“I don’t know. I’m sure he misses you. I’m sure he’s somewhere sad and regretful.”
“I hope so,” Jillian says. “But whenever I imagine him, I picture him somewhere really happy. I see him laughing, tossing his head back like a wolf. Ha.”
“You think Franny feels like your mom?”
Jillian shrugs. “Mom lost her love and her best friend. Franny lost love and two best friends. You do the math.”
“I hate math.”
Jillian wipes her doughy hands onto her apron. “I heard The Coupon got released.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”
But I already know this.
I’m meeting Franny’s dad tomorrow.
Why I Already Know
“Mr. Hogan,” I say, extending my hand.
But Franny’s dad laughs, grabs me by my shoulders. “Ha, look at you, a full-grown man now. Peach fuzz and everything.”
And I nearly say well, it has been eight years. But I smile instead.
“It’s good to see you, sir.”
“You either call me Francisco or you call me nothing. And don’t even think about calling me sir again.”
“Okay,” I say, deciding in my brain to not refer to Franny’s dad as anything. “So, the reason I wanted to see you was—”
“Hold on,” Franny’s dad says, motioning for the waitress. “You guys have anything good on tap?”
The waitress rattles off the list. “I’ll take a tall of that last one, honey,” he says, flashing her a smile that makes her blush, proving that million-watt smiles are highly genetic. He turns back to me. “Now, why are we here?”
He laughs for three minutes straight when I tell him. But he agrees to help.
“There is one other thing, though, Mr. Hogan.”
Just because Franny despises me doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happens to him. Or to Kate. Although I’m making different choices this time, I still want them to be happy, to have what they need.
“Told you to cut that mister crap.”
“Sorry. The thing is, sir, I mean, uh . . . the thing is I don’t think you understand how much Franny’s missed you.”
Franny’s dad chews on a toothpick. We’re at a bar and grill he chose. He claimed they have the best corned beef, though he’s mainly feasting on beer.
I wait until he takes a big bite from his sandwich before I tell him things that Franny probably wouldn’t want him to know.
“On Franny’s twelfth birthday he waited in the window for you to come for like three hours. He did that even though Abuela told him you weren’t coming. Even though in his heart, he knew you weren’t coming. That you couldn’t come. It was the only time I remember Franny crying when we were kids.”
“Franny? Crying? Hard to believe he cares enough about what I do to cry behind it.”
“Did you know he wrote you a hundred emails while you were locked up?”
He stares at me. “I never got a single one.”
“Because he never hit Send.”
“Why would he do that? Why would he write emails he never sent?”
“Because he was afraid you wouldn’t write back. I suppose not hearing from you at all was easier to take than reaching out to you and you not reaching back.”
“That’s stupid,” he says, but I can tell by the way he says stupid he doesn’t mean it.
“Did you know Franny chose basketball even though he’s better at football because he remembers growing up watching you play at the park?”
“He remembers that?”
“Franny still has this Post-it note from you. You probably don’t even remember it, but you scribbled a few words on a green note and stuck it onto Franny’s brown bag lunch before school. Franny still has it. It’s in his sock drawer.”
“No way.”
“It’s true. He brings it out when he thinks I’m not looking.”
And I know I’m betraying Franny all over again, revealing his deepest truths.
But sometimes you’re wrong for the right reasons.
Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News
“What exactly are these injections, anyway?”
“Zinc-finger nucleases.”
“And she needs both injections?”
Dr. Sowunmi nods. “Without both, she’d eventually regress back to her original condition, yes.”
“I see.”
“Is that a problem, Jack? Kate receiving both doses?”
“No,” I say. “No problem.”
“Because it’s the third or fourth time you’ve brought it up. If you’re worried about payment, I’ve already told you that you’ll—”
“It’s not the money. It’s just that, you’re certain there’s no way to speed up the second injection?”
“Not without considerable risk, Jack.”
“You know this because you’ve tried it?”
“I haven’t tried it, no,” he admits. “But based on the research . . .”
I lean forward. “Doctor, whatever happened to leaving room for miracles?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, science is obviously what you do here, right, but, like, don’t you need faith, too? Some hope?”
“Faith and hope play their part, certainly, Jack, but if you . . .” He stops himself. “Faith and hope are important, sure.”
“I have faith in you, Doc.”
Dr. Sowunmi studies me across his desk.
I press on. “So, you’ll take her on as a patient?”
“I’d like to meet her first. Get to know her before we even consider treatment.”
“Fair enough,” I tell him. “But let me warn you. If you get to know her, then you’re definitely going to treat her. There’s no way you know Kate and don’t want to help her.”
Dr. Sowunmi folds his hands across the front of his desk. “How long have you known Kate?”
