs, but I want to see what Trey does. Watching my big brother have a crush is the only fun I have in my life right now.

  Trey smiles at Ben. “Yeah, thanks. I, um, I left my jacket in your room . . .”

  I squelch a grin and Sawyer squeezes my hand, probably hoping I’ll behave. “We’ll go to the hospital and see if Tori is up to having visitors,” Sawyer says. “Meet you at the car in thirty minutes? I’m parked on Fifty-Seventh, in front of the bookstore.”

  Trey waves in acknowledgment.

  Sawyer drapes his arm over my shoulders and we walk down to the quad and then out to the street toward the hospital. When we get outside in the dark, he twirls my hair around his finger and smiles at me. “Five bucks says they’re making out in Ben’s room.”

  “Dogs, I hope so,” I mutter. I lift my chin and we kiss while we’re walking, and I feel like even though everything is such a mess, I can actually handle it because Sawyer’s here with me.

  Six

  Tori is awake. It’s the first time she’s had her eyes open when we’ve visited her. She doesn’t know who we are, but her mom explains and introduces us—we’ve talked to her a few times before.

  Tori’s face is unmarred from the shooting. Her dark brown skin is flawless and beautiful. Her hair—a gorgeous mess of tiny black braids—undisturbed. Only her guts were ripped up, and the shreds sewn together. She still has tubes going into her arm—pain meds and antibiotics, her mom says.

  My mind flashes to the music room again. The black-and-white checkerboard floor streaked with red. Tori looking dazed, lying against the wall, holding her hand to her stomach as blood poured out between her fingers. . . . Gah. She was the most seriously hurt. I grab the back of a chair as a wave of nausea rides over me. Half the time I feel like I’m still in shock. Like one day, when this is all over, I really will need to be committed.

  It feels awkward, us knowing her but her not remembering us. I’m thankful for her mother, who has heard the story no doubt countless times by now from Ben, from us, from others who have visited.

  My cell phone vibrates in my jeans pocket, but I ignore it and focus on Tori. “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible,” Tori says in a soft voice. “Mostly terrible.” She looks at her mom. “Sorry. I’m tired of saying I’m fine.”

  Tori’s mom shrugs and smiles. “Nothing wrong with telling the truth,” she says lightly. She turns to us. “It’s been very difficult.”

  “I’m sure it has,” I say. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

  “So am I.” Her bottom lip trembles the slightest bit. “It sucks.”

  I reach out and rest my hand on her forearm, and she lets me keep it there. “I’m really sorry. What else is happening? Are you having any nightmares . . . or anything?”

  Sawyer leans in. “Jules and I have had some really weird side effects. Just mind tricks, I guess. The psychologist says it’s normal.”

  Tori narrows her eyes at the ceiling. “Nightmares, sure. I think the pain meds are messing with me.”

  I glance at Sawyer, and I can tell we’re wondering the same thing. “Every once in a while Sawyer was seeing a . . . like a vision, I guess. Right?”

  “It really helped me to talk about it, though,” Sawyer says.

  My phone vibrates again in my pocket. Tori doesn’t respond.

  “So do you want to talk about it or anything?” I ask, trying not to sound odd about it.

  “Not really,” Tori says. She looks out her window, frowns, and looks away.

  Sawyer sits up straight. “Okay, well, is there anything you need? Any homework or stuff from your dorm or whatever?”

  She looks at us like the weird strangers we are. “No. My roommate is handling that kind of stuff.” She yawns. “And I’m really tired now, so . . .”

  Tori’s mother stands up on cue. “Thank you both for coming by to visit,” she says.

  Sawyer and I stand too, somewhat reluctantly. “Sure,” I say. I spy a notepad and pen by the bed and ask, “Is it okay if I give you my phone number in case you ever want to talk?”

  “Sure,” Tori says, but there’s no enthusiasm behind it.

  I write my name and number on the notepad and sigh inwardly. “Okay. Well. I guess—”

  Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity outside the room. I turn to look. Trey is running down the hallway toward us like a total lunatic, something he would never do under normal circumstances. I spring to my feet.

  “Jules,” he calls out in a way that makes my heart clench. He sees me and lunges into the room, face flushed and breath ragged. Tori’s eyes widen in fear and Tori’s mom rushes over to stand between Trey and her daughter as a nurse comes running in to see what’s happening.

  “Who are you?” Tori’s mom demands.

