by Amy Reed
“I don’t understand why I can’t get blood drawn in the outpatient clinic.”
“Dr. Jacobs wants to see how you’re doing. You know that. And he still wants to talk to you. You never went in after that whole thing with the—” But she stops. She can’t say it. She can’t say “pills.” She can’t say “drugs” or “addiction.” So she starts over: “I don’t understand. What are you scared of? They’re just going to take a little blood.”
How can she be so blind? No, Mom, I’m not scared of blood. I’m scared of everything else. I’m scared of seeing a sweet, confused boy with a brain tumor who refuses to give up on me even though all I do is treat him like shit. I’m scared of Moskowitz reminding me that I’m responsible for the outing that got Stella sick. I’m scared of seeing Dan and his big brown eyes full of sympathy I don’t deserve. I’m scared of all the kids who believed I was some sort of miracle, of the little girl who couldn’t catch it, who’s probably not there anymore, who’s probably not anywhere anymore.
Shit. Tonight was supposed to be fun, and now I feel like I’m on the verge of crying.
“I’m going now,” I say.
“But what about the appointment?”
“What about it?”
“When is a good time?”
“I don’t know. Whenever.” I turn the doorknob.
“So I should just make the appointment for any time? You’ll be free? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, Mom. Whatever.” I walk out the door and down the street three blocks to the corner where I told Marcus to pick me up.
It feels weird being inside Marcus’s house. It’s weird being somewhere that isn’t just ours, a place where he exists separate from me, where he inhabits a life that has nothing to do with us.
But the house itself is nothing of Marcus. It’s one of those Victorian mansions in the rich enclave of Piedmont, but the inside is decorated in the starkest, most modern style possible. Almost everything is white or black, sharp angles, and shiny leather. The furniture is hard and uncomfortable-looking, like you could hurt yourself trying to sit on it. There’s nothing that says real people live here. There is nothing that says family, no awkward school photos, no vacations or holidays, no pictures of Marcus as a baby.
“Pretty ridiculous, isn’t it?” he says as I stare at the spiral staircase that goes to the second floor.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I guess,” he says. “If you’re into the minimalist thing.”
“Do you actually, like, hang out in here?”
“Honestly, I can’t remember the last time someone sat on that couch. My dad and I don’t really spend time anywhere besides our own rooms. Sometimes we accidentally meet in the kitchen while we’re grabbing food to take back to our lairs. We don’t eat meals together or anything. The oven hasn’t been used in like two years. Living here is like sleeping in a museum.”
“Is your dad here?”
“No, he’s at some kind of fund-raising gala with his new girlfriend of the week who’s probably barely older than me.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
We climb the staircase to the second floor where the house separates into two distinct wings. I follow Marcus to the left, down a long hall to the very last door.
“Dad lives on the other side,” he says. “As far away from me as possible.”
“Where’s your brother’s room?” I say, looking down the hall at so many doors to so many rooms.
Marcus looks at me like I’ve caught him off-guard, like there was something strange about my question.
“That one,” he says flatly, pointing down the hall. “Third door on the right.” He turns around and opens the door to his room.
Marcus’s bedroom is a relief from the coldness of the rest of the house. His walls are covered with posters of bands I’ve never heard of. The hardwood floor is softened by a huge blue rug. A big, soft couch sits against one wall, his unmade bed against another, a desk and shelves stuffed with books next to that. Everything colorful and cozy and funky, as if in direct retaliation to his father’s stark aesthetic. There are plants everywhere, green leafy things of various sizes in colorful pots on the floor, on shelves and tables, hanging from the ceiling. There is life all over the place.
“It’s a jungle in here,” I say.
“All of these were my brother’s. One of his many special talents.”
“I’m impressed.”
Marcus shrugs. “Someone had to take care of them after he moved out.”
“I don’t know. Most people I know can’t take care of anything besides themselves.”
Marcus opens a desk drawer and pulls out a small bag of weed, far less than Stella left me, but enough to last me for a week at least.
“Here,” he says, handing it to me. “As you ordered. Though I have to say it feels kind of sucky to be selling drugs to my girlfriend.”
