by Lacey Dailey
“Baby, that’s college level Chemistry. Clearly, you know what you’re doing.”
I flip a page with a sad sigh. “Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean it’s fun.”
He lifts his own textbook. “Want to trade?”
“Kind of.”
His smile is silly. He bops me on the nose with the book and lets it fall back on the mattress with a thud. “Learning is supposed to be stimulating but twiddling my thumbs is more fun at this point. I don’t know how I’m supposed to pass this test because every time I try to study my brain starts to tell me that sleep sounds better.”
I run my hands down my stone washed jeans, tracking the movement with my eyes. “Have you, uh, ever thought about enrolling in school?”
“Nope.”
I chance a glance at him. The twists in his features tell me all I need to know. “Okay then.”
“Ace, what would be the point of me enrolling in school?”
“Because you hate studying for the GED?” I maneuver to my knees. “Rumor, you’ll be eighteen in six weeks. You can enroll yourself in school and still have half a year to attend. You’ll get the high school experience back, a diploma, and some counselors to help you navigate your future.”
“I don’t need anyone to help me navigate my future.” His pencil spins in circles over his knuckles. “I’m doing perfectly fine on my own.”
I can’t argue with that. Rumor’s more put together than most adults. While I’m proud of him, I’m also sad for him.
Death is a thief. It takes, and it takes, and it takes. Nobody is safe from being robbed. Not the deceased, not those who are still living. Everything Rumor knew about the world was stripped from him, and he was left on his own. Rumor isn’t dead, but he was robbed of life all the same.
I just want to give it all back.
“Well, the option is there.” I throw out, but his attention is already back on his book. “Calling your old school for transcripts would only take a few minutes.”
“Ace. Drop it.”
Message received.
The equations in my Chemistry book blur together, and I don’t feel much like studying. I pretend to take notes so as not to distract Rumor who actually appears to be having a successful study session.
My thumbs punch buttons on my calculator aimlessly. Spelling out sentences with numbers and typing 1234567890 as much as the screen will allow. Every once in a while, I glance at Rumor to find him jotting things in his notebook or munching on the eraser of his pencil. His hair is a screen, and it makes it hard to see his face. Are his eyebrows scrunched in concentration? Are his eyes lit up with excitement or muted with boredom? Is he smiling? Frowning? Did my suggestion upset him? Why hasn’t he looked at me?
“Ace, I can feel you thinking.”
It’s been quiet for so long, the sudden sound of his voice makes me flinch. I drop my calculator and it cracks against my kneecap. I hiss, throwing my palm over the spot and rubbing.
His pencil hits the bedding and he leans forward, nose-diving toward my lap. I’m unsure of his motive, so I just sit there like a statue, waiting for him to––oh sweet Jesus.
When his lips replace my palm, soothing the sore spot on my knee, I enter some sort of parallel universe where only Rumor and the butterfly kisses he makes exist. I’m no longer sitting on the bed, but floating, and it’s not just my lips that are smiling. It’s my soul too, and I bask in it before it’s taken away.
He straightens. “You okay?”
Apparently, I forget what words are. I just nod, gnawing on my bottom lip. His laugh is breathy and it wafts across my face right before I get another kiss in the center of my forehead. It’s the eighth one today, the third one since I’ve been here. And yes, I’m counting.
I count. I keep track. I replay every kiss on a reel inside my head because one day, he’ll stop doing it and I’ll miss them.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
I use my whole hand to remove the curtain of hair masking his face. It’s soft between my fingers. “I just want to make sure you aren’t upset with me.”
His lips flatten. “Why would I be upset with you?”
“For pressuring you about school.”
“You haven’t pressured me, Alma.” He plucks my hand from its position buried in his hair. Our fingers entwine like they have so many times before, but this time feels different. “I think it’s nice you want to give me what you think I’m missing out on but I’m fine with the way things are, okay?”
I nod, using my free hand to play with his fingers absentmindedly.
“You don’t look like you believe me.” He squeezes my hand a second before he lets go. “Don’t move.”
I stay put, stalking his movements with a furrowed brow. He flops on the bed, inching toward the nightstand. The drawer opens with a groan and he shoves his hand inside, the rustling of papers heard beneath the rattle of the lamp sitting atop the nightstand.
With a triumphant noise, his hand emerges from the drawers, full of papers. He doesn’t bother closing the drawer before he scooches his way back to me. Tucking his legs back under his butt, he pulls a piece of hair from his mouth and lifts his papers with a grin. “I’ve been thinking and screw computer science.” He gives the papers a shake. “This is what I want to do with my life.”
“You figured it out? That’s great.” I make a grabby motion with my fingers. “Gimme gimme gimme.”
He laughs and sets the papers in my hands. “What do you think?”
“Uh.” I flip through the pages. I’m not sure what I was expecting––college admission papers, a program pamphlet, information from a career website, maybe. None of those things are resting on my palms right now, but rather a list. A list of facts, states, addresses and–– “Statistics of homeless youth?”
“Yeah. I did some research. Reggie has a computer and a printer in the room across the hall. It’s dial-up and moves slower than hell, but it’s not like I have anything better to do during the day than watch a loading bar.”