  “What’s going on?” the nurse asks.
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br />   “He’s my brother,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Trey, what’s wrong?”

  “Why don’t you ever answer your fucking phone?” Trey shouts, and I feel his breath hit my face. He stares at me, his face breaking. “We have to go.”

  My stomach twists. “What? What is it? What happened?”

  “It’s not Dad,” he says quietly. “It’s . . . it’s worse. Come on!”

  Seven

  “What is it?” I nearly scream as my brother races down the hallway to the elevator. I chase after him.

  Trey stops in front of the closed elevator doors and turns so we’re standing face-to-face. His dark eyes are pooled with fear and he works his jaw like he does when he’s trying not to cry. “It’s a fire,” he says.

  I stare. “What?”

  “The restaurant,” he says, his voice cracking. “It’s on fire.”

  My throat is closed. I am unable to choke out a single word. I hear Sawyer swear under his breath from somewhere behind me. I didn’t hear him approach. I didn’t hear anything. And then he’s explaining things in gibberish to the interns and security guards who have followed us, apologizing, and then when the people stop crowding around us he’s ushering Trey and me into the open elevator and pushing the buttons.

  The elevator door closes and my senses return.

  “Holy shit,” I say. “Oh my God—Rowan?”

  “She’s fine. She’s the one who called me.”

  “What about Mom and Dad? Tony? Aunt Mary?”

  Trey shakes his head, dazed. “I don’t know anything else for sure. Rowan was pretty hysterical. She and Tony and Mom were the only ones in the restaurant, and when she called me she was standing outside with Tony. She said she thought Mom got out but now she can’t find her. . . .”

  “Oh my God, Mom!” I scream.

  The elevator door opens to a few curious stares. Sawyer pulls us out of the hospital and points in the direction of the car. We start running, blindly snaking around buildings and down car-lined streets. I pull my phone out of my pocket and see I have three messages. One from Rowan, two from Trey.

  “Shit,” I say, nearly tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. I dial Rowan, and she answers.

  “Rowan! What’s happening?”

  “Did you find Trey?” She’s sobbing.

  “Yes, he’s with me now. Is Mom okay?”

  “I don’t know!” Rowan screams. “Just get here!”

  “Oh my God,” I say as I climb into Sawyer’s car. “What about Dad?”

  “I don’t know! I haven’t seen him, and the firefighters won’t let me get any closer. Tony’s running around to the front and he told me to stay here and watch for them.” Her voice hitches in a sob. “Just hurry up!”

  “We’re driving. Sawyer’s going as fast as he can. We’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  “Forty minutes,” Sawyer says.

  “Forty minutes,” I tell Rowan. “Just, whatever you do, stay safe! And call me when you find Mom and Dad.”

  “I will.”

  I hang up. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  From the backseat Trey says, “She told me it was just her and Tony in the kitchen and Mom was out in the dining area. There were only a couple of customers . . .” He trails off. “Tony must have spilled some oil or something.”

  “Or it could’ve been a pan on the stove. . . .” Only three of them working. So Dad must have been upstairs. Neither of us says it.

  Sawyer grips the wheel and stays silent, concentrating on the road. If we talk, I don’t remember any of it. All I need to focus on is that Rowan is okay.

  • • •

  When we get close to home, we can see the lights of police and fire vehicles. The whole block is cordoned off and the sky is filled with smoke, lit up by spectacular, horrible flames. Sawyer parks as close as he can, and Trey and I jump out of the car, pound the pavement, and dodge onlookers, searching for Rowan in the back parking lot.

  And she’s there, a stranger’s blanket draped around her. Trey and I run to her and fold her in our arms and hold her. Her phone shakes in her hand and her face is streaked with tears. “They’re okay,” she says. “They’re on the other side. Dad was on a delivery . . . I didn’t know . . .”

  “Mom and Dad?” I ask, making sure before the hope can rise too far. “Both of them are okay?”

  “Yeah. Tony just called me—Mom twisted her ankle helping customers get out. She crawled out and has been stuck on the other side all this time trying to find me and calling me from other people’s cell phones because she left hers in the restaurant. But I wasn’t answering because I was trying to call her and you guys and Tony and Dad. Dad was doing the last delivery, which I didn’t even know about, and he’s back now, and they’re both fine.” She releases a shuddering sigh. “Tony and Dad are helping Mom walk around the block to meet us here.”

