by Kim Holden
He raises his eyebrows again. “And you’ve never done anything without thinking through the consequences first, Banks?”
“Yeah, but—”
He cuts me off. “But what, man? You didn’t even know her when it happened. Don’t judge. It’s not fair.”
He’s too damn good at seeing both sides. “You’re right,” I exhale. My head’s still throbbing, but I raise my chin to look him in the eye. “I really like her, Dunc. It scares me how much I like her. She makes me want to say screw it all and re-write my future.” My future’s been mapped out for me my entire life. Even when I screw up, it only takes a minor detour before jumping back on track. My parents always make sure of it.
He smiles, stands, and claps me on the back. “I could’ve told you all that two months ago. You should’ve asked me, I could’ve saved you a lot of trouble.”
“Should I call her?” I ask since he seems to be better at this than I am.
“An apology is in order. Get some rest today and call her tomorrow when you’ve got your head on straight again.”
Monday, October 31
(Kate)
I wake with a splitting headache at 5:00am, but I don’t have the energy to even get out of bed to hunt down some ibuprofen. The pain sticks with me through all my morning classes, just like I knew it would, like I want it to. Today’s a day I’ve been dreading since September turned into October. It’s Grace’s birthday.
This is the first day I’ve been in Minnesota that I’ve been homesick for San Diego. The kind of sick that makes my stomach turn and my head hurt so bad I can’t see straight. And the only thing that will make it better, manageable, is talking to Gus. He’s on his way to Denver to play tonight.
Because my class load is stacked on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I don’t even have ten free minutes from 7:30-2:00. So, when I’m out of the lecture hall at 2:01, I’m dialing Gus.
“Bright Side, you okay?” This is not the standard Gus greeting.
I try for cheerful. I haven’t had to fake cheerful in a long time. “I’ve been worse.” Barely.
“Rough day, huh?”
So much for faking it. This is Gus. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.” It’s acknowledgement, and agreement, and acceptance in one small word.
My chest is tightening and the back of my throat itches and swells. I know as soon as I open my mouth to speak I’m going to cry. And I pride myself in not crying. I’ve only cried once in my life that I can remember. It felt so awful, like my entire being was coming apart in a million pieces and would never fit together again. I never want to feel that again.
Gus allows me my silence and then he starts in with a story. God, I love this guy. Even over the phone he knows I just need to listen to his voice right now. “I’ve been thinking about Grace all morning and I decided if I could be anywhere in the world today, doing anything, I wish I was in San Diego fishing from the pier with you and Grace. I’ll never forget the first time Grace caught a fish. She reeled it in like mad and was totally hyped until she realized that there was a real live fish on the end of her hook. The excitement drained and she was so bummed. She begged me to take it off the hook and throw it back in the water before it died.”
Thinking about her like this lightens the load I’ve been carrying today. “Yeah, but she still wanted to go again the next week.”
“And we never baited her hook after that.” He doesn’t sound so sad anymore. I can hear the smile in his voice, “She could sit there for hours on the edge of her seat and watch her line move with the tide. And every five minutes or so she was convinced she had a big one on the line and she would spin that reel like hell until the hook was out of the water. But, she was never discouraged when there was nothing. She was always relieved.”
I can picture her like it was yesterday. This is what I needed. “What did she used to tell you on the way home? ‘Looks like I’m having a bit of bad fishing luck, Gus.’”
He laughs. “Every time.”
“And you’d tell her, ‘It’s not that you’re having bad luck today, Gracie, it’s just that the fish are having really good luck. Besides, we don’t eat them anyway, and Ma can buy fish at the store if she wants to eat it.’”
“She would always smile wide; you know the one when her eyes were almost scrunched closed.”
“And then you’d suck in your cheeks and make fish lips at her and she’d giggle and giggle and tell you how silly you were.”
Gus laughs harder now. “Gracie had the best laugh. She laughed all the time. That’s one of the things you two had in common. You both loved to laugh.”
“She was so damn happy, Gus. The happiest person I’ve ever known. Even when life was shit, she didn’t care. She always smiled. God, I miss her.”
