Echoes Between Us

by Katie McGarry

  “Panic attack?” one of the nurses says, and the other nods as she continues to listen to my chest.

  She takes the stethoscope out of her ears. “The doctor had some medicine prescribed in case we ran into something like this. We can put it in your IV. How does that sound?”

  “Do it,” Dad says, and he takes one of the nurses’ spots next to my bed. They both leave, and he takes the hand I have pressed against my chest in both of his.

  I try to suck in a breath, but it hurts too much. “Mom’s dead.”

  Tears glisten in his eyes. “She’s dead.”

  For days, my thoughts have felt like bubbles blown by a child. My emotions have felt distant, as if I’ve been separated from them by a glass wall. But now, it’s like the wall shattered and I’m being cut open by the shards of glass. The grief—it’s overwhelming. Like being blasted by heat after standing in a freezer.

  “She was dead, but she came back,” I try to say, but the words are sobs. “She came back so I wouldn’t be alone. She’s the one who called for you that night. You came down because she yelled for you.”

  “No, peanut, you yelled for me.”

  “Mom yelled your name!” I shout, feeling like a two-year-old stomping her feet.

  “You yelled my name.”

  I shake my head too fast and Dad drops my hand to capture my face in his hands to keep it still. “You yelled my name, V. You. Not your mom. When I came down you were talking for both you and her. You were carrying the conversation. Sawyer heard you do the same thing a few nights before I took you to the ER. It was the tumor. A hallucination. Your mom’s gone, V. I’m sorry, she’s gone.”

  My throat constricts, my entire body trembles and I can’t see through the blurriness in my eyes. “I don’t want her to be gone.”

  Dad’s voice breaks. “I know, baby. I don’t want her to be gone, either.”

  The sound that leaves me is my heart breaking. My shoulders shake and my father wraps an arm around me, then another arm weaves under my legs. I’m lifted and then he’s holding me. My arms twine around his neck like I’m a child and I cry. I cry hard, I cry long, and my shoulder is wet as Dad weeps with me.

  A nurse walks in, we ignore her, and something cold enters my veins. My mouth tastes weird and a few minutes later, the tears are less, my breathing eases and my father holds me as he hums an old Aerosmith song—my mom’s favorite.

  * * *

  I wake and I’m in bed. Sawyer’s beside me. My head is on his chest, his arm is wrapped tightly around me. The light in the hospital room is wrong. Plus, I can hear rain hitting the roof. I pop my head up and then remember that we’re home.

  I’m home. It’s Sunday, I’ve been home since Friday and Sawyer’s spending the weekend with me. I sigh heavily. Chemo starts tomorrow, but I’ll worry about that then as there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  There are purple and pink lights strung around my room. A basket full of chocolates and jelly beans is on my bedside table. Very colorful construction-paper bunnies and eggs are taped all over my room thanks to Lucy. There are stuffed rabbits of varying size thanks to Sylvia and Miguel—and I try to ignore the fact that everyone at school now knows that I had brain tumor surgery and that Sylvia and Miguel have been running holiday drives for me so I can have as many holidays as I want for as long as I want. Yes, the sentiment is nice.

  Greer told me last night that once I was done with chemo and radiation that we would do a Passover dinner together—even if it’s not officially Passover. A celebration, like that of the Israelites, of death passing me by.

  Because Dad is awesome, he’s allowing Sawyer to sleep in my bed with me. I think he wanted to say no, but then saw how I smiled at the idea of Sawyer next to me. Anyhow, all I do is sleep, and Sawyer’s a trooper for spending hours watching reruns on cable while waiting on the brief few minutes that I’m actually awake.

  The only time Sawyer leaves me on the weekends is to go to his AA meetings with his friend Knox. He doesn’t see his mom. She’s in denial of her problem, and his father filed for emergency sole custody and won. Now, his dad is going for permanent full custody.

  Sawyer and his father easily fall into fights, but Sawyer mentioned that since his brother has been born, they fight less. At least that’s what I think he said. It all could have been a dream.

