Hello (From Here)

by Chandler Baker

  “Why are you talking like that?”

  She nods toward the desk, where Wuthering Heights sits half open. Olivia has a habit of picking up the dialect of whatever book she’s reading. We suffered badly through Chaucer.

  “All right,” I say. “What heartache? Did you actually have a girlfriend at school?”

  “She was but a fever dream. There and gone. Now sheltered safely back in Delaware.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Delaware. Her parents have an unusual affection for the state.”

  I rub my forehead. She really does make my brain hurt sometimes. “What happened?”

  “I met her in Environmental Law. Delaware Von Dover. We connected instantly.” Olivia is still swaying with the music. “I can almost feel her Swayze-ing my forearms as we speak.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Shocking. But our affair was cut short.”

  “Why?”

  She draws her hands back and examines her work. “The coronavirus.”

  “Ah.”

  “I told her I was vulnerable and had no choice but to cut the proverbial strings.”

  “I’m . . . sorry.”

  “She understood. And when I left for home, we made no promises to resume our relationship. For what is a promise in an uncertain world?”

  She lifts the vase and heads for a small pottery oven plugged into the corner.

  “Is that safe?” I ask, checking the room for fire alarms.

  She nods toward the far wall, where nine other vases stand in a line, all expertly crafted and painted with animals and hieroglyphs. They look like legitimate ancient artifacts.

  “When did you last sleep?” I say incredulously.

  “No clue,” she says, sounding like Olivia again. “The point is, I didn’t like Delaware any less. It wasn’t about our relationship. It was about a world going to shit, and I wasn’t selfish enough to think that my hormonal desires overruled that. Timing matters.”

  She turns back to me, cleaning her hands on her shorts.

  “And I’ll take a box of cookies. The—”

  “Chips Ahoy! chewy chocolate chip,” I mutter. “Got it.”

  “Make it two. Now please exit my sanctuary . . . I must prepare my painting supplies.”

  I head for the door, stop, and look back at her. “I hope it works out with Delaware.”

  “Oh, I made her up, you idiot. Delaware Von Dover from Delaware? Really . . . it’s like your brain stops working when you have a crush. It was a parable. I was at school. I had no time for flings.”

  “So—”

  “So keep your distance from Max. Love story or not . . . give me the coronavirus and I’ll kill you.”

  She shuts the door behind me and I sigh. Next time I’ll just text her.

  But her warning about Max lingers as I head downstairs. I want to say it’s ridiculous. Of course I’m not going to get the coronavirus from Max. But . . . why? Because I know her? Because I really, really want to be close to her? The truth is . . . Max is out there. She’s an essential worker and in the grocery store every single day and doing deliveries, and as shitty and unfair as it is, she is simply more likely to catch it than we are huddled up in the house. And Olivia knows that.

  I know that. But it’s Max. She’s smart and careful and we’re being careful too, minus a brief monkey bar incident, but . . . What if we weren’t? What if she showed up at the house today and knocked on the door and said: “Jonah I like you too and want to be your girlfriend.” That seems like a moment you kiss. What if she went in for a kiss . . . what would I do? Run away? Say no? It’s Max. I can barely think straight when she’s a disembodied head on my phone. I would definitely kiss her back.

  And . . . Olivia probably knows that too.

  So, yeah, I get her concern. We’ll just have to avoid any temptations. Like, you know, being within ten feet of each other, because let’s be honest, I would have kissed her on the monkey bars if she’d wanted to and . . . Shit. I really am an idiot.

  I head downstairs to make sure Kate doesn’t have any further additions, and I hear soft crying.

  I jump off the last few steps and peek into Kate’s home office. Sure enough, she is sitting at her desk, cell in front of her, and she’s crying. I didn’t even know she could cry.

  “What is it?” I ask, feeling my heart lodge itself in my throat.

