by Emma Scott
I nodded reluctantly. “Okay. I’m sorry you have to put up with that. Him.”
His eyes met mine and the hard walls came down a little, like they only did for me. He sighed, ran a hand through his longish brown hair. “I’m sorry for being a dick, but it’s just what I’ve been dealing with.”
Wordlessly, I hugged him tight. He leaned into me, let me hold him, but his hands were light on my back as if it burned him to touch me.
“Mr. Stratton? Miss McNamara?” Over Miller’s shoulder, Vice Principal Chouder was tapping his watch. “You’re both late.”
Miller pulled back, shouldered his bag, his gaze anywhere but on me.
“See you later?” I asked.
I wanted to ask if he’d come over that night, like I had a thousand times in four years. But it felt wrong. Everything between us now felt all wrong.
“Yeah, see you, Vi,” he said and quickly walked away.
In History class that day, I sat next to Shiloh as usual. Mr. Baskin called roll.
“Watson?”
“Here.”
“Wentz?” A silence followed, and then Baskin, a heavyset guy with a graying beard, muttered to himself. “Oh, that’s right. Suspended.”
He made a check in his roll book, then restarted the movie on the whiteboard that we’d begun last class: a documentary on the Russian revolution.
When the classroom was dark and the documentary rolling, Shiloh leaned into me, whispering, “Okay, Miss Friends-with-TMZ. Who is this new guy who keeps not showing up?”
“Ronan Wentz,” I whispered back. “He’s suspended for punching Frankie Dowd. Broke his nose.”
“My hero,” Shiloh muttered. “That shithead had it coming.”
I nodded. “He was giving Miller a hard time. Again.”
Shiloh scowled and tossed a cluster of small braids over her shoulder. “Frankie’s psychotic. Gets it from his dad, I’m sure.”
“The police officer?”
“Yep. You’re not the only one with gossip. Bibi’s friends with one of the detectives at the precinct near our house.”
I smiled. “Bibi is friends with everyone.”
Shiloh’s grandmother was pushing eighty, almost totally blind, and active in nearly every rotary, city, and social club in town.
“Bibi said her detective friend warned her about Officer Dowd. He’s had a few disciplinary issues lately.”
“Evelyn said this Ronan guy looked like a criminal himself. Not that she was there…”
“He’d better watch his ass then,” Shiloh said, facing forward. “If he broke Frankie’s nose, his dad is going to be out for blood.”
I was quiet for a minute and then leaned back at Shiloh. “Did Miller mention to you about his mom having a new boyfriend?”
“No. He’s been pretty quiet lately. Why?”
“I think he’s not a good guy. Miller won’t tell me much and I don’t think he’s coming over anymore. I think…”
“What?”
But I couldn’t say it. Just thinking that something was wrong between Miller and me made me sick to my stomach. Too much felt on the verge of collapsing all around me.
I smiled. “Nothing.”
After school, I drove my white Rav-4 to the UCSC Medical Center. I parked and made my way through the ground floor, waving at receptionists and nurses I’d become friendly with over the course of my three-week Patient Care Volunteer training this summer.
The director waved me in to her office. Dr. Alice Johnson was in her mid-fifties, though she looked younger. Her sleek black hair was style in a side-cut bob, and her red lipstick set off the warm tones in her brown skin as she smiled at me.
“Violet. How are you? Ready?”
“I think so. I hope so. I’d also hoped to be paired with Miller Stratton.”
“I know you did, but I assigned you to Nancy Whitmore because of all our PCVs, I think you’re the most qualified. And the most compassionate. But if it’s too much realness, don’t hesitate to tell me.”
I inhaled. “Is she dying?”
Dr. Johnson nodded. “I’m afraid so. Her oncologist estimates six months at best. Nancy’s a lovely lady. Positive, like you. And positivity can make things easier.” She studied me from across her desk. “Have you chosen what area of medicine you’d like to specialize in? General surgery, wasn’t it?”
A note of doubt touched her words.
“You don’t think I’m cut out for it?”
