“So you and your wife go to bed early as bakers?” Helena asks after darting me a quick look. I don’t know what she’s getting at.
“Yup. Up at three, down by eight. It’s our schedule. Why?”
“That means you and your wife were in bed asleep that night, right?” Helena asks.
He looks puzzled and then recognition dawns on his round face. “That night” being the night Lionel was killed.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Oh… no reason. Just part of Aaron’s assignment is asking how people found out, and I was just trying to find a way to ease into it.”
He looks at me, his eyes narrowing again. “Well, that’s a hell of an assignment you’ve got, son.”
I nod, a knowing smile on my face. “I know.”
“I remember it vividly. Both Ann and I were in the shop here when the sheriff came in and told us. He had a lot of questions for us.” I’m about to ask another question, but he gets up and yawns again. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I’ve got to get moving. And, please, don’t talk to my wife about this.”
I nod and reach for my wallet.
“No need, son. This one’s on the house.”
After he’s gone, Helena’s eyes are wide and she nods to the door. There’s something she wants to say.
When we get outside, Helena is looking around and I open my mouth to speak and she whispers, “Not here,” and starts walking back towards the bookstore.
There are so many questions. I look around for Tyson or his big hulk of a motorcycle, but I don’t see either. She doesn’t take my hand this time, she just walks up Main, takes a quick right on 65 North and ends up leaning against the old brick of Lionel Malak’s former print shop.
“You okay?” I ask. I would prefer a more direct question about Tyson, or even about Joe Edwards, but the obvious agitation on her face forces that question.
“Fine,” she says. She’s not, it’s totally obvious.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, again being vague.
Her eyes are sharp as she searches my face. “You treating me like I break easy?”
“No… I…” I stammer. Yes, of course I was treating her that way. I have a moment of 100 percent empathy with my father being scared of my mother’s strong displays of emotions. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m afraid it’s about me. She keeps staring. “Sorry about that,” I add.
She nods once, her arms crossed, her eyes constantly looking towards Main Street.
“Tyson?” I ask.
She bites her lip. “He wasn’t what he seemed.”
“Was he the one you were excited about a few weeks ago?”
She blinks twice, her eyes meeting mine briefly, and says, “That he was.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyes come back to mine and stay there. “Do you mean that?” she asks, her voice low and a bit husky.
I shrug. “Well, yeah. You’re in pain, I hate to see it.”
The smile on her face I can only categorize as rueful. “You are the weirdest kid, Wade.”
“What? Why?”
“You tell me you don’t care if I date someone else,” she says, “that you just want to spend time with me.” I nod. “You meet my ex and instead of being jealous or crazy, you feel empathy for me.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I want to hit him on that pointy little chin of his.” She laughs. “And I’m insanely jealous of his height and apparent health and that…” I trail off, I feel the bite of jealousy, and I am ashamed of it.
“Go on, please.”
“Truth or Truth?” I ask.
“Always.”
“He’s older, taller, and better looking than me. I… I have no idea why you’re hanging out with me.” She gives me a “what the hell are you talking about” look. “Really, I don’t get it. I’m this short, scrawny, sick kid. Why are you even spending time with me?” That pipsqueak comment Tyson made is a poison in my mind.
She smiles wide enough to show off her teeth. “I’m very glad to hear all this, Wade. Thank you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It just shows that you are human, just like the rest of us. I was beginning to have my doubts.” She laughs and I can’t help but smile.
We chat a little more about nothing much and then she grabs my hand and we go back to the bookstore. The sun is warm and bright again and I am as happy as I’ve ever been.
“WOMEN LIKE TO SEE SOME VULNERABILITY IN MEN,” Lionel points. It’s dark and we’re in my room. I pulled out the Ouija papers to talk to him. We have been discussing the day.
“Really?” I whisper.
He nods and then points some more. “ASK YOUR MOM SHE WILL CONFIRM.”
I always thought men were supposed to be all John Wayne or James Bond, tough and invulnerable. I think about what Lionel has said and whisper, “Some?”
“ALL THINGS IN BALANCE, MY FRIEND. TOO MUCH VULNERABILITY IS AS BAD AS TOO LITTLE.”
I nod and think about that. I could see that if I shared every last fear I had, it would be off-putting—I’ve got plenty of fears.
“Did you learn anything from Mister Edwards?”
He shakes his head, his narrow face falling. He’s got a similar slack look on his face as Joe Edwards did when we talked. “IT WAS HARD. I HAVEN’T SEEN HIM SINCE I DIED.” He rubs at his face and I swear he’s about to cry. Can ghosts cry? “I MISS HIM AND ANN HORRIBLY.”
“From what he said, I don’t know if we’ll get a chance to talk to her.”
The expression on his face is so complex, I have trouble reading it. It’s a bit wistful, a bit fearful, and a whole lot of sad. “THAT MAY BE FOR THE BEST.”
“What?”
“I DON’T KNOW IF I COULD BEAR IT.”