Well, Doc, we’ve technically known each other for over a year now but at this moment in our history I’m a complete stranger to Kate because I seem to be caught in a time-traveling loop and rather than stick things out all over again, like the coward that I am, I opted to run the other way, so . . .
“Actually, we don’t exactly . . . uh, the thing is . . . it’s sort of a weird situation but . . . I mean it makes sense because sometimes you don’t have to actually know someone to know them, you know what I mean?”
“Jack, are you telling me that Kate has no idea who you are?”
“I wouldn’t say no idea. Not exactly.”
“Really,” the doctor says. “Then how would you describe your relationship with Kate?”
“Complicated.”
“Complicated,” Dr. Sowunmi repeats, smiling for the first time since I stepped into his office. “I wish I could tell you it gets easier when you’re older, but as a doctor I’ve sworn to do no harm.”
“Glad to know I’m not the only one who sucks at love.”
“So,” he says, his face already back to its take crap from no one expression. “If Kate doesn’t know you, how will you convince her to see me? And to let you, a stranger, pay for it?”
“I have a plan.”
No, I don’t.
But then I do have a plan.
Just remember, I never claimed it was a good plan.
“Hello, is this Mrs. Edwards?”
“Who’s calling?”
“My apologies. My name is . . . uh . . . Thurgood Marshall Thomas the second. I’m on the Whittier board of trustees. But we can get into all of my, uh, credentials later.”
“Is something wrong with Kate?”
“Huh? I mean, uh, how do you mean, Mrs. Edwards?”
“I know her grades have slipped a bit. She’s been in and out of the hospital more this past semester, but I can assure you she’s fully dedicated to her studies.”
“No assurance necessary, ma’am. That’s actually why I’m calling you today. It is my aim to help ensure Kate continues to benefit from her education here at Whittier.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Her illness, Mrs. Edwards. We want to help get her well.”
“You want to . . . I don’t think I understand.”
“We’re prepared to make a rather large donation on Kate’s behalf to one of the best hematology doctors in the world. Our hope is that, at the very least, he can get her sickle cell under control.”
“There’s no way we can afford that. Her father and I don’t have—”
“It’s already taken care of, Mrs. Edwards. You and your family will not have to make a single payment.”
A long beat.
Did I lose her? “Mrs. Edwards, are you still there?”
“Yes . . . I’m here . . . Mr., uh?”
“Thomas.”
“Mr. Thomas, may I ask you a rather rude question, sir?”
I try my hand at how I think a wealthy benefactor might chuckle, a cross between don’t be ridiculous and I wipe my butt cheeks with fifty-dollar bills just because. “Ask away, Mrs. Edwards.”
“Are you and my daughter . . . are the two of you . . . are you sleeping with my daughter? Is that why you want to help her?”
“Mrs. Edwards, to tell you the truth, I have not even been formally introduced to your daughter. But I can assure you there is no impropriety here. Every year the board reviews dozens of applications for candidates who may be in need of some form of assistance. This is at the bequest of several of our rather, to be perfectly blunt, financially able alumni who are eager to give back to the school that they love. Your daughter is this year’s chosen applicant.”
“So, this is something she applied for? Kate filled out some application?”
“No, we work on a nomination basis. Kate was nominated by one of her peers.”
“Can you tell me who? Who nominated Kate?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. But what I can say is, with your and Kate’s blessing, we are anxious to get started. I’d like to verify your mailing address and best point of contact, so that we can be in touch, Mrs. Edwards?”
More silence.
“Mrs. Edwards . . .”
“I just can’t believe this is happening. I’m grateful. I am. But . . . well, pardon my cynicism, but . . .”
“I’m going to send you over the official paperwork, dear. You’ll see. Everything’s already in motion.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing, my dear. You’ve raised an exceptional child. It is this school who wishes to thank you.” I clear my throat, feeling my voice aching to crack. “So, shall we get this ball rolling?”
Dilemmas, Dilemmas
Even after my Thurgood Marshall Thomas II routine (or maybe directly because of), it’s safe to say Kate’s mom is still (understandably) skeptical, but eventually, once I’ve forwarded her all of the appointment information, along with a letter of explanation printed on Whittier letterhead (the miracle of Photoshop) indicating the evaluation fee payment is already pending and with a phone number directing her to Whittier’s impossible-to-navigate alumni directory with any questions, she slowly starts believing.
I do my best to keep tabs on Kate from a distance.
Which sucks because trying to watch someone from a distance is exactly the way it sounds—like observing someone through a telescope. Sure, you’re zoomed in on them and you get to see everything that they do up close and magnified. But could you really claim to know them, when you miss out on all the details, on what’s happening around them, what they’re really feeling, what they’re going through?
And it blows because the best part about my life lately has been Kate. Only in this life, I don’t get to know her at all. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s not my friend. She’s not even an acquaintance. I’m nothing to her, and she’s supposedly nothing to me.