“I think you’d make a fine surgeon. You have one of the brightest minds I’ve seen come through the program. But is surgery truly where your greatest strengths lie? Doctors are, at their most basic essence, people trained to care for other people. How you choose to care for them speaks to who you are as a person. So it’s not a matter of being cut out for it but more a matter of what specialty allows you to utilize all of your gifts. Does that make sense?”
I smiled faintly. “You’re saying I’m too soft to be wielding a scalpel?”
“I’m saying that studying as hard as you do and mastering the science of being a doctor is only one half of the equation. Which is why I picked you for Nancy Whitmore. I want you to experience the human side of our profession before you decide your specialty. Your ‘softness’ is the reason you’re the only student here I’d trust with this assignment.”
“Okay,” I said, bolstered by her faith in me. “Thank you.”
Dr. Johnson gave me a final rundown of my duties and handed me a list of things Mrs. Whitmore enjoyed: Earl Grey tea, knitting, classic literature, Hot Pockets…
I looked up from the list. “Hot Pockets?”
Dr. Johnson shrugged with a grin. “We all have our guilty pleasures. I can eat an entire bag of Smarties candy if I’m not careful.”
I grinned. “Same. Smarties are life. Thank you, Dr. Johnson.”
“Good luck.”
I left the Medical Center and drove through Santa Cruz with its little shops, cafes, and greenery. My hometown was smack in the middle of a forest, at the edge of the coast, and butted up against a mountain range. It had all its geographical bases covered and was, in my eyes, the most beautiful place on earth.
The Whitmores lived near my neighborhood on Quarry Lane. I pulled into the drive of a house that was smaller than mine but new. Two stories with a two-car garage and another garage that looked added on at the side. The door was open and the skeleton of a car and various parts were strewn all over. I guessed Mr. Whitmore liked to take his work from his auto body shop home with him.
There was no sign of River’s Chevy Silverado.
At the front door, I rang the bell. It chimed inside, and after a few moments, a dark-haired woman about my mom’s age answered. She threw open the door with gusto and a wide smile.
“Are you from the hospital?”
I nodded. “Violet McNamara. And you are…?”
“Dazia Horvat,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “Nance’s best friend. Look at you. Doe eyes. Sweet face. Thank you for being here. Come in, come in.”
I followed Dazia into the house, the woman chatting in a faint accent I couldn’t place about one of the nurses she didn’t like, how nice the weather had been, and how Nancy loved tea but couldn’t have it too hot.
I listened while taking in my surroundings. Photos lined the wall up the stairs—River as a baby, as a toddler, playing pee-wee football and looking almost buried under the gear. Family portraits, one taken for every year: Mr. Whitmore, big, dark hair, smiling brightly. River, like a younger version of his dad. His little sister Amelia, three years younger, gap-toothed and smiling as a toddler, beautiful as a teenager. And Nancy…
My throat caught. Bright, vibrant. Blue eyes and dark blond hair and a smile that shown with happiness.
Outside the master bedroom, I inhaled deeply.
Dazia knocked on the door. “You decent?” She shot me a wink, then led me inside.
The Nancy lying in bed did not resemble the woman from the photos. This woman was thin, frail, wit
h a scarf around her head. No eyebrows or lashes, but her eyes…
She’s still there. She’s all there.
“Hi, Violet,” Nancy said. “So nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I said and fought back sudden tears. Not because I pitied her but because of the sudden, strange desire I had to be with this woman and take care of her in these last, sacred moments of her life. But I pulled myself together, determined not to fall apart on the first day—the first minute—of my job.
“You know my son, River?”
“Yes. Not well, but…yes.”
“He speaks highly of you.”
“He does?” I lowered my voice. “I mean…that’s nice. I think highly of him too.”
Oh my God, shoot me now.
But Nancy was gracious enough to pretend not to notice I’d turned pink to my roots.
“He’s so busy with football practice and games these days. I don’t see him much.”
Sadness infiltrated the room like a fog.