  “Hey, sleepyhead.” Sawyer gives me a hesitant smile.

  “You smell like a pool,” I say, but I’ve grown to love the scent. It makes me think of him and the nights we used to kiss for hours.

  “You say that a lot.”

  “Because it’s true.” I rest my chin on his chest and hate that even though all I’ve done is sleep, I want to sleep more. “I’m sorry I’m not good company.”

  “It doesn’t bother me. Remember—we had a deal. You told your dad the truth, and I’m yours.”

  I scoot up the bed and rest my head on my pillow so that I’m on the same level as him. “Will you kiss me?”

  Sawyer’s smile grows and his eyes twinkle. “Your dad’s going to kick my ass if he finds out.”

  “I won’t tell. I mean, I’d have to at least be awake to do that.”

  Sawyer chuckles. “True.” His eyes darken as he looks at my lips, an indication he’s been thinking about this as much as I’ve been dreaming about it—all the time.

  He leans forward, and the electricity of that moment right before the kissing sizzles in the air. My skin prickles with excitement, and when his lips meet mine, I can barely breathe.

  His lips move, my lips move, and when I place my hand on his chest because I want so much more, Sawyer pulls away. “Your dad’s coming.”

  “No, he’s not.” But then my door opens and I can’t help but laugh. Dad looks at me, looks at Sawyer, and then scowls. He leaves, but doesn’t close the door.

  “My dad has a camera in here, doesn’t he?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Sawyer’s body shakes as he laughs. “In case you should need him while he’s downstairs.”

  First thing I’m going to do when I’m not so damned tired is take an ax to the security system in the kitchen.

  * * *

  Dad is chatting nonstop, which means he’s nervous. He’s moving around the first floor of our apartment gathering things into a duffel bag. Picking up anything and everything he thinks we might or could ever need for my first chemo treatment.

  I sit in the window seat, my knees drawn to my chest. Gentle rain pats against the windows. The house feels weird. It’s home, but not home, and I’m a bit empty. Mom’s not here. I miss her. Desperately.

  My cell pings and I glance down at it to find a text from Sawyer: Where’s the first place you want to go when you’re done with your treatments?

  I frown as it feels like I should know that answer. I frown deeper as I realize I don’t have any type of answer. I never really thought about life past graduation. It has always been right here, right now. The beach?

  Sawyer: Why the question mark?

  Me: Because everything feels like a question mark.

  Dad jogs up the stairs, and thankfully, stops talking for at least two beats. My cell pings again. I expect Sawyer, but tilt my head in surprise. Glory: I’m here if you need someone.

  I stare at her words then scroll through my cell. One ring and she answers, “Hi, V.”

  “Hey.”

  “How are you?”

  I could lie, but don’t feel like it. “Scared.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Have you searched my future?” Am I going to live?

  “Do you want me to?”

  I squish my lips to the side. “If it’s good news then yes.”

  “Your future is based off your decisions, you know this. Nothing is ever defined.”

  While I do know this, it’s not why I called. “Was my mom ever here?” I don’t pretend that my lying about Mom for months hasn’t been a topic of conversation for people in my life.

  There’s silence on her end. “Is she there no
w?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her since the night Dad took me to the ER. But does that mean she wasn’t real? I mean, I spent months researching ghosts and hauntings and I saw things and experienced things that proves there’s something more, something beyond.”

  “There is something more. There is something beyond.”

  “But was she real?”

  Glory sighs heavily into the phone. “Your dad would like me to tell you no. In fact, he’s told me point-blank to tell you no. I never felt her, V. She never appeared to me, she never talked to me, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t real. As far as I’m concerned, I’m grateful for whatever happened that night. That conversation you had with your mom, yelling out for your father—that saved your life.”

  She’s right. It had. Things had happened in my brain. Things the doctors were able to stop. Otherwise, Dad would have found me dead in the morning. I let Glory go and stand from the window seat.