He slides the pages from me carefully. “This is what I want to do, Ace. I want to help them. Millions of kids run away or are left behind every year. Whether their parents die, they’re being abused, or just plain neglected––they have nowhere to go that feels safe. The type of physical and sexual abuse that can occur in group homes and homeless shelters makes me want to vomit.” There’s an intensity in his eyes that matches his movements— a fist pounding his chest, his nub punctuating the end of every sentence. “There are some safe houses, different charities around the country that are dedicated to giving these teens a place to live but not enough. The ratio of homeless youth to safe living spaces is heartbreaking, Ace. I just… I want to change that ratio.” His inhale is heavy, and when he exhales, he doses me in his passion. “What do you think?”
I tell him the truth. “I think it’s the most admirable thing I’ve ever heard.”
His grin is blinding. “I haven’t worked out all the kinks yet. I’m not sure what college I’ll go to, what degree I’ll get, or if one even exists but this is what I’m passionate about.”
The pang of joy in my chest is all for him, because of him. Knowing Rumor, loving him, watching him transform from the cynical, dejected, mute man he was in Mo that day to a man who’s animated and literally beaming with gusto about the possibility of a future that no longer frightens him into a corner.
It’s quite possibly the greatest treasure the universe could create. Even better because it wasn’t one I found but was gifted with.
And I hope, pray, that when the truth comes out, he’ll keep his promise and stay.
“I’ve looked into programs for people who want to go into nonprofits.” The look on his face is bashful. “I want to start my own, put a safe space for teens in every state. I’ll call it Simon’s Space.”
With a hand on his neck, I kiss his reddening cheek. “Your dad would be really proud of you.”
Those words give him more than I ever have.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
He flicks my earlobe. “Told you I had things figured out.”
“You definitely do.” I relax on the mattress, shoving my Chemistry book aside. “Though I did like the idea of you there every day, preferably in Chemistry class. You’d be a nice distraction from Mr. Stevenson’s monotone lectures. It’s merely selfish.”
“You can be a little selfish every once in a while, Ace. It won’t kill ya.” He sets his self-made pamphlet aside carefully. “And I promise I’ll come to any other career fairs or dorky dances or whatever.”
“How chivalrous of you.”
“Right?” He chuckles and sprawls out on his back. “In the meantime, I’ll be here, living with the nosiest old man I’ve ever met and trying to find my Alice.”
His words lodge a stone in my windpipe.
“I really want to find her, Ace. The idea isn’t as horrifying as it used to be. And I don’t know.” His smile is all teeth. “I have a good feeling about it.”
Oh, God.
My face must convey my panic because he pushes to his elbows and says, “you okay?”
I nod, clearing my throat aggressively and lying down beside him, in the crook of his arm with my face in his chest so he can’t see my expression.
As we lay, the only sound our syncopated heartbeats, I open my mouth seven times only to fasten it tight again.
The words won’t come, and they taste pungent in my mouth. As time ticks by, my panic grows and the dread I feel with the inevitable truth is too thick to breathe properly against. But like a coward, I stay mute.
I can’t break him. Not yet.
And though I already love him at a record breaking capacity, I vow to love him harder. To give him my whole heart.
And when his heart breaks, he’ll have mine.
25
Your Silence Gave Me Hope
Alma
His head resting awkwardly against the cushion of his recliner and the flap of his lips with each pass of his snore is not enough to fool me. He’s awake. Awake and watching my movements through his eyelids.
His pointer finger, crooked and boney, twitches against the opened Sudoku book resting in his lap.
It’s a great ruse, really—pretending as though he’s fallen asleep with the pen in his hand and his brain on overdrive.
Buried beneath silvery strands, his ears are wide open, and I know what he’s listening for.
The truth.
“Reggie.” The handle of my backpack slips from my fingers, thundering against the carpet running beside his front door. The action frees my hands so I can bend over and slide on my sneakers. “I know you’re awake.”
His eyes peel open and his head lolls, glaring at me over the faded cushions. “You didn’t tell him.”
“It wasn’t the right time.”
“Young lady, you were up there for four hours with him. You couldn’t find the time to—"
“To what, Reggie?” My laces burn my palms when I pull too tight. “He just spent the better part of those four hours talking about this non-profit he wants to start and name after his father. What was I supposed to do? Shit all over that?” I move to the next shoe, lifting the limp laces with frustration and malice. “It wasn’t the right time.”
“Alma, it will never be the right time. There is no right time.”
“Reggie!” With my shoes now tied uncomfortably tight, I have no choice but to straighten and lock eyes with him.
I falter at what I find below his lashes. The displeasure he normally looks at me with has been exchanged for something gentle. Setting his Sudoku aside, the recliner creaks as he leans forward. “Alma, I know this situation is unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant?” No. “Reggie this situation is maddening.”
I’m stuck in a place where life meets death, and it’s messy.
Rumor’s life is mixing with his parent’s death and the chaos it’s creating is almost impossible to navigate.
There’s darkness in this spot, and turmoil is all I feel. I wonder if life and death conspired— came together to forge a path I’m forced to lead Rumor down.