  She looks up at me. “Your father isn’t coming home.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The three of us are gathered around the kitchen table. Dad is on Zoom, wearing a crisp suit in his hotel room (I’m pretty sure he sleeps in one), Olivia is picking at her teeth, and Kate is alternating between long breaths and then sudden, violent bursts of prosecutorial arguments.

  “But why can’t you just work from here—” she starts.

  “Company policy,” Dad cuts in calmly. “They just want us to wait it out for a bit. Besides, the merger isn’t done. Andy is sick and I’m not, so I’ve got to run the show over here. Once I’m cleared we’re resuming meetings—socially distant—and getting this done. Besides, I can’t just ship out when Andy is sick. I’ve got to see it through.”

  “For how long?” I ask, trying hard to be more understanding than Kate.

  I’m annoyed but not at all surprised. I love my dad, but he’s a company man to the core. Not to mention Andy is his best friend. I try to remind myself Dad doesn’t have COVID and is fine. But a part of me remembers that my dad makes bad decisions too. Or at least rushed ones.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Obviously if I test positive at some point we’re stuck, but . . .”

  Thanks, Dad.

  “It’s ridiculous!” Kate says. “You feel fine. You can close the deal remotely . . .”

  I know why she’s upset. She signed up for this deal for Pops . . . not for Olivia and me. Especially me. She likes Olivia. But now she’s stuck even longer without a reminder of why this neurotic teenaged boy is sitting at her dinner table. I can see her eyes flicking to me.

  “I’m sorry, everyone,” Dad says. “I have to stay for a while longer. It’ll be fine.”

  It’ll be fine. I hate that saying . . . probably because it’s the antithesis of anxiety’s go-to mantra of: You’re fucked. And I’m thinking now. About Dad catching COVID in Spain. About Olivia getting it here. About what I would do if either of them got really sick or worse.

  I can feel an ache forming at the back of my head. A tickle in the throat.

  “You all right?” Olivia asks quietly, while Dad tries to calm Kate down.

  “Yeah . . . fine.” She eyes me, and I feel myself spacing. I can’t listen to Kate yelling anymore. “Excuse me,” I manage, heading for my room. “Dad, I’ll call you later.”

  I make it to my bathroom and shut the door. I had a call with Dr. Syme yesterday, but his advice seemed a couple weeks late. He wanted me to remember my breathing strategies and challenge my fears, but those fears keep changing. My routines are gone. No organized sports six times a week to get my heart pumping. No daily itinerary to keep my brain preoccupied. And now no Dad, the calmest man alive, for who knows how long. All the things I used to fight my anxiety are gone except for my breathing tools and mindfulness, and to be honest, I really suck at both of them.

  Before I know it, I am retching air over the toilet, trying to breathe, feeling my heart pounding, cell phone beside me, ready to call 911 and tell them I am dying because maybe this time it’s for real. There is always a maybe.

  It’s a doozy. The attack subsides about twenty minutes later, but it feels like twenty hours, and I sit on the bathroom floor with my back against the cabinet and try to remember what it was like before this. Before the attacks started. Before they led to . . . everything else.

  The world teeters again.
<
br />   Jonah: You busy?

  Max: Not really. Just did my last delivery, so that’s a bonus. What’s up?

  Jonah: You sure? I don’t want to bother you if you’re busy.

  Max: That’s uncharacteristically thoughtful. Everything OK?

  Jonah: Yeah. Fine.

  Jonah: Well, not really.

  Max: ???

  Jonah: I probably didn’t mention this, because, you know, machismo. But I get panic attacks. Like a lot. I don’t even know why I’m telling you. Is it too late to delete this?

  Max: Yep. And I can’t possibly talk to you anymore, ye of unchecked anxiety

  Jonah: I’m serious.

  Max: So am I. I always preferred emotionally catatonic guys who bottle up their rage.

  Jonah: Oh.

  Max: Even for a text, I thought that was pretty obviously sarcastic. You can talk to me.

  Jonah: My dad’s stuck in Madrid. Maybe for months.

  Max: Yikes. Is he okay?