  “Thank God,” Trey says. He hugs us both again. And then we hear warning shouts from firefighters who have been spraying down the buildings on either side of ours—a florist on one side and a bike shop on the other, with apartments above, just like ours. Their buildings are so close to ours that there’s no possible way the entire block hasn’t gone up in flames, yet there they are, bricks scorched but no sign of interior flames so far. We turn back and stare at our restaurant . . . and our home.

  The firefighters’ shouts grow louder. They begin to push back from the building, and with a roar and a rush of gasps, the roof falls in on everything we own, everything my parents have worked their entire lives for, everything my father has collected and hoarded for the past ten years. The sparks fly like shooting stars into the night sky.

  • • •

  We stay all night.

  Not because we have nowhere else to go. We stay because our parents won’t leave, and we won’t leave them.

  My father’s face is like an old worn painting, gray and cracking. He looks eighty years old today as he watches, mourning his business and his precious hoards of recipes and treasures. My mother fusses over us for a while, telling us not to worry. Telling us that we’ll get more clothes, of all things—right there in the middle of the parking lot, with her whole life crashing down in front of her, Mom is worried about us being upset that we have nothing to change into. How does one become this person? I don’t know.

  I don’t think my father even notices that Sawyer is there, bringing blankets and food and water and collapsible sports chairs from neighbors and I don’t know where else so we can sit down on something other than the cold cement curb of the parking lot. My mother notices, though. When he shows her the chair, she puts her hand on his arm, thanks him with her wet eyes, and sits. He nods and presses his lips together, and I realize how much it means to him to have her approval.

  Sawyer hovers nearby. Rowan, Trey, and I all sit together in birth order, thinking about all the things we’ll never see again, and every once in a while stating the obvious: “Everything is gone.” But it’s not everything. It’s weird. I have my boyfriend, my siblings, my parents. I’ll miss the pillow I pretended was Sawyer. My favorite pajama shirt. My hairbrush and clothes and makeup. But I realize there isn’t much else up there that’s all mine. Certainly there was no space up there that was all mine. These people—this is what’s mine.

  I look around, realizing Tony has gone home. “How did it start?” I ask Rowan after a while.

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “But you were in the kitchen, right?”

  “Yeah. But it didn’t start there, or we might’ve been able to put it out. Tony and I grabbed fire extinguishers as soon as we heard the smoke alarms, but it was already too late and we had to get out of there.”

  Weird. I heard my parents warning us about fire hazards in the galley so often that I figured restaurant fires must always start in the kitchen. “I guess they’ll investigate.”

  Rowan shrugs. Nothing is important right now. I look at Trey and he looks at me, and I don’t know what to say or do.
Nothing is adequate to express how I am feeling. As we turn our eyes back to the smoldering remains of our lives, I hold his arm and rest my head on his shoulder, and we speak at the same time.

  He says, “Happy birthday.”

  And I say, “Did you make out?”

  And we look at each other again, absolutely beside ourselves with the strangeness of this all.

  “Thanks,” I answer. “Best one yet.”

  “No,” he says. “But he touched my face and kissed me.”

  And that’s the thing that makes me start to cry.

  Eight

  In the morning, Sawyer reluctantly leaves to get ready for school. Neighbors and people from my parents’ church come with clothes and food, and we don’t know what to do with it all. We put it in the meatball truck and try to figure out where to go from here. There have been offers, but no one is able to put all five of us up together for more than a few nights. I guess hoarders don’t tend to have a lot of friends.

  Is it wrong that I’m okay with that?

  Is it wrong that I don’t want to go live in some other person’s house?

  Now that the fire has been mostly out for hours, the lack of flames helps Dad focus. “We’ll go to Vito and Mary’s,” he says. My uncle Vito and aunt Mary, our hostess, have four kids. The oldest, my cousin Nick, occasionally works—worked—for the restaurant on the pizza holidays. Night before Thanksgiving, New Year’s, Super Bowl, prom. Days like those. Nick has three sisters. It’s hard to keep track of how old they are, or even which one is which—they’re a lot younger and they all look sort of the same. And I’m sorry, but there’s not enough room in their house.

  “I’ll stay with a friend,” Trey offers.

  “Me too,” I say. Yeah, right. I have none.

  Rowan frowns. “I’ll go with Jules.”

  “We’re all staying with Mary,” Dad says, and it’s clear that now is not the time to argue. “At least for now.”