I watch him closely in the dim light and point my little flashlight down into my comforter so I can see him better. Ghosts, or at least Lionel, glow. There’s no other word for it. I think it’s why I see them better in the dark. Because of this I can see his face clearly. There is something complex going on there. With Vincent Long and Joe Edwards he was easier to read—sad was the predominant emotion. With Ann Edwards, the sadness is there, but there is something wistful there too.
“Is she special to you, Lionel?” I whisper.
He looks at me, as if he forgot I was there, a surprised look on his face. “I’M TIRED. I SHOULD REST NOW AND SO SHOULD YOU.”
He slowly fades away and I’m left here wondering what he’s not telling me.
35
Thursday, July 21, 1977
Today for breakfast, I am up to having a few blueberries on my oatmeal and some margarine on my toast. It’s a good day in the food department and both of the parents seem to be cheerful.
“Your mother and I have discussed it,” Dad begins after noisily folding up his paper, a little grin on his face. “We think it would be okay for you to take Helena out.”
I must look silly frozen there, my mouth wide, a triangle of toast halfway to my mouth.
My mother laughs and my father’s grin turns into a huge smile.
I manage to unfreeze my jaw. “I… Well… Thank you!” I hug my father and then my mother.
“There is a condition,” he says.
I sit back down. That introduces the element of fear. Fear of the condition, yes, but much more fear of the actual “date” with an actual “girl.” That girl being the most amazing Helena Monfort who recently dated the tall, handsome, older Tyson, and really could date just about any boy she wanted.
“It’s not that bad of a condition,” my father says. I guess he thinks the horror on my face is about that.
“Condition?” I ask, I’m trying to fight my way back to reality.
“You and I have to have our little talk that I mentioned, and I will be your chauffeur for the evening.”
My mind is a whirl. The last thing I want is for my father to drive us, but, honestly, that is not the bulk of my concern. Now that we have approval,
I have to formally ask for the date. Think of a place to take her. Figure out what to wear. I’ve never been on a date. What if she’s changed her mind and says no? Which would be worse, a “yes” and having to figure all this out or a “no” and dealing with the rejection?
“Are you okay, Aaron?” Mom asks, her warm hand on my shoulder.
“Fine,” I mumble. I am most definitely not.
“We’re thinking next Wednesday,” Dad says. “You should be pretty recovered from your chemo by then, and we need you in early on Thursday so you can have a good night’s sleep before we go to Vegas.”
“Wednesday,” I repeat and nod. It barely registers. That’s less than a week.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” Dad says as he gets up, patting his mouth with a napkin. “Talk to your girl and let me know if we’re on for next Wednesday.”
My girl. It sounds so strange. Helena isn’t “mine,” not by any stretch. But she is something so special to me.
I don’t know how long I’m sitting there, thoughts whirling around in my head, but my mother finally says, “Would you like to talk about it?”
I look at her and can see in her eyes, this would be another “special” thing I could do for her. But I can’t, at least not directly. “Do… do women like to see some vulnerability in men?”
She looks surprised, I’m sure that’s not quite what she expected. She purses her lips, her eye searching my face. “Umm… I don’t know if I would put it that way.”
“What way then?”
“I think we like to know our men. We like to know what they are thinking, what they love as well as what they fear. Their strengths and their weaknesses. We want to know them. And, I guess, that might feel like vulnerability from a male perspective, but it’s not. Letting these kinds of things show takes great strength.”
I stare at my mom, she’s becoming this whole other person to me. I really can’t believe it, but she is acting like my friend more and more.
I thank her for the answer and force myself onto a different track. I update her on our time with Joe Edwards.
“What’s next?” she asks after I’m done.
I shrug and finally get that bite of toast in my mouth. It’s cold now, but since it’s got margarine on it, I consider it a bit of a victory. “I don’t know. Lionel was so strange about Ann Edwards.”
My mother looks down, suddenly all demure. “I think they were having an affair,” she says, her voice quiet. I have this realization about mom and Doctor Rogers. She feels guilty about it. Even with the strange circumstances of her marriage and my father’s knowledge and tacit approval, there is still guilt.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, without what you told me, I wouldn’t have put it together. But I remember seeing Lionel at the bakery this one time. It was last spring, a particularly warm day, and I glanced in. He was sitting at one of the tables watching her as she took care of a customer. His look… well, it was like she was the only person in the world.”
I take a deep breath and sigh. I’m not happy about this complication. If this is true, why didn’t Lionel tell me? How am I supposed to help him if he doesn’t tell me everything?
Thursdays for me are now bitter sweet. I feel pretty good, low energy and metally mouth aside, but I know what’s about to come on Friday. Another punch in the gut by the mighty chemo monster. And this Thursday is complicated by a huge case of the nerves. I have to ask Helena Monfort out for a date. Officially.
And don’t get me wrong, I want to, but I somehow doubt I am strong enough to hear the answer. Either answer. My day is a blur until the bell to the bookstore rings and she walks through the door. My heart leaps and I feel myself beginning to sweat.
She’s back in jeans and a T-shirt—I honestly miss the skirt—and looks upset.
“Tyson?” I ask as she comes behind the counter and sits next to me on a stool.
She slumps against the wall and lets out a long sigh. “Asshole,” she says.