  I’m slow as I touch the different pieces of furniture in my house, my home. The couch where Mom and I would curl up together after her treatments. The table where Dad and I have shared many meals. The desk where I spent hours poring over Dad’s finances for his business, and then my eyes fall on the piano. The one that my mother played when she was a child. The one she taught me how to play before I could sing my ABCs. The one I spent hours playing for her when she was sick and she said it was the only thing that brought her joy.

  Then she died and I stopped. Maybe Glory was right. Maybe it was in that moment that I decided to die, too.

  Dust covers the aging, upright piano and I rub my hand along the wood. Dust bunnies float in the air and fall to the ground. I push back the wooden cover and my heart thumps at the sight of the white resin keys. It’s been so many years there’s no doubt that the piano is out of tune, yet I’m drawn to hear the chord.

  I try the C first, then my fingers spread out for the chord. The pitch is off, but the sound is sweet. I close my eyes as the music vibrates along my skin and in my blood.

  The piano bench scratches against the floor as I pull it out and sit. My left hand touches the keys, pushes down, and I breathe out as the automatic movement of my hands makes me feel as at home as the scent of waffles on Saturdays.

  I’m rusty, definitely off, the piano is way out of tune, but the music feels … good.

  In the silence after the last note finishes ringing, I turn and find Dad staring at me. Tears in his eyes, and it hits me, he’s missed this. “That was beautiful, V.”

  It wasn’t. It was full of flaws. I know it, he knows it, but what was beautiful was that I finally found the courage to play.

  * * *

  I barely make it to the toilet, my hands catching the rim as I fall forward with the dry heave. There shouldn’t be anything left in my stomach, but somehow I still throw up bile.

  I’m sick. So sick, and I don’t want to be sick anymore. Chemo sucks. Radiation sucks. My life sucks. Each time, I think my reaction to the treatment will be better, but it’s not.

  I lay my head against the cold porcelain rim of the toilet and Sawyer’s on the floor next to me. Lifting my head, placing a newly washed and dried towel under my cheek, he wipes a cool washcloth around my mouth and neck.

  He doesn’t have to lift my hair—there’s no hair left. Tears prick my eyes, and my nose runs as I start to ugly cry. I don’t want to do this anymore.

  Sawyer rubs my back and says soft, comforting words, but he doesn’t understand. I don’t want to be sick anymore. I hurt. My stomach hurts. My head hurts. My skin hurts. I hurt.

  “I’m sorry you’re doing this,” I can barely say before a rush of nausea hits me hard and fast. I turn my head back into the toilet, again.

  Sawyer goes to the sink. The water turns on and when he returns, the washcloth is cold against my neck.

  “Oddly enough, I’ve had years of experience. This time, though, it’s my choice. With Mom, I felt like I had to. Now, there’s no other place I’d rather be.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want you to have to do this with me.”

  “Maybe you need to learn it’s not about you. It’s all about me.”

  I glance at him like he’s crazy. Did he just say this moment is about him? He winks, cracks a grin and I somehow laugh. Which is appreciated, yet also causes me to dry heave, again.

  A part of me wants to die as the nausea overpowers me, but my will to live is stronger.

  So much so.

  * * *

  Nazareth is reclining at the window seat when Sawyer carries me out of the bathroom. He lays me on the freshly made bed—something Nazareth or Dad must have done while I was in the bathroom. My best friend holds up a joint.

  “A special plant from your mom?” I whisper-ask as my throat is raw from all the vomiting.

  He shakes his head. “Medical grade. Mom’s curious what the legal competition is like. Your dad had me go with him to pick this stuff up. Felt weird to walk into a store with a prescription for pot.”

  “Medical marijuana,” Sawyer corrects. One of my specialists is in Ohio, and Dad and Nazareth were able to get the prescription filled there.

  I smile. Sawyer kisses me on my shaved head, and while the action makes me feel loved, it also makes me feel self-conscious. I look up at him, and when he smiles down at me, it’s as if I’m beautiful and that just makes me love him more.

  “Text me when you get home,” I whisper.

  “I will. Get some sleep.”

  We say “I love you,” he shares some odd boy handshake with Nazareth, and he’s back on the road to Louisville for the week.