“Me too, Bright Side. Me too.”
I usually try to avoid negative talk because it perpetuates negative thoughts and worse—negative action. It’s like the catalyst for misery. A downward spiral ensues. All that aside, by eight o’clock tonight as I’m leaving the cafeteria I’ve reached my limit and have to admit …
Today. Really. Sucked.
My day was shit missing Grace, my head is still throbbing, and my stomach still aches. I’m praying the entire walk back to the dorms. Please God, let Sugar be gone tonight. I need some peace and quiet and a good night’s sleep.
I hear Sugar’s voice lilt through the door before I even have it open and realize maybe God’s not on call tonight.
The first thing I notice is Sugar sitting on her bed talking on the phone. She throws me one of her best you’re-interrupting-me-I-wish-you’d-go-away glares. She was at the concert Saturday night and I can’t help but notice she’s taken the bitchiness toward me to an all-time high.
I half-smile and nod in her direction. “S’up Sugar.”
The second thing I notice is the paper I finished and printed earlier today in the library (because I don’t have a printer), the same paper that’s due at 7:30am tomorrow because my professor is the old-school-doesn’t-believe-in-technology/electronic-submission type and demands an actual hard copy, is strewn across the floor and graffitied with dirty snow boot prints.
I immediately look to Sugar’s feet. Sure as shit, she’s still sporting the incriminating footwear.
This is the point at which I should proceed to the library to reprint my paper and decompress before I confront her, but like I said, I’ve already submitted to negative talk and it’s been a shitty day so the conversation begins with, “What the hell?” albeit quietly. I just want to go to bed.
She doesn’t even look at me.
I walk to the side of her bed. My blood is boiling, but I keep my voice even. This is the voice I used with my mother when I was angry with her and needed to get a point across, but Grace was in the room and I didn’t want to upset her at the same time. I’ve had this voice mastered for years. “Sugar, what the hell, dude?” I point to the papers.
She ignores me, continuing to murmur into the phone. I can’t believe it. The girl has the balls to destroy my property and now she’s fucking ignoring me.
I raise my voice slightly. “Sugar, what happened to my paper?”
She’s still ignoring me.
Fuck that.
Now I’m pissed. And I’m not a yeller. I’ve never been a fan of losing control and to me yelling feels like the culmination of losing control. So I don’t yell. Instead I find it much more effective to lower my voice to a level that’s so quiet the other person almost has to strain to hear it. That way you know they’re really listening to every word. “Sugar, I swear to God I am not a violent person, but if you don’t hang up that fucking phone and tell me what happened here I am going to take that fucking phone out of your fucking hand and shove it up your fucking ass.”
Her eyes widen. “Um, I gotta go. I’ll call you back.” By the time she hangs up, she looks defiant again. “What?” she snaps.
“Dude?” I point to the floor.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh
, that was an accident. I must’ve knocked them off your desk when I walked by.”
I’m shaking my head. “And then what? What? You accidentally did the motherfucking Mexican hat dance on them?”
She shrugs. “Sorry.” It’s the most insincere apology I’ve ever heard. She may as well have said, “Fuck you.”
I snatch up my bag and flash drive off my desk and point my finger at her from the door. “You know what, Sugar? I’d really like for us to be friends, but you’re making that pretty fucking difficult. You’ve ruined or not returned several of my shirts this year, you eat my food out of the fridge, and you put me out of my own room a few nights a week. That I’ve dealt with up to this point.” My accusing finger drops its aim from her to the floor. “How dare you destroy my paper. I’m not sure why you’re here, but I’m here to get an education and that’s what’s important to me.” I narrow my eyes and threaten through gritted teeth, “From now on, just keep your hands off my shit.”
There’s fear in her eyes, but she attempts a brave eye roll. It’s pathetic. I can smell fear a mile away and she’s scared of me right now. She manages a snotty, “Whatever.”
I want to strangle her, but I settle for something completely juvenile, yet effective. “Fuck. You. Sugar.” And slam the door behind me.