Dazia pulled the blanket higher over her friend and patted her leg. “He’s a popular kid. That’s all. Busy, busy, busy. Isn’t that right, Violet?”
“He is. Everyone loves him.”
Nancy smiled kindly. Tiredly. “Thank you for saying so. I’m afraid I don’t have much for you today. Dazia is in town for a few days and has been hovering over me like a mother hen.”
“I stole your job, didn’t I?” Dazia flounced into a chair beside the bed and took up a pile of yarn. Nancy was knitting a scarf in blue and purple.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I can make myself useful. Can I bring you anything? A cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Dazia?”
“Make it two. You’re a peach.”
“No problem.” I left the room and pressed my back to the door, and this time I didn’t fight the tears.
Yes, I was soft. But that didn’t mean weak. Being a doctor wasn’t about having zero emotions. It was about channeling them toward the patient to give the best care possible. I wasn’t giving up on being a surgeon, but in those first few moments with Nancy, I felt a little of what Dr. Johnson must’ve seen in me. I let a few tears fall for her. And Dazia, Amelia, Mr. Whitmore and River. Especially River.
And then I wiped them away and got to work.
Chapter Six
Saturday, I worked from ten a.m. until four p.m. at the arcade. It was the largest on the Boardwalk, a short walk to the rides, coaster, and Ferris wheel that loomed over the beach.
As I walked home, the sounds of explosions, gunshots, and tokens dropping into slots rang in my head. Sometimes, the wakka wakka sounds of Pac-Man kept me up at night, conjuring flashes of the little yellow disk endlessly running from ghosts that grew faster and faster, inevitably cornering him.
I hated that fucking game.
Outside my apartment complex, I stopped, inhaled, and mustered the will to climb the cement stairs. Inside, Chet was in his usual spot: his ass glued to our couch, his eyes trained on our TV, his mouth crammed with our food. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. The fact that a diabetic (or anyone, really) shouldn’t be living around secondhand smoke didn’t seem to faze good old Chet.
“How was the arcade?” he asked. “Making change and trading tickets for plastic shit they’re just going to throw out in a day. You’re doing God’s work, aren’t you?”
“It’s work,” I muttered. “Where’s Mom?”
“Shopping for groceries.”
“We can’t afford groceries since she quit the diner.”
Chet sneered. “Oh, you think your mom’s gotta work two jobs to keep a roof over your head while you play video games all day?”
“I have school and I have a job,” I said, gritting my teeth. “And just what the hell do you do?”
“If you must know, Mr. Smartass, I got injured. I get disability and a nice workman’s comp check. That’s why your mom doesn’t have to work two jobs. I’m taking care of her. And your sorry ass.”
Jesus, that was even worse. Not only did Mom want him around, she needed him too. Not for the first time, I contemplated dropping out of school to get a better job. My dreams of getting out of this place and playing my music were blackening at the edges. If things got worse, they’d go up in flames altogether.
“The words you’re looking for is ‘Thank you,’” Chet said, breaking me out of my thoughts.
I ignored him and went to my room—a tiny square that had space enough for a twin-sized bed, dresser, and a small table and chair shoved under the one small window. It was a mess of clothes all over the floor and papers all over the desk, but I’d always kept my guitar safely stowed under my bed in its case.
The case was now on top of my bed’s dark green plaid bedspread, open and empty. Disemboweled but for a few pages of scribbled songs spewing out like innards. I hurried back to the living room, stomach twisted in knots.
“What the hell…?”
My words trailed as Chet reached to his feet, retrieved my guitar from the floor behind the coffee table, and sat it on his knees.
In two strides, I was looming over him, the table between us. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Chet hefted the neck with one hand, a cigarette clutched between his fingers. His other meaty fingers strumming the strings. “Nice instrument. Your daddy give this to you?”
“Give it to me,” I said, my hand outstretched, shaking.
Unperturbed, he played a discordant note. Ash tumbled along the guitar face and into the sound hole. “Nice. Too nice, maybe.”
“Give…it…to me,” I said, spitting the words between my teeth.
