I told her if she wore one of her T-shirts, I’d wear my scarf that looks like a tablecloth and, surprise, surprise, we both did! Hers was a math-nerd joke: Dear X, Forget finding Y. She’s not coming back. When we saw each other we both laughed and flashed a thumbs-up.
I realize wearing a scarf isn’t a giant achievement, but it’s not nothing, either.
Now David has been back for a week, and I’ve had the funny feeling that maybe Eileen wants to say something to me. I’ve caught her looking at me in class, though not for long. When I catch her eye, she quickly looks away, but I can’t tell if it’s anger or regret that’s fueling these looks.
Even though David said she wanted to go, neither of us has been back to dance class at Starlight. I’ve tried to tell her how sorry I was a few times, but the closest she’s come to acknowledging me or the friendship I thought we had was when we were alone in the hall and she said, “I can’t really talk to you. I’m not allowed.”
As far as I understood, the lawsuit was over but maybe that wasn’t the issue. She walked away too quickly for me to say any more. I’ve thought about writing her an email or a text, but how can I possibly express my regret in a handful of words? I know that she sometimes made fun of her brother, but I also know that she loved him and depended on him more than anyone else—even, in many ways, her parents. I know this because he felt the same way about her.
They might not have seemed close to outsiders, but they were. What I did with David scared her, more than any of her own risky stunts. If I tried to explain—we thought we were being careful, we brought his oxygen—none of it would matter against the simple fact that she almost lost him.
She was standing outside the art classroom the one time I thought we might speak to each other. Then she moved really quickly up the hall away from me, like she was scared that I was coming to confront her. I wanted to reassure her—I have to be in this hallway. I’m taking classes here now.
Chapter Seventeen
DAVID
IT TAKES ME a week to figure it out because I don’t let myself look around the school cafeteria too much. I still go into sensory overload every time I walk in—the smells, the noise, all the people. Usually I don’t do too much more than grab my lunch and walk to my old table where my friends make more room for me than they technically need to because they’re all still a little nervous around me.
I keep my eyes on the ground, so I won’t see people staring or notice anyone whispering to their friend. “There he is. The guy who almost died.”
That’s why it’s taken me so long to notice: Jamie is sitting with the old friends she hated.
I watch for a few days to be sure I’m right, and I am. I can even guess which one Missy is: slightly heavyset, louder than the rest, being watched by the others. The only one not watching Missy is Jamie, who eats quietly and stares into her reusable lunch bag.
How can she be sitting with girls she hates? Like so many other things these days, it makes me mad. I remember one of my favorite things about Jamie being how little she seemed to care about appearances. I didn’t say I was looking for friends, I said I don’t have any. There’s a difference. Her sitting with these girls makes me sad until it occurs to me: maybe I can help, or at least make sure they appreciate Jamie. If there’s one good thing about the phony popularity of an elected student council position, it means maybe I can shake up a table of wannabe, uncool tenth graders.
Before I think about it too much, I get up from my own table and walk over.
“Where are you going?” Sharon calls behind me. “If you need something I can get it.”
I shake my head without answering. No, thanks, Sharon. I’m fine.
“Hi, girls,” I say, sliding into an empty spot at the table, across from Jamie.
She looks up, surprised at first and then something else. I’m not sure what comes over me, but I know this much: Jamie is smarter, braver, and more original than all these girls combined. They need to know it. She needs to know it.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to talk to Jamie for a second.” I make eye contact with each of them. I save Jamie for last. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking. I used to be able to read her expressions, but I can’t anymore. Apparently, in this setting, our personalities are reprogrammed. I’m only just becoming aware of this fact, with the help of my new lungs and my new lease on life.
“I didn’t get a chance to thank Jamie for all her help while I was in the hospital, and I want to do it now. She is pretty incredible. I don’t know if you guys realize that or not. She’s really smart, and I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to talk about old movies with her but you totally should. You should also watch some of her recommendations. They’re awesome. No comparison to the crap we’re watching today.”
Judging by the silence that follows this little speech, it’s possible I’m not helping her at all. It’s possible I’m making her life worse.
“We like Jamie fine,” Missy finally says. “There isn’t any problem, so we’re not sure what you’re talking about.”
The “we” is kind of sinister considering no one has said anything.
“Great then!” I say. “As long as you all know you’re lucky to have her as a friend, I don’t need to stay.”
I half stand from the table, except I can’t go. The angry, drunk man in my head will punch me out if I walk away now. I lean across the table so my face is inches from Jamie’s ear. “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you, Jamie, and I’m also sorry I haven’t thanked you before now. I’m on a bunch of medications at the moment. They screw up my concentration and my ability to modulate my emotions. I can’t seem to say what I want to these days. I’m not even sure if ‘modulate’ is a word. Do you know? Is ‘modulate’ a word?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “It is.”
