Early Departures

by Justin A. Reynolds

I grin. “You tell me.”

  She slips our embrace and walks out of the room.

  “Hey,” I call after her. But she doesn’t answer. I hear the front door open and close. I walk into the front hall and she’s gone. I race to the door, yank it open, and step outside. I don’t see her. I move toward the driveway; her car’s there.

  “Hey,” she calls out from behind me. “Who you looking for?”

  I whirl around slowly, like I’ve taken ten paces and now I’m drawing my gun. I play it cool. Mad casual. “I was just getting the mail.”

  “Oh, that’s disappointing.”

  “You left me.”

  “You asked me if that shit worked.”

  “So you just leave?”

  “It was funnier in my head,” she admits.

  I smile. “Damn, I want that on my tomb.”

  17

  Ms. B calls to say we’ve been warned by Mr. O that this trip shouldn’t happen.

  Whit puts her on speakerphone, so we can both hear. “What exactly did he say? And how’d he even know?”

  Ms. B says she told him as a heads-up, asked if he had any advice on how to care for Q.

  “He said that without knowing when Q will . . . this trip is too dangerous. That not only shouldn’t Q go at all, but I should reconsider the hard cap. That I needed to consider Q’s interests and not just my own. But I told him I didn’t care what he thought, or what the Center believed. That a mom knows what’s best for her son. That I want my son’s last moments on this planet to be some of the best he’s had.”

  And I know I’m the last one to object, considering I’m kinda why we’re in this mess to begin with, but I have to ask. “What if . . . what if this trip is a bad idea? What if we’re wrong?”

  “Death happens when it happens, and talking about it, or planning for it, changes not a single damn thing. If our families don’t know that, after all that’s happened to us, then who does?”

  Day 5

  <30 Q Hours Left

  16

  We cram ourselves and our overnight bags into Ms. Barrantes’s sedan. We leave early, our departure time fully cushioned, only to watch all of our padding disintegrate in a heart-in-throat instant, Ms. Barrantes practically standing on the brake pedal to prevent us from slamming into the stopped van ahead of us.

  Yo, if we were playing curse word bingo, all five of us would’ve been winners, waving our arms victoriously in the air, Ms. Barrantes rapid-firing words I’m not even sure are profane.

  “Everyone okay?” she says, glancing at each of us. “What the hell are they even working on?”

  Ahead of us, a field of orange cones and orange barrels cuts unwelcome polygons into the highway, as men wearing flashlight helmets point at the road and put their hands on their hips, the four-lane highway boa-constrictored to one pathetically skinny shoulder.

  Whit opens a traffic app on her phone. “Traffic’s backed up for a quarter mile.”

  Ms. Barrantes wags her head. “Nuh-uh” is all she says as she whips the car to the right and onto the center median, narrowly avoiding an orange cone massacre, before leaning into the gas and obstacle-coursing the fuck out of the construction zone. The construction crew’s faces look horrified as they dive out of the way; but she wasn’t close to hitting them. Well, not that close.

  “Damn, Ms. B, you a stuntwoman in your spare time?” Autumn asks.

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Mom,” Q yells from the back seat. “Hell yeah!”

  “Who says brown people don’t like NASCAR,” she says, winking at us in the rearview mirror. Ten minutes later, we spill out of the car and into the airport security line, Ms. Barrantes slipping her keys and cash to the valet without a hitch in her stride. Naturally, our gate is C29, which could just as easily be renamed the Oregon Trail, it’s that long of a hike.

  The gate attendant tags our bags because there’s no more storage on the plane, and she looks like she wants to say something when she sees Whit’s belly, but instead she phones the crew we’re finally here and shoos us down the jetway. We fall into our seats, Q and his mom together, Whit and Autumn, and me alone.

  I took the solo seat even though Autumn argued she should.

  So now I’m in the middle seat, right next to the engine so my entire body vibrates and I can’t hear myself think for the relentless hum, and the cherry?

  I have zero armrest real estate.

  But it doesn’t matter. I spot the back of Q’s head, the side of his mom’s as she looks at her son in a way no one has to teach you when you have sacrifice your life love, and I’m reminded that what I did, telling Q the truth, didn’t belong to me.

  That it was selfish. And holier-than-thou. And reckless.

  And even if he’s determined to pretend he’s okay, Q shouldn’t have to shuffle through his last days in fear and gloom.

  He deserves peace, which is sometimes better than truth.

  And yeah, if I don’t tell Q the truth, we’re probably not here: thirty thousand feet in the air, cruising toward his dreams, a flight so smooth it’s like turbulence is officially extinct.

  But that wasn’t my call to make.

  The truth is you can never truly make amends for the hurt you cause; you apologize, you try to atone, at best the scars lighten but they don’t disappear.

  You live with the pain that you pained someone.

  The lady in the seat next to me elbows me in the ribs, but I don’t feel a thing.

  At the hotel we split into two groups.

  Whit, Autumn, and me in one room. Q and his mom in another.

  We have to practically lock Whit in our room to get her to rest; the plane ride and all of the last-minute running around wiped her out, but she was determined to stay in the game. Only Ms. Barrantes’s nursing expertise convinces Whit to take a nap, to get off her feet.

  So we set up our plan-making committee in Q’s room.

  Our plan is simple.

  We’ll construct an assortment of handwritten signs that Kendrick will be unable to resist, let alone ignore. He’ll see the signs, all singing Q’s praises, along with special emphasis on Q’s undying love and admiration for Kendrick, and badda-boom badda-bing!

  But okay, a couple of minor obstacles to consider.

  Minor obstacle number one: while assumptions are usually ill-fated, I assume that signage, even of a happy-if-slightly-solicitous nature, is probably frowned upon at the show. And understandably so; you wouldn’t want a bunch of weirdos flashing signs at Kendrick while he’s trying to get through his monologue.

  But this, for my money, seemed to be a minor setback, easily remedied: we’d smuggle our signs into the studio under our clothes and/or bags and/or purses, then remove them from said articles at the optimal time, accompanied by a combination of jumping up and down at seats and wave-fluttering our permanent-markered pleas.

  Minor obstacle number two: I seem to be the only one who understands the vital importance of these signs.

  See for yourself:

  Autumn:

  Whit:

  Ms. Barrantes:

  Q LOVES YOU, KENDRICK! PLEASE LET HIM TELL A JOKE! KENDRICK, Q CHALLENGES YOU TO A STAND-UP-OFF! MAY THE FUNNIEST HUMAN WIN! YOU’RE A CRAZY MAN IF YOU DON’T LET MY SON ON YOUR SHOW!!

  Our signs should be inspirational, yes—but also should evoke the feelings you might have as you read a ransom note instructing you what to do if you ever want to see your loved one.

  Hence, my sign:

  MY GOOD FRIEND QUINCY WILL LITERALLY DIE IN TWO DAYS UNLESS YOU LET HIM ON YOUR SHOW.

  Which I think walks the line brilliantly: it’s in good taste, the tone is spot-on, but also it’s just direct enough that its message is unmistakable.

  “But J, I’m going to die no matter what,” Quincy had argued when I’d proudly held up my work. “That feels sorta . . . manipulative.”

  “I stand by my sign, Q.”

  “But it’s essentially a lie.”

  “I said what I said.” I r
each over to his work space. “Let me see yours.”

  He holds it up.

  KENDRICK, YOU ARE THE REASON I LOVE COMEDY. SO MANY TIMES YOU MADE ME LAUGH THROUGH MY TEARS. YOU ARE NOT JUST MY COMIC INSPIRATION. YOU ARE UNDENIABLY HILARIOUS OFC, BUT I THINK YOUR GREATEST TALENT IS YOUR ABILITY TO TRULY SEE PEOPLE. YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HUMAN. TO UPLIFT AND UPBUILD EACH OTHER. YOU ARE WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE WHEN AMAZING WORDS COLLIDE WITH ACTION. THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING.

  “I mean, it’s okay,” I say. “But you don’t list your demands. Like, I think it’s lacking that oomph.”

  “I think it’s great,” Autumn says. “If someone held up this sign for me, I’d melt where I stood.”

  “Except the idea isn’t to melt him. We’re trying to get Q on the show. Besides, how is Kendrick supposed to read all of that from the stage? It’s like Handwriting font size ten.”

  Q coughs. Then coughs more.

  “You okay, man?” Autumn asks.

  “I just feel a little dizzy. And my throat’s itchy. I think maybe a cold’s coming.” Q coughs again, this time semiviolently, then finally clears his throat. “I didn’t want to say anything before, J, because I can tell how much this means to you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We all know I’m not gonna be on Later Tonight, right?”

  “We don’t know that. He’s brought audience members on stage before. There’s dozens of clips on TuberOne.”

  Q shakes his head. “Yeah, but what are the odds he does that this show, and even if he does, that he chooses me? But it’s okay. That’s not what this trip is about for me. I just wanted to be there in the same space as my comedic hero. I wanted to see him work, feel his energy, laugh at his jokes in real time.”

  “Which will all happen, but . . .”

  “But you know what the absolute best part of all this is?” Q asks.

  “The prospect of Kendrick melting on live TV?”

  “Being here with you guys. Spending my last few hours on this planet surrounded by the people I love, who are sacrificing to help me do this thing that I love. Honestly, I could die right now and be happy.”

  And if it had been up to me, this might’ve dissolved into some tearful exchange where we discussed the purpose of life or whatever.

  But instead Autumn throws her arms around us both. “Aww, the love in this place is fucking humid. I love it.”

  And we group-hug like nobody’s business.

  And we make it our business to group-hug.

  Ten minutes later Ms. Barrantes bursts into the room holding a brown paper bag with grease ovals on either side, like armpit stains.

  “Someone order pad kee mao?”

  And I guess Whit hears our enthusiastic affirmation in our adjacent room because she’s knocking at the door a minute later, looking less tired but more hungry.

  “Angeles sends his love,” Whit says, taking a seat in the desk chair.

  Q smiles. “Is there a better guy than that dude?”

  “No way,” Whit says, slightly swiveling her chair toward Q, then to me. “But I can think of a couple guys who are just as good.”

  And we pass the containers around, dishing noodles and chicken and crispy duck and lots and lots of veggies, and it’s nice. To not be planning anything for a few minutes.

  To be quiet.

  To let things settle where they fall.

  15

  EMILIO HAS ARRIVED.

  I get a notification our car’s in front of the hotel.

  Turns out Later Tonight is taped at one in the afternoon, go figure.

  “You got the tickets, right,” Whit asks me not for the first time since we’ve gotten into the car.

  “I got them. Sheesh. A little trust maybe?”

  Q goes on another one of his coughing jags, but then finally manages a big laugh, which I feel all of, each laughter vibration, because we’re squished together in the back seat, he, Ms. Barrantes, Autumn, and me. My pregnant sister nice and comfy in the front passenger seat.

  And sometimes this is how life works. You’re in a car with people you love, you’re happy, you’re singing—you can’t imagine anything different. You’ll never run out of gas. All your favorite songs will play one after another. You’re smiling, waving at the cars you pass and the cars that pass you. You don’t know if the sun is truly shining or if it’s just the way you feel inside. Either way, you’re warm. You’re full.

  We get to the studio where they film Later Tonight and there’s a door marked Studio Audience Guests Enter Here.

  “That’s us,” I say, holding open the door for everyone.

  Autumn claps her hands together. “I’m getting excited.”

  “Me too,” Q says. “Not gonna lie, this is pretty cool.”

  “Just everybody stick to the plan.”

  We all nod our agreement.

  “Should we huddle up and do that thing where we each put a hand in the middle and then in unison say something semi-inspirational before throwing our respective hands in the air?” I ask.

  “Well, yeah, but I think it would’ve been better if we’d just done it, rather than you breaking down each step,” Autumn says.

  “Yeah, I agree,” Whit says. “I like this girl.”

  “I third that,” Q says. “Organic huddles are the best huddles.”