And yet—
That’s the one thing she could never be.
Sometimes it feels like I’m cheating on Jillian. So much of my time is spent arranging things and monitoring Kate’s progress and talking to Dr. Sowunmi, who informed me, given that Kate hasn’t given written consent, he can’t actually discuss with me any specifics regarding her treatment, that he shouldn’t even discuss it in the very broad strokes that he’s thus far spoken in.
Today he’s carved out three minutes between his patient appointments to talk to me.
“I don’t want to get you into any trouble. If you don’t feel comfortable talking to me about your work, I understand. I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
“I guess I feel like you deserve to know something. I don’t know, Jack. It’s complicated.”
I laugh.
“So, why this girl, Jack?”
I shrug. “Just paying it forward.”
He rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Jack. You can do better than that.”
“Because she’s one of these people who go through life caring about everyone else, doing for everyone else. She deserves for someone to do for her. She’s so smart and funny, and this planet needs her here for as long as it can have her.”
“So, you love her.”
“I don’t not love her.”
Jillian is harder to convince, though.
She wants to know why I’m making the trip to Dr. Sowunmi’s hospital.
Or why I’m suddenly so interested in sickle cell disease.
Or what we’re going to do if Franny actually gets into Whittier.
And who’s going to take his place in the band?
All of which are very good questions.
All of which I have a hard time answering.
The Talk
We’re driving to school when Jillian tells me.
“Franny says he needs to talk to me.”
“When?”
“After school.”
“Today?”
“Today.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
“Should I be there, too?”
“I’m thinking no.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t want to aggravate the situation any more than it has to be, you know?”
“No, yeah, of course. That makes sense.”
“So, you okay finding a ride home? After school?”
“Sure.”
I spend the rest of the day going to class but learning nothing, except how to be good at thinking about Jillian talking to Franny about the fact that we betrayed his trust and got together behind his back.
“How did it go?” I ask as soon as she descends my basement stairs.
“We hurt him, Jack.”
“Yeah.”
“No,” she says, picking up a throw pillow from the couch, sitting down in its place. “We really hurt him.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much actually. It was mostly me apologizing. And then at the end he looked at me and said, I don’t think you’ll ever understand how much I loved you both.”
That’s not what I expected. I feel like I’ve been stabbed all over. “Damn,” I say. “And what did you say to that?”
Jillian shakes her head. “Nothing. I just sat there hating myself. And then he took my hand in his and said, All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. And I still want that.”
“I feel like this is the part where I should be led out in front of the firing squad.”
“You and me both,” Jillian agrees. “And we’d still get off easy.”
An Exploding Appendix
Jillian and I are at the hospital together, visiting her cousin, whose appendix nearly ruptured, when The Most Random Person I’d Ever Expect to See Anywhere on Earth steps right onto the elevator and commands, “Sixth floor, bro.”
Normally, I’m not big on elevator eye contact. The premise of an elevator is uncomfortable enough—standing silent and motionless in a cramped rectangular box centimeters away from random strangers?
But also this guy’s voice. The way he says bro instead of please, like it’s my job to do his bidding, like I’m working
this elevator and I’ve been sitting here with my button-pressing finger extended, eagerly waiting for an asshole to order a floor.
I recognize him right away, but of course he has no reason to know me. And even if he did know me, he strikes me as the kind of dude who goes around being recognized but can’t be bothered to remember your name, or even how he knows you. So instead he bros you.
But I admit I’m biased.
I snap my fingers. “Hey, aren’t you . . .” and I start to say Flanders or Sanders as bro payback, but I’m actually so happy to see this guy I can’t even bring myself to be petty. “You go to Whittier, right?” I say.
And Xander looks up at me from his phone.
“Do I know you?” Xander asks.
“No, I’ve seen you around campus is all.”
Without a word, Xander goes back to swiping his phone screen.
“So, what, uh, brings you here?” I ask.
“What?”
“What brings you to the hospital? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s great. I’m here for the fish tacos.”
I scrunch my face. “Wait, what?”
“Screwing with you, dude, relax. My girlfriend is sick, so.”
“Oh, she’s admitted here?”
“Yep.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
Xander shrugs. “This is nothing new for her. She’s practically lived in hospitals her entire life. I think she’s used to it now.”
“I feel like that’s something you’d never be used to.”
“I guess.” Xander buries his face back into his phone. “I need to be studying right now, but I have to be here. Gotta be the doting, supportive boyfriend.”
“You don’t.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to be anything to her. No one’s forcing you to be here.”
“Ha. You try dumping the sick girl.”
And by now you guys know I’m not a fighter.
But I promise you it takes every ounce of restraint that I have ever accumulated past, present, and future to not dump Xander on his fish-taco-joking ass.
Opposite of Always Page 24