  SAWYER

  Ulysses makes dinner every night I’m here, and has Nazareth, Jesse, Scarlett or Leo spend an hour or two with V to give me a break to eat, catch up with Lucy and relax. He even makes it on Sunday nights and insists that I eat before I hit the road for Louisville.

  At first, I felt awkward, but then quickly figured out we both needed the time. Time to sit. Time to talk about our worries with Veronica. Time to talk about our own exhaustion. Time to talk about the other areas in our lives. Plus, the man is a damn good cook.

  Tonight, we had steak. We hug before I leave and he promises to text updates on Veronica’s appointments tomorrow.

  With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I text Dad to let him know I’m on my way. Things aren’t always easy between us, but we’re both trying. I cut him slack because he went from having no kids to three. He cuts me some slack because he feels guilty for dropping the ball on the whole parenting thing.

  Lucy likes Tory, and she likes Lucy back. The biggest bonus—Lucy’s in therapy and only wakes two times a week crying. Each night without tears is a win in my book.

  I trot down the stairs, go out the front door, and my stomach sinks when I spot Mom on the steps. Dad didn’t just win emergency custody of me and Lucy, he was also granted a temporary restraining order for us. One that’s close to ending, but one that’s still in effect. One that has kept Mom from talking to me while I’ve visited Veronica.

  She turns on the step and looks at me. It’s Mom, but not Mom. There’s no makeup on her face, her hair isn’t perfectly done. In fact, she’s imperfection. She’s in sweats and an oversized sweatshirt to help against the cold, wet, winter evening.

  A jolt of recognition causes a pain in my chest. The sweatshirt is one of mine.

  Was the restraining order too much? In my opinion, yes, but at the same time, I appreciated the space.

  “I saw your car, and I’ve been waiting on you,” she says. “Hoping you’d come down soon.”

  Hurt. It bleeds from me. And in this moment, I realize how much I miss her.

  I take the two steps and sit down beside her. Not close. Her on one side of the stairs, me on the other. Ulysses asked me if I wanted him to kick her out of the apartment, and I told him unless she wasn’t paying rent, no. I don’t want the worst for my mom—I just want her to want to get better.

  Mom’s nervous. I haven’t seen h
er like that very often. She unfastens and refastens her Fitbit over and over again.

  I stare out into the dark evening. The rain is steady, the air temperature, cold. I pull up the zipper on my jacket and watch as my breath comes out in a billow of smoke.

  “How’s Veronica?” Mom breaks the silence.

  “Okay. The chemo and radiation are making her sick and we’re having a tough time finding medications that can help with the nausea. But I think Ulysses found something today that may work. The doctors are being aggressive with her treatment and are hopeful. I won’t lie. It’s going to be a long road, but the doctors think everything’s going to work.”

  I hope it does. I need it, too.

  “That’s good,” Mom says. “I’ve been praying for her.”

  I’ve been praying for Veronica and Mom. In fact, all I feel like I do anymore is pray. It’s a constant conversation in the back of my head between me and God. One that never shuts off.

  “Sylvia and Miguel keep me updated on her condition and treatments.”

  “That’s good.” I steal her response. I talk and text with Sylvia and Miguel often. See them occasionally when I’m in town to see V. They’ve both been by to visit her. Not nearly as much as Nazareth, Jesse, Scarlett and Leo, but they consider her a friend now and V feels the same.

  “They keep me updated on you as well.”

  Same.

  “They said you’re still swimming?”

  “Yeah. As long as Veronica keeps doing well, I plan on swimming in some club meets starting in February. I met with the swim coach from the University of Louisville. He’s interested in me. A few other colleges have shown interest, too.”

  She brightens. “That’s good.”

  It is. Swimming keeps me focused and away from jumping off cliffs. Gives me an outlet. Something Knox has encouraged, Veronica has encouraged, and Dad has encouraged. But it was Ulysses that convinced me—explaining his experiences with Veronica’s mom and the importance of taking care of myself so I can better take care of the woman I love.