She’s mad, I’m pretty sure. I want to ask her if she’d mind leaving this table so we could talk privately somewhere, but I’m not sure where we’d go, since no place in this whole school is private, the way the hospital was. I’m also not sure she would even go. Suddenly, she seems really mad.
I lean even closer. I can smell her hair and peanut butter on her breath. I need to say something more before I walk away, but I’m not sure what it is. “Can I email you tonight?” I whisper. “Or message you. Would that be okay?”
My brain is so messed up I can’t remember if we texted or emailed or what we did when we joked around online at night.
“Yes,” she whispers. “But you should leave now.”
Every girl at the table is staring at me. Not in a good way. They aren’t impressed that the senior class president, the guy who got a round of cheering last week for being alive, has come over to endorse Jamie.
“Fine,” I say, too loud. Now I’m mad, too. “I’ll leave, but, Jamie, I have to say, I hope sitting here is just a temporary arrangement for you. You’re better than these people. Way better.”
That’s when I feel a hand on my back and hear Sharon’s voice behind me. “It’s time to come back to our table, David. Ashwin has something he wants to talk to you about.”
I swing around and face her. The angry voice in my head is getting louder because this is what she’s been doing ever since I came back to school. It’s time to go to class, David. Do you remember where you’re going? Have you taken your pills? Remember, you don’t get so cold these days. You don’t really need to wear that sweater.
When your brain is wrapped in a fog like it’s wearing the sweaters that Sharon keeps insisting I don’t need, your first response is gratitude. Thank you for explaining what I should be doing. Thank you for updating me on cool clothing choices and my body temperatures. It’s a lot to keep track of when my thoughts feel like they’re trapped in Jell-O cubes these days.
All last week I thanked her. Now I say loud enough for everyone to hear, “Fuck off, Sharon. Give me a break. I’m talking to a friend for one more minute and then I’ll come back.”
She lau
ghs as if this is part of some inside joke we have—her bossiness, me snapping back—but it isn’t one of our jokes. She and I both know it. I’ve never said anything like this to her before.
She moves away with a smile still frozen on her face. I don’t know what I just did or how many more enemies I want to make.
I turn back to Jamie. I realize what I’ve really wanted to say to her—the truth that I’m only just now unearthing from the fog and the confusion it’s been hiding behind. I whisper, “I need to talk to you, Jamie. I don’t remember what happened before my surgery.”
She looks surprised. “You don’t?”
“I remember going to the movies but nothing after that. I know we went to the social, but after that, it’s all gray.”
She stares at me. “You want me . . . to tell you?”
“Not here . . . but yes. I want to know.”
JAMIE
I have to wait for our movie to end before I can go online and look to see if I have a message from David. I’m not being paranoid. My mother has been very clear: I am really and truly not allowed to communicate electronically with David.
“I mean it,” she said the first time she laid down the rule, in the same conversation when she told me he was recovering pretty well from his transplant and would get released to rehab soon. “Recovering from surgery like this will take all his energy. He can’t have any drama in his life. He needs to concentrate on himself and not worry about anyone else, including you. I’ll worry about you. And you can worry about you. But the most important thing for you to do to help his recovery is to not complicate his life. That means no emails or texts. Nothing. Understand?”
I told her I did.
For four months I haven’t done anything more than scroll through Instagram updates from Sharon and his other friends, tagging pictures of him:
First walk after surgery!
First meal!
Coming home!
In most of the pictures, Sharon is by his side. Eileen is in only one, but that’s also the only picture where David is laughing. She’s sitting on his bed beside him, showing him something on her phone, and they’re both laughing.
At eleven fifteen, when the movie is finally over and my mother is in bed, I open my laptop and find an email written at four this afternoon.
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: You
Dear Jamie:
First of all, I’m sorry for ambushing you at your lunch table like that. I know I keep mentioning these medications I’m on, but they mess with my brain, and it’s hard for me to have normal conversations. I came over there wanting to say hi to you and apologize for being so lame the first time you came up to me at school. I promise I didn’t mean to yell at your friends or embarrass you the way I probably did.
I just kept thinking, these girls don’t deserve to be your friend. They really don’t. Not that I know them well, obviously, but I remember what you told me about them at Denny’s, and I just keep thinking, “Why is Jamie sitting here pretending to like these fucking people?”
Because I have to sit somewhere, David.
Because being alone all day, every day, might seem intriguing or romantic in your mind, but it’s really not.
Of course I can’t say this. I also can’t say, Because I can’t figure out how to talk to Eileen. I see he’s online and IM him back:
ME: Does this medicine make you swear more or something? You sound like a different person.
DAVID: I hope I’m not a different person, but yes, it makes me edgy in a way that some people are having a little trouble with.
ME: Like who?
DAVID: You can probably guess.
ME: Your parents?
DAVID: Among others.
ME: Sharon?
DAVID: Yes.
ME: Eileen?
DAVID: No, interestingly. Eileen loves my new gutter mouth.
ME: You shouldn’t have yelled at my friends at lunch. I understand why you did, but it was embarrassing for both of us.