  Jonah: So far. I don’t know . . . it just kind of put me over the top.

  Max: I know what you mean.

  Jonah: Thanks again for meeting me at the park. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.

  Max: All right . . . this is way too much self-awareness. Who is this?

  Jonah: Pitiable post panic attack Jonah Stephens.

  Max: Well I’ve got to head back home. Talk soon?

  Jonah: Sounds good.

  The day is slowly dying as I lie back on the bed, phone propped on my chest. But a little knot works its way back in. We still barely know each other. Did I really need to mention the anxiety? Do I look like a charity case? A cry for help? I chew on a nail.

  Ashley was Miss Positivity. She never wanted to talk about any of this—anxiety, panic attacks. She always redirected it to something else. “Maybe you ate something bad” or “You’re probably just worried about that test.”

  What if that’s the normal response? What if people don’t want to hear about this stuff? What if I just gave Max another reason to stay over there?

  “Shit,” I murmur, flinging the phone onto the carpet.

  I lie here, wallowing—yes, I know I’m wallowing—and ignore a few beeps. Carlos has been trying to get me to leave the house and come kick the ball around, despite the many reminders that my apparently hypocritical dictator won’t let me leave. The phone starts to ring. I sigh deeply.

  “Carlos, man,” I groan, rolling off the bed and checking the screen.

  It’s Max. I scoop it up, fumbling it all the way to my ear. “Hello?”

  “From here. Hey, have you ever heard of Windex?”

  I scramble to my window and there.

  She.

  Is.

  Max is sitting up on the hood of her rusty red Civic, ripped jeans and worn-out shoes, sunglasses on, blue mask I haven’t seen before looped around her neck, phone pressed to her ear.

  “. . . Hi . . .” I manage.

  “Were you ignoring me?”

  I pull the window open, sliding the fading greeting above my head. “Definitely not.”

  “I figured you could use a visit. But stay up there this time. No more monkey business.”

  I think I’m supposed to laugh, but I’m leaning halfway out the window, and she’s taking a sip of iced coffee through a straw, and I have now forgotten how to do conversation.

  “You drove all the way here? For me?”

  “I was in the neighborhood, as they say . . . and I needed some air.” She takes another sip and leans back against the glass. “So next week is back to reality, I guess, with school and everything.”

  “Virtual reality. Does that count?”

  “You know, I thought virtual reality would involve more hover cars.”

  “Yet another disappointment this year,” I say.

  “Speaking of disappointments, did I tell you my spring formal dress was red? I look good in red.”

  “I bet you do.” I’m still leaning pretty far out the window, braced on my elbows. For some reason, talking like this feels closer. Even closer than last night. Her voice is in my ear, and she’s right there, framed by green grass and palm trees and the fountain cherub and the bright ginger halo of the last remnants of sun.

  “I’m trying to distract you, by the way,” she says. “How am I doing?”

  “A-plus in my book.”

  She sighs. “It all feels kind of petty and stupid, though. Oh no, I don’t get to wear my red dress and pretend to be in love with Rick for photographic posterity and—”

  I cough. “Rick what now?”

  I’m pretty sure I can see her flushing from here. “We were supposed to go together before . . . well . . . the emoji incident. I didn’t technically find a replacement yet. You?”

  “I had . . . thought about finding one,” I say, trying to also subliminally say . . . you?

  “Ours was supposed to have been next week.”

  “I’m not really cheering you up, am I? I totally suck at moral support, FYI.”

  “Actually, wallowing is kind of the only thing that helps,” I admit.

  She stares up at the sky. “I can’t believe that it’s just over, you know? I know we get another year . . . it’s not like the seniors, who don’t even get a goodbye. But what’s going to happen next year? What if we don’t get to go back to normal? Can you imagine? Ugh. Okay, no more wallowing. I retire.”

  “I’d still like to see the dress.”