Chet met my gaze while he slowly held the guitar outstretched.
I snatched it back by the neck. “Stay the fuck out of my room.”
He chuckled. “Touchy, touchy.”
I strode back to my bedroom, returned my guitar to its case, and carried it back out. I had to make a pit stop at the refrigerator where I jammed a few snacks and a bottle of juice into my backpack. Chet’s lazy gaze was on me the entire time, like ants crawling over my skin.
“You write a lot of flowery shit, don’t you?” Chet observed.
I slammed the fridge door. “What did you say?”
“I read your songs, Bobby Dylan. You think you’re in love?” He snorted. “This girl you write for… You think she’s going to fall for you once she sees all this…” He gestured at the shabby apartment, then chuckled again. “It’d have to be one helluva song.”
Rage boiled in me, a red haze that clouded my vision. Then it burned out just as fast, leaving me hollowed out. He was right. Violet’s care for me had never wavered, not even when—especially not when—I’d been living in a fucking car. But it was one thing to be friends with a charity case. Another to kiss and fuck and walk around the school holding hands with one.
Chet muttered something else, but I barely heard it. I went out, shutting the door behind me, my feet taking me to the beach. To the Shack.
Ronan was already there. He’d gathered up driftwood and charred bits of other people’s bonfires to build his own in the small stretch of beach in front of the Shack. He set the last log, creating a wooden teepee, straightened, and whipped a lock of dark hair out of his eyes.
He jerked his chin at my guitar case. “You play?”
I nodded and sat down on a small boulder, resting the case across my knees. “I caught Chet fucking with it. I’ll have to bring it everywhere from now on. Here. To school… Fucking asshole.”
Ronan opened a small banged-up cooler and pulled out two bottles of beer. He handed me one and sat on another low rock.
“Thanks,” I said and scanned the label.
“It’s just beer,” Ronan said. “Water, barley, hops.”
“I need to know the carb count. For my dia-ba-titties.”
“Oh, right,” Ronan said, taking a pull off his. “That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.” I made some mental calculations. “C
ut me off at two.”
“What happens if you have more than two?”
“Depends. Two could spike my sugars. More than that might drop them.”
Ronan’s dark eyes widened. “Are you saying you can never get drunk?”
“I can.” I lifted the bottle to my lips with a smirk. “But it’s not doctor recommended.”
He blew air out his cheeks. “Fuck.”
“Yep.”
A silence fell. I’d only had to hang out with him for two nights to know that Ronan wasn’t a big talker. I didn’t mind. The quiet between us was comfortable. I could think and breathe around him without any bullshit.
The sun wouldn’t set for hours, but Ronan reached into his ratty backpack for a bottle of lighter fluid and a box of matches. As he did, I counted at least four tattoos on his forearms and biceps.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Eighteen,” he said, spraying a shit-ton of lighter fluid on the wood. “Nineteen in March. I got held back in Manitowoc.”
Eighteen. Dude looked like he was twenty-four, at least. As if life were beating down like a fist, forcing out everything that was young about him.
“Did you get all that ink in one year, or did your parents give you permission?”
“No,” he said and struck a match. He tossed it on the wood, which flared into a roaring fire immediately.
I leaned back, shielding my eyes with my beer. “Jesus…”
Ronan stared into the flames, watching the wood burn. When the inferno subsided to a normal campfire level, he sat back down.
“No…what?” I asked. “No permission or—”
“No parents,” Ronan said. He took a long pull off his beer. “Mom died when I was a kid. Dad died in prison.”
“Shit,” I breathed. “Sorry, man. Why was your dad in jail?”
Ronan turned his dark eyes to me, gray and flat, like the rounded stones at our feet. “For killing my mom.”
“Holy fuck…” I took a sip of beer since my throat had gone dry. “Who do you live with now?”
“Uncle.”
Before I could say another word, Ronan aimed the lighter fluid at the fire. It arched like piss, and the fire flared, hot and bright. Soon, there wouldn’t be any wood left to burn.