My fury isn’t directed at Rumor, or Reggie, or anything other than the force of nature that took away both his parents. Lingering just beneath that anger is fear. Fear of the untold and the voice in the back of my head that’s taunting me, telling me I don’t have the tools to put him back together after I break him.
“It has to be done, Alma.”
“Obviously.” My back hits the door and I run my hands down my face, scrubbing and scrubbing, but the dread doesn’t go away. “I need more details.”
“What kind of details?”
I drop my hands. “Don’t bullshit me, Reggie. When you told me about Allison’s death, you hinted at something. My parents came into the room but they aren’t here now. I need to know the rest of the story.”
“There is no rest of the story.” With the help of his armrest, he pushes to his feet. “Alma, it’s a guess. I don’t know what was going through her head.”
Is this man for real?
“Reggie, you basically told me you think she drowned herself!” Pushing off the door, I stalk toward him. “Who makes that kind of assumption when they aren’t sure about it?”
“The kind of man who knew his daughter. Allison had a beautiful soul but it was a complicated one.” With a slow finger, he taps the side of his head. “Her mind wasn’t nice to her, Alma. Allison lived every day in a pervasive state of suffering. Some days her only belief was that escape from it was hopeless.”
His words aren’t just words. They’re hints. Bread crumbs leading to the past and the truth about the life Allison lived. “She battled depression?”
Reggie’s nod is slight. “My guess, my hunch, is that she finally found a way to escape.”
“Your hunch?” Chills racing up my spine hold me immobile “Reggie, how am I supposed to explain all this to Rumor based on a hunch?”
Uneasiness clouds his vision, and he makes a sound I know I will never forget. “You just have to say it. The same way I said it to Simon almost twenty years ago. If you can’t say it, I will. You don’t have to do this.”
“I can do it.” My voice wavers as I speak. “I just, I––" I need more time. More minutes to tack on to each day that can be spent drafting the words needed to recite this all back to Rumor.
“I need to wrap my words in the delicacy this situation requires. This isn’t just me telling him the truth about his mother, Reggie, it’s me taking away his purpose for this visit. The whole ‘rip the band-aid off’ mentality doesn’t work for this scenario. I want to soften my words, make the curveball as painless as possible.”
“The curveball?”
“Yes, Reggie, the curveball that this bastard called life just wailed at him. This isn’t twenty years ago. Rumor’s alone. Simon is gone, and Josh is five hundred miles away.”
“But you’re right here.” With a slow step forward, he pokes me in the chest bone. “Why are you acting like he has nobody? You. Are. Right. Here.”
I’m not enough.
“I’m not Allison, Reggie. Rumor came for her. My presence won’t erase her death.”
“Ace?”
No.
Please. No. Not like this.
“What did you just say? Alma?”
My chest tingles, and it’s a warning. An awareness spreading throughout my veins, icy and frigid, cautioning me toward what’s to come.
The spasms of alarm erupting beneath my skin are intense enough to bring me to my knees. But I stay upright and use every fiber in my body to turn and look at him.
Standing on the last step, an empty cup in his hand, he’s staring at me with unfocused eyes.
“Alma.”
All the times he’s said my name, he’s never said it like that.
Like he’s tethered to me, a string from his heart to mine.
And it’s breaking.
And he’s scared.
“Tell me what you said.”
I am not ready.
I swallow hard, coaxing moisture into my mouth so my feeble answer can be hard. “She’s gone, Rumor. Your mother.”
The cup leaves his hand and rolls across the carpet, forgotten. “Gone?”
My blinks are rapid, and Rumor becomes a blur in front of me. Reaching outward, I wrap my quivering fingers around the base of Reggie’s chair.
Say it, Alma.
“Dead.” The word tastes venomous leaving my lips. “She’s been gone for years.”
He just blinks. “No, she hasn’t.”
“Yeah, she has, son.” Without his cane, Reggie’s walk is slow and deliberate. His slippers make the faintest of noise as he shuffles across the living room, toward the base of the staircase. “Come sit.”
“No.” Progressing backward, Rumor takes two more steps, and I know one wrong move will have him retreating up the staircase and shutting out what he just heard.
“Yes,” I say, with a steadiness I do not feel. “Rumor, she died when you were five weeks old.”
“Are... are you sure?” His hand carves into his hair, pulling back and releasing it. He does this, over and over and over. “There are nine of them. They are alive, all nine of them are alive. None of the Alices from that time are dead.”
“That’s because your mother’s full name wasn’t Alice.” Keeping my tears in check, I reach for my backpack where his proof is concealed.
“Yes, it was. My dad told me her name was Alice. He wouldn’t lie. Not about that.”
“He didn’t lie.” The sound of the zipper makes my heart pound. Pulling back the canvas flap, my fingers connect with the torn print out of the article. “Alise was a nickname. Her full name was Allison.” The article wrinkles under my touch as I press it to my chest and attempt to smooth it out.
I count five steps, and I’m right in front of him, at the bottom of the staircase and extending the picture. “Her name was Allison Copeland.”
Moving back slightly, he increases his personal space. Unsteady fingers lengthen and snatch the article from my possession.