The walk to the library is cold and snowy. It only takes a few minutes to print out my paper, but I sit in the stacks and read for another hour until I’m cooled down enough to return to my room. I hate getting this angry. I feel even more drained than before. But in truth, I’m not good at holding grudges.
Sugar is gone when I return. Strangely enough I feel a little guilty that she probably isn’t here because of me, but the guilt fades fast when I get a good night’s sleep in my own bed.
I guess God was listening after all.
Tuesday, November 1 - Wednesday, November 2
(Kate)
I’m going through ibuprofen on a regular basis these days. I’m almost down to the bottom of the bottle so I stop at the grocery across the street from Grounds on my way home from the flower shop.
When I see him, he’s so pale and hunched over that I barely recognize him. I pause mid-step, at war with myself. I haven’t seen Keller since Saturday night, and this chance encounter is not how I planned to see him next. I’m not a strategist when it comes to interaction. Usually I just wing it, but I wanted to give him more than a few days to cool off. For two seconds, the selfish, preservationist side of me shouts, “Turn around and make a break for it before he sees you!” But my compassionate side stifles her with a calm counter, “But he looks like death.” Followed by a demand: “Help him.”
Compassion always trumps self-preservation.
“Keller? Hey, you need some help?”
If I startled him, it doesn’t show. Turning his head in my direction takes more effort than it should. His eyes are bloodshot and circled in a disturbing shade of eggplant. His hair is damp at the roots and plastered to his head. He looks like he hasn’t seen a shower in weeks, but I know it’s only been a few days at most. He’s sick.
He looks at me blankly. I don’t know if speaking would require too much energy, or if he doesn’t want to.
I touch his forehead with the back of my hand. He leans into it. It’s hot and damp with sweat. Fevers have always scared me. When Gracie got them I couldn’t sleep. I’d sit up in bed next to her. She always wanted me to hold her hand.
I try to mask my fear and whisper, “Keller, why aren’t you in bed? You’re burning up.”
He’s beyond exhausted. I’m wondering how he found the strength to walk across the street.
I scan the shelves in front of him. “What do you need, sweetie?”
He shrugs. He’s delirious with fever.
I offer my hand and he wraps his arm around my shoulder instead. He feels heavy, helpless. I lead him to a bench at the end of the aisle next to the pharmacist’s window where I sit him down to lean against the wall. I consult with the pharmacist and grab what he recommends along with my ibuprofen and two cans of chicken noodle soup, one can of tomato soup, and a jug of orange juice.
After I pay, I return for Keller and we struggle across the street to his apartment. He’s unresponsive at the door so I search his pockets for a key.
He hits his mattress with a disturbing heaviness. After getting medicine in him, the next step is getting him cooled off. I give myself ten seconds to contemplate my options. In the end I go with what always worked with Grace. He’s so out of it that modesty is the last thing I’m worried about, so I don’t hesitate stripping him down to his boxers.
Sickness like this makes me anxious. The kind of anxious you wish you could just walk away from but you can’t. You can’t. Not because you’d feel guilty, but because sometimes people just need you.
His bed is a twin, but I manage to squeeze on the mattress next to him. There’s no headboard so I sit back up against the wall. I hold his hand because it makes me feel better and stroke the wet hair back off his forehead. And I hum quietly to myself. It’s a nervous habit and it keeps me awake. As his skin cools, I relax. Before I know it, I’ve drifted off.
I awake and it takes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. The clock on Keller’s dresser reads 12:17am. My neck aches. I fell asleep sitting up. His head is now resting on my thighs and an arm is draped across my legs, effectively trapping me where I sit. I hold my breath and make a plea to the man upstairs, Please let his fever be gone, as I gently check his forehead with the lightest touch. His skin is dry and cool. I blow out the air and look at the ceiling. Thanks, big guy.
My bladder is screaming. My belly is growling. My body is killing me.
I weigh this against the relief that Keller’s fever broke. Keller’s sleeping peacefully. Keller’s here with me.