  Max laughs. “Shut up. You get me in all my work attire glory.” She pushes the mask over her mouth, muffling her voice. “I get to wear this on deliveries now. If that’s not fashion, I don’t know what is.”

  “Max,” I say, “will you go out with me?”

  She lowers the mask. “What?”

  “Like . . . be my girlfriend. You know. Formally. But also virtually, I guess.”

  “Is this because I mentioned Rick—”

  “It’s because of you,” I cut in, leaning so far out the window, I might be joining the koi soon. “I’ve wanted to ask you from the second—for a while now.”

  She stares at me for a moment, and then takes a long sip of her iced coffee. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  “I need you to meet my friends first. It’s like a firewall.”

  “Done. Not to brag . . . but I kind of kick ass at interviews.”

  “We’ll see about that. I trust them implicitly. If they don’t approve, then we will quickly part ways. Got it?”

  “I like you, Max.”

  “I think that was implied,” she says, and I see a smile tugging on the corner of her lips, even from here.

  “Like, I’m about to literally fall head over heels out this window like you.”

  “Please don’t.” She chews on her lip. “You can join our next game night.”

  “And if they love me?”

  The corner of her mouth pulls the rest into a smile again. “Then maybe.”

  chapter eleven

  MAX

  You are now joining a meeting . . .

  “You look nice,” Dannie says to me. On-screen, she’s tied her red bandanna around the base of a messy bun. There’s something that looks suspiciously like mushy avocado stuck in her hair.

  We set the Zoom meeting for ten minutes before we asked Jonah to join because obviously something like this requires a briefing. Imani has just kicked her scrawny older brother out of her chair, but Big Paw and Sweets are still milling around like background actors. Not that Imani thinks anything of it. She told me once she rarely gets to shower without someone barging in to use the bathroom. “Four people, one toilet, just how it is.” She’d shrugged. “Sometimes we get into whole conversations.” Was it weird to feel a tiny bit jealous of that? Like, yeah, I know, there should be a
time and a place, but at least in her place, there’s company.

  I hold out the hem of my black-and-white striped T-shirt with its fat cat enamel pin stuck on the pocket and a damp braid draped over my collarbone. “I look regular,” I say to Dannie.

  “I didn’t say you don’t look nice regularly,” she retorts. “I’m just giving you a compliment. You know, to boost your confidence.”

  Which only makes me wonder whether I look like somebody who needs a confidence boost. “Just be cool, okay?”

  “I’m low-key offended,” Imani says.

  “Yeah,” agrees Dannie. “When are we ever not cool? I mean, look at me.” She slides on a pair of oversized sunglasses and pushes her lips into a pout.

  “See?” Imani gestures at Dannie. “It’s going to be fine. You act like we’ve never interacted with human beings before.”

  “I just need a second opinion. That’s it.” I mean, don’t I? I’ve never been known to rush anything, let alone my feelings. I’ve got a good head on my shoulders. Mom says she didn’t even have to babyproof, that’s how careful and rational I am. But then again, apparently not careful and practical enough not to have practically held hands with Jonah over a set of monkey bars and—okay—it was only for a second, but I don’t even want to say what I thought during that second. (Fine, I liked it.) So, yeah, maybe I’ve got some hang-ups. Who doesn’t?

  “Oh, okay, so something’s seriously wrong with this boy.” Imani leans in like this is the part where it’s about to get good. “You’re embarrassed of him. Is he a high school dropout? Does he wear matching sweaters with his mom? With cats? Do you remember when you had a thing for that kid who responded to questions through his puppet?”

  “His name was Marcus and he was very ta—I’m not embarrassed.”

  “I didn’t think you got embarrassed.” Dannie pounds her puffed-out chest. “I’m Max. Don’t call me Maxine. Soooooo tough.”

  “Actually, I think something’s come up.” I hike a thumb over my shoulder.

  “No way, nuh-uh.” Imani wags her finger. “You can’t back out now. We’re doing this. And don’t expect to be let off easy. We’re in it. This is about to be a shared experience.”