“You’re not really selling them; you’re just helping me procure them. It’s not like you’re making a profit.”
“So I’m the middle man, then?” he says. “And I’m not even getting anything out of it? Yeah, that makes me feel a lot better.”
“Who said you weren’t getting anything out of it?” I put my arms around him, pull him close, and find his lips with mine.
“Are you going to pay me in kisses?” he says when we come up for air.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe other things.” I could stay here all night. I could stay here forever.
“Do you want your surprise?” he says.
I nod my head, not believing this moment could get any better. He pulls away, opens the same desk drawer as before, and takes out another small plastic bag. He sits on his unmade bed and pats the spot next to him. I sit as he opens the clear plastic, revealing a tangle of what looks like dry, shriveled sticks.
“What’s that?”
“Mushrooms. You ever tried them?”
“Not yet.”
“You want to?”
“What do they do?”
“They make you see God.”
I’m not sure if I want to see God. I’m certain I don’t want God to see me.
“Do you trust me?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “I trust you more than anyone.”
“Good,” he says. “I’ll take care of you, you know.”
“I know.”
“I won’t let you get hurt.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Are you sure? We don’t have to.”
I put my hand out, palm up, ready.
We chew the dirty stems in candlelight. In silence. The houseplants send intricate patterns of shadow across the room, dancing as the flame flickers.
“Let’s go to the cemetery,” Marcus says. “We can climb the fence.”
I am scared but I say yes. I want to be brave. I want to be the tough girl Marcus thinks I am.
We walk through the streets of Piedmont, passing the stately mansions and perfectly manicured front yards. We’re holding hands, like we could be any normal couple, anywhere. A woman walking a poodle smiles at us. She has no idea we just ate mushrooms and are about to sneak into a graveyard.
“When do they kick in?” I say.
“About an hour after you eat them.”
“How will I know?”
“You’ll know,” he says, and squeezes my hand.
The night is warm and smells like flowers. It’s so perfect, I can forget about my other life, my false life, the one that threatens to consume me, the one that keeps holding on no matter how hard I try to shake it off. This is the only one that matters. This is the only one that’s real. This place Marcus and I make exist by our being together.
It’s nearly ten o’clock, only two more hours until my curfew, but I don’t care. My parents can’t find me here. I am untouchable. And if I get grounded, I’ll have a perfect excuse to not go to prom tomorrow night.
When we reach the gate, the perfection of the night is tarnished just a
little. “I’m supposed to climb that?” I say. Streetlamps illuminate the fully exposed gate. Anyone driving by could see us. But what worries me more is how high it is, how it requires a far more nimble body than mine to climb it.
“I know you can do it,” Marcus says. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I wasn’t sure.”
His belief in me, however foolish, has to be enough. What’s the worst thing that could happen? I could fall and break my leg again? I could get caught? None of those threats seem reason enough to quit this adventure right as it’s getting started.
“Here,” he says, making a cradle out of his hands. “Let me give you a boost.”
I lift the foot of my good leg and push myself up, my hands clutched on the metal fence. His hands support the back of my legs as I scramble the rest of the way up, kicking and clawing as ungracefully as possible, until I’ve somehow made it to the top and he can’t reach me anymore, until all I have are the fence and gravity and myself.
“You made it,” he says.
“I still have to get down the other side.”
“Just swing your hip over.”
Easier said than done. My hip doesn’t want to obey. I send it the command, but it’s like the message doesn’t compute. Somehow “swing over” is something it lost the ability to do after so many surgeries, after so much bone was removed and replaced with metal.
“I can’t,” I say. “My leg is stuck.” I am starting to panic. I feel the world swirling around me, the metal grating of the gate turning to string. This net can’t hold me for much longer. It will collapse and I will go down with it, and I will smash to the ground, which suddenly looks so far away—fifty feet, a hundred, a thousand. “I’m scared,” I say. Marcus is so far away and there is no way he can help me.