  “I think it’s fine if we still do it, Jamal. I don’t think you ruined anything,” Ms. Barrantes says with a wink.

  “Hmph, thank you. At least someone gets me.”

  “Wah wah,” Whit says, pretending to cry. “Is that whining coming from inside my stomach?”

  I roll my eyes. Stick my hand out. “You guys in?”

  “In,” everyone says, stacking their hands on top.

  “Okay, Get Q on Stage on three,” I direct. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

  “Get Q on Stage,” we all shout with conviction, our hands lifting into the air.

  Tickets scanned, we take our seats. The lights dim and the audience claps as if our lives depend on our enthusiasm. And out skips Kendrick. Each time he smiles, it’s like he’s yanking a sheet off a blanketed object and revealing something special. Each locced dread falling away from his face like the frozen trajectories of so many skipped stones. Black skin so smooth if you ran your fingers across his arm left and then right, it would change texture like velvet. Okay, maybe that’s not true, but what is true is Kendrick’s got mad gravitational pull. Before he said one word, you already wanted to like him.

  Soon as he launches into his three-minute monologue, I give the team the signal and we work on removing our signs from their hiding places.

  But there’s something we hadn’t anticipated.

  How dark it is.

  We wave the signs, even make them flutter, but if Kendrick (or anyone other than the people seated behind us) notices, no one says anything. Kendrick doesn’t bat an eye.

  Eventually, everyone drops their signs to their laps. I keep trying though. Waiting for the lights to change. Waiting for our luck to change.

  But nothing.

  I stand up, and Whit tugs on my shirt. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to get his attention.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Yeah, sit down, kid,” a man behind us says. “You’re not supposed to have posters, anyway.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t see how this is any of your business. I’m trying to do something important for my friend here and if you’d . . .”

  “Sir, sir, we need you to come with us,” a man says, who has materialized at the end of our row. As he aims his flashlight at my face, I catch the word SECURITY embroidered on his shirt and hat.

  “What did I do wrong?”

  “You’re causing a disturbance. Other guests are complaining.”

  “We’re all together. If he goes, we all go,” Autumn chimes.

  But the security guard shrugs. Waves his flashlight at all of us. “Fine, let’s go, all of you.”
r />   “No, wait,” I say. “Wait. Just take me. They didn’t do anything. It was all me.”

  “Listen, I don’t care if it’s just you or the whole lot.”

  I turn back to the others. “I don’t want Q to miss the show. He has to see the show.”

  “I don’t wanna see it without you,” Q says. “This was your idea.”

  I shrug, because there’s no way I’m letting Q down today. “Nah, I’m actually more partial to Much Later Tonight anyway.”

  “Jason, what’s going on up there?” says a voice I’ve heard so many times on TV but never in person. I look down at the stage and there’s Kendrick cupping his hand above his eyes, squinting, as he fights off the spotlights.

  The security guard—Jason, apparently—shakes his head. “Sorry, boss. We’ll be out of the way in a moment.”

  In a moment.

  And it dawns on me, why can’t this be the moment?

  Kendrick nods and is about to turn around when I yell out:

  “Kendrick, sir, I’m so incredibly sorry to interrupt your show! You’re brilliant and funny and you seem like an awesome human, which is why we’re here! Why we came here to see you because . . .”

  Kendrick offers the faintest wave—he’s unmoved. This is a speech he’s heard before, can recite from memory, only he’d write it better. “Thank you for coming,” he says, walking toward the stage wings.

  “Wait, Kendrick! My friend is sick! He’s gonna die in a couple of days and all he wanted, the only thing, was to come see you! Please, please, just give him a second of your time. Please. I’m begging you.”

  Kendrick pauses, turns his head back to us. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Q! Quincy!”

  “Quincy, you up there?”

  Quincy nods but doesn’t move—if Q were a cartoon his pupils would be two black spirals spinning, like when someone’s hypnotized.

  “Feel free to talk, Quincy,” Kendrick says, laughing.

  “You’re my comedic hero.”

  “Thank you, Quincy. And thank you for using your last . . . thank you for coming all this way from . . .”