DAVID: I was trying to help you. And save you from years of soul-destroying fake friendship. You’re better than those girls.
ME: Thank you for that, but it’s better to let me decide these things. Some of those girls are a little toxic, but not all of them. I’m trying to change my ways and not judge everyone by association. I like some of them. You coming over and saying all that stuff made them think I’m still obsessed with something that happened last year. It also made them think I’ve been talking about it with everyone, which isn’t true.
DAVID: You’re right. I’m sorry. Have I mentioned this medication makes me do crazy things?
ME: Yes.
Neither one of us types anything for a while. I’m not sure what else to say, because nothing is simple. He says he doesn’t remember what happened at the social, which means even if he says he wants to be friends the way we were in the hospital, we can’t be really, because our friendship changed that night. I wanted to kiss him. I still do. Pretending I don’t will never work. I’d feel hurt every time I had to watch him sit next to Sharon, which would happen every day, because she never lets him out of her sight.
I might not have much experience to draw from, but I know a no-win situation when I see one. Every time I watch him climb out of Sharon’s car from my seat on the school bus, I understand that our differences are greater than whatever bonded us for six weeks. He has two months left of school. I have . . . the end of this year and two more years after that.
He’s already gone, and I’m still here.
Even if he writes me charming, funny notes, I don’t want to go back to the friendship we had. I don’t want to wait for emails to come in. I don’t want to check my phone every two minutes. I don’t want to care the way I once did, when it only got me in trouble.
Even as I think all this, though, I know the real reason is scarier and hard for me to consider. I don’t want to go back to that place where I cared about him so much I wanted to die.
ME: So how are you doing? Is it nice to have new lungs?
DAVID: It’s great and strange and overwhelming and scary. It’s a lot of things at once.
ME: Why scary?
DAVID: Because I keep thinking they’ll stop working. It took me a month to go outside without an oxygen tank even though the doctors kept saying I didn’t need one. I just didn’t feel safe. I still don’t, really.
ME: You will. You have to push it a little so you keep surprising yourself.
DAVID: Is that what you’ve done?
ME: Actually yes. After you got so sick and all the lawyers were saying it was my fault, I got depressed again. I couldn’t go to school for two weeks. It was pretty bad.
This is the first time I’ve said this to anyone besides Rita or my mom. Not that I was depressed (I’ve told Bethany and my new friend, MaryAnn, at school), but that I feel okay now. Like maybe that episode might be behind me. I know my depression won’t go away. It’s a matter of containing the episodes. Saying this helps me feel like I’ve done that with this one.
DAVID: I know. I’m so sorry about all that. None of it was your fault. My parents never should have hired that lawyer. They’re worried that my expenses will keep going up and we’ll need money. It’s not a good excuse, but that’s the only one they have.
ME: It’s not a terrible excuse. It sucks sometimes, having no money. And worrying about it.
DAVID: Did your mom have to spend money hiring a lawyer?
ME: No. It got dropped pretty quickly when they read our threads.
DAVID: Did they ever apologize to you?
ME: No, but that’s okay. They need to think about protecting you. I understand that.
DAVID: They have no clue what I really need, though. They still think I should go to college next year.
I think about how much school he missed.
ME: Are you still graduating on time?
DAVID: Yeah. It
turns out I almost had enough credits to graduate at the end of last year. Weird but true. You don’t need as many as you think.
I already know this from hearing Mary Ann’s plans to graduate early. It’s a good option to keep in the back of my mind.
ME: What will you do next? Do you know yet?
DAVID: Turns out my parents sent my college applications in while I was sick.
ME: Didn’t they know you wanted to wait a year?
DAVID: They thought I shouldn’t limit my options.
I remember how determined he seemed about waiting on college and “charting his own path.” It seems a little sad that he’s forgotten that now.
ME: Have you heard back yet?
DAVID: Yes. I got in everywhere. I guess being in a coma gets you points with the admissions people.
ME: Wow. Do you know where you’ll go?
DAVID: Sometimes I feel like starting a big trash can fire at school so I’ll get expelled and I won’t have to go anywhere. I’m telling you, these mood swings are intense.
ME: I should probably go. My mom really doesn’t want me messaging with you. She thinks you need to concentrate on getting well and you shouldn’t worry or feel guilty about me.
DAVID: Funny. I don’t feel guilty about you. Should I?
ME: No. That’s exactly her point. You shouldn’t.
DAVID: Mostly what I feel is that I miss our chats. Is it okay to feel that?
ME: Probably not, since I’m not supposed to chat with you.
DAVID: Does she check your phone?
ME: No.
DAVID: So maybe texting is okay once in a while.
ME: Maybe.
DAVID: Can I ask you one more question?
ME: Okay.
DAVID: What happened that night we went to the social?
ME: You got really sick. It was terrible and scary.
DAVID: But what about before. Did we have a good time?
Just Breathe Page 21