“You want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head, but then says, “He was beating on my door in the middle of the night drunk. My father had to chase him off.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know what else to say.
She shrugs and says, “Talk to me. Distract me.”
So I update her on my conversation with Lionel and what my mom said about a possible affair.
“Men do get weird when they have feelings,” she says and then looks at me with a grin. “Except you. You seem immune.”
I just blink, I can’t speak. How wrong she is. I have feelings, I have something to ask her, and I know I am weird right now. So weird.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting up on the stool and looking at me, her hand touching my shoulder.
What happens next, I can only chalk up to a little thing I’ve come to call chemo-courage. I really should call it Cancer-courage, but that just doesn’t feel right. In that moment with Helena, time seemed to slow down, and the fact that I would be hooked to an IV for four hours tomorrow, that the treatment would kick the shit out of me, that I was in treatment because I was on my third strike with leukemia. All of those things give me courage.
And here’s the thing about courage, if there is no fear, then what you are doing is not courageous. I am sweating, I can feel a bead of sweat tickling its way down my back. My hands are shaking and I can barely speak.
“Will… I… Helena… you…” I stutter and stammer, the look of concern growing on Helena’s face. This is my first time doing something like this.
Helena seems to figure something out because the look of concern transforms into one of restrained amusement. Her brown eyes are bright and her pursed lips holding back a smile. “It’s okay, Wade. I won’t bite, I promise.” I have to imagine I’m not the first boy who sounded like an idiot trying to ask her out.
I scratch at my shirt, wishing I didn’t have to wear long-sleeve, button-down shirts at the bookstore. It feels like it’s strangling me.
“Will you…? Can we…?” I close my eyes and take a slow, deep breath. I calm a bit, just enough, and ask her, keeping my eyes closed. “Will you go out with me next Wednesday?”
In some ways I’m glad I can’t see her. I can hear her breathing, smell her tobacco-mint breath, feel the warmth of her near me, but I can’t see her face. Whether she’s amused or devastated or bored.
“Open your eyes, please,” she says softly.
When I do, the look on her face is none of those. It’s… hmmm, how to describe. She has a small smile on her face, her eyes are bright, but her eyebrows are a bit furrowed, making it look like there’s some concern, some worry.
“Yes, I will go out with you.”
The rest of my breath comes whooshing out of me and I sag on the stool feeling exhausted. It’s like I just rode my bike hard for miles, this feeling. How can asking a simple question do that to you?
“Thank you,” I mumble.
She chuckles and gets up. “I better go. I hope tomorrow is not too bad.” I watch her as she walks to the door wondering if my face has the kind of look on it that Mom saw on Lionel’s face when he watched Ann Edwards. I get what she was saying. When Helena is in the room, she kind of takes things over for me.
She looks back and smiles. “Call me this weekend, okay?”
“Yeah, of course.”
36
Sunday, July 24, 1977
The last few days have been a blur of puking and feverish sleep. I’m not sure what’s happening, but this chemo seems to be knocking me down hard. Maybe I’ve just forgotten how hard this really is. Maybe something really is different, I can’t really tell. There’s not much to say, though. It’s been all about survival, boring stuff really.
“You’ve got some visitors,” Mom says on Sunday afternoon. I’m up in my bedroom propped up on pillows trying to read Sleeping Murder, Agatha Christie’s last novel, and even in my exhausted state I notice the sparkle in my mother’s eye.
&nbs
p; “I feel… uuuck,” I say.
“I think you’ll want to come down,” she says, a smile playing at her lips. That gets my attention, she hasn’t smiled in days and the circles under her eyes are getting darker.
“Why?”
“It’s Pastor West and the Edwards. They’ve borrowed a truck and they’ve come to get the swing set.”
My heart is suddenly pounding in my chest and I’m more awake than I’ve been in days. “Here? Now?”
She laughs. It’s a small thing, but I’m glad to hear it. Then I remember Pastor West’s visit last week and his cologne. I wrinkle my nose and put my hand on my stomach. “I don’t think I can handle his cologne.”
“We talked after what happened last week. He’s not wearing any. Neither are the Edwards.” She pauses and smiles again. “I thought you and I and Mrs. Edwards could have a little tea while the boys take the swing apart and load it up.” The smile on her face is positively mischievous. “Does that sound good?”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “That sounds great.”
Did I already mention how much I love the change in my mother? I bet I have, but I just have to say it again. Parts of our relationship becoming a friendship is awesome. Really. I wonder if this is what it is like when you grow up and are away from the house for a while. Do your parents become more like friends? I’m sure they always worry about you, but maybe they become mostly friends. It gives me something to hope for past these sick teenage years.
Ann Edwards is lean and sinewy, very different from her doughy husband. She’s got shoulder-length black hair with a noticeable amount of grey sneaking in. By the time I put some clothes on and make it downstairs, Mrs. Edwards is sitting at our kitchen table and Mom is pouring tea.
“There you are,” Mom says, a small smile on her face. “Aaron, you remember Ann Edwards, don’t you?”
A Boy a Girl and a Ghost Page 25