I do what I have to do. I rest my head back against the wall and let the physical closeness fill me. Touch is so underrated. The basic human need for contact. Growing up I got daily doses of hugs, hand holding, and forehead kisses from Gracie, Gus, and Audrey. I miss it. So right now I’m going to greedily take advantage of every moment here with Keller. Though I fight it, sleeps comes for me. Insomnia has been replaced by persistent exhaustion.
A cough startles me awake and instinct takes over before my senses do. “Gracie?” It’s funny how worry and concern get the best of sleep every time. I slept with one eye open on Grace for nineteen years. When someone depends on you to chase away bad dreams, or help them to the bathroom in the middle of the night, or hold them so they can sleep, there’s a level of alertness that unconsciousness never chases away.
“Katie?” His voice is raspy and confused.
I hold onto the Grace moment a second longer and then I let it go with a sigh and offer apology, “Sorry Keller. Yeah, it’s me, Kate.”
He rolls off my lap onto his pillow and looks up at me through the darkness. “What are you doing here?”
“I ran into you at the grocery store last night. You were looking for medicine. I’m sure you don’t remember. You were pretty out of it. I walked you home. Duncan wasn’t here and I was afraid to leave you alone. I hope that’s okay.” I glance at the clock. It’s 3:53am.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says sadly.
“Actually, I kinda did.” I smile. “Didn’t I ever tell you I’m allergic to guilt? I could’ve walked away but then I would’ve broken out in hives.” He doesn’t laugh, so I move onto the next important question. “You hungry Keller? I bought some chicken noodle soup. I can make it if you want?”
“I’m sorry, Katie,” it’s a whisper. He’s not talking about his fever.
I don’t make a production out of forgiveness. Some people do. As if forgiveness is some grand, noble gesture that goes hand in hand with condescension. I hate that. Good or bad, I forgive easily and keep it simple, because that’s how my heart likes it. I brush the hair off Keller’s forehead and kiss it. “I know.” I slide my legs off the bed and stretch to my feet. “I’m going t
o make soup.”
After a long overdue stop in the bathroom, I pop three ibuprofen and start two pots of soup. Keller joins me after putting on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. He tries to help but I insist he sit down in his recliner.
“Who’s Gracie?” He’s referring to my half-asleep comment when I woke.
“My sister.”
His eyes are sleepy but his lips smile sweetly. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
I nod while I stir the soup that’s just beginning to boil.
“Older or younger?”
“Older.” I pour the soup into two bowls and carry them to the coffee table in front of Keller.
“Is she in San Diego?”
Normally I dodge any questions about my life back home. It’s mine, and it’s personal, and it’s special. Did I mention it’s mine? But for some reason I feel like talking about Grace right now. “It was Grace’s twenty-first birthday yesterday. She was my hero. I always looked up to her. She was the most pure-hearted person I’ve ever known.” He’s sitting deep in the recliner and even though he looks like he’s been through hell and back, his face looks peaceful. He’s listening to me intently, like there’s nothing more important in the world than this conversation. It makes me want to continue, to share Grace with someone who never knew her. “Have you ever met someone who’s content and happy to her core? And when you’re around her it’s … contagious? Like you want to be a better person just so you feel worthy of being in that person’s life?”
He smiles and nods and I know he understands what I’m trying to say. He has a Grace in his life.
I nod once and smile through the feeling that my insides are breaking into a million pieces, each one of them reflecting my grief. “That was Grace.”
He’s looking at me now like he fears the worst but is afraid to ask, so I spare him and answer the unasked question. “She died this past May from complications of pneumonia and a blood infection. I took her to the ER three times that week before they would admit her. She couldn’t breathe. Her skin looked gray. I threw such a fit when they tried to send us home with a prescription for cough medicine during the final visit that they threatened to call security and have me escorted out. In the end they admitted her.” I take a deep breath before I continue. “Her lungs were filled with fluid. She picked up some kind of blood infection the first night she was there. Two days later she was gone.” I shut my eyes to dam the impending tears. My throat is swelling and I’m trying to remind myself that I don’t cry. I feel my lip quivering. The only time I’ve ever cried was the night Grace died.