“It’s okay,” Marcus says, his voice so smooth and strong and calm that it turns the string fence back to solid metal. “I’m coming over,” he says. He climbs up quickly, gracefully, like he is made for the air. He kisses me when he gets to the top, then climbs down the other side.
“Now what?” I say.
“I’m going to catch you.”
“No,” I say. “It won’t work.” He is a thousand feet down. Gravity would catch me and together we would crush him.
“Look at me,” he says. The world is swirling and dark, but I find his eyes so far below, blinking up at me from the depths. They are the only stable thing I see. They are the only light.
“Trust me,” they say. “I promise I won’t let you fall.”
What choice do I have? Either he saves me or I am unsaveable.
I close my eyes and let go.
I don’t know how long I’m flying, how long I float through the nowhere space between here and there. I am neither dead nor alive. In those brief moments, I become light. I am a wave and a particle. I am nothing and everything and I am nowhere and everywhere. There is no up and no down, no past and no future, no grief and no joy. I am all movement. I am plummeting through space and I am perfect.
And then Marcus catches me. Everything is solid. Marcus is solid. I am solid.
“Are you okay?” he says somewhere beneath me. Are we on the ground? Am I on top of him?
“I think so,” I say. “Nothing hurts.” My eyes focus and for a moment I think I am looking in a mirror. Whose eyes are those? Why are they so close?
I start laughing. “I tackled you.” The eyes smile. Marcus’s body is the sturdy ground beneath me. His arms and legs are tree roots. “Marcus,” I say. “I am definitely not sober.”
Then two white eyes in the distant dark, headlight beams, searching for the live people among the dead.
“Oh shit,” Marcus says, but he is not scared. This is a game and we are winning. “Let’s hide.”
A flurry of movement and we are running in the stars. I don’t know how it happens, or when, but I suddenly know that this place is the sky and we are angels; these are not gravestones, they’re clouds. This is not a hard place, not a place of stone and sadness. It is trees and grass and sky and stars. It is a place where Marcus’s hand is fused in mine and we are one body, and we are climbing, up and up the hill we go, and the shadows are pillows, just here to soften the edges of the things with spikes and points and thorns and corners. We bend in and out of darkness and light. The ghosts help us find the best hiding places. There is nothing here to be scared of. We run and dodge and dart until the lights of the security guard’s truck are a distant memory at the bottom of the hill.
“This way,” Marcus says. “We’re almost at my favorite spot.”
He takes me to a giant, round stone tomb the size of a small cottage. It is covered in moss and ivy, like something out of medieval times, like something out of Narnia. It is surrounded by a ring of grass, then bordered by a stone wall that opens to a perfect view of the sparkling Bay Area skyline. We are hidden from everything except the sky.
“Oh wow,” I say. The lights of the city are a million stars, so close I can touch them. They pulse with my heartbeat. We are connected, all of us—me and Marcus and all the little ant-people down there, doing their jobs in service to some fat queen they never even see, all because of some vague promise programmed inside them, a blind faith that their hard work and suffering will be worth it. But what if it’s not? What if the queen doesn’t even exist? What if they’re making themselves miserable for nothing?
“They should come up here,” I say.
“Who should?” Marcus says.
“The ant-people. All of them down there. They don’t know what they’re missing.”
“What if they don’t even know up here exists?”
“That is so sad.”
I am leaning in to Marcus. His fingers are in my hair. He smells like man and sky and grass.
“I wasn’t in a car accident,” I say.
“Me neither.”
“No, I mean my leg. That’s not why I had the cane. That’s not why I limp.”
The sky is pulsing. I feel the pressure change in my ears. It goes whomp, whomp, whomp.
“I had cancer. Like, really bad cancer. Like, I almost died. Like, I had two weeks to live. Like, my parents had already started making funeral arrangements.”
He doesn’t say anything. I feel his body warm behind me, but he is silent.
“Hello?”
He squeezes me and the universe melts into my blood.
“I was supposed to die. The cancer was everywhere. They did radiation and chemo treatments until I lost all my hair and had no immune system. I lived in the hospital.”
“Are you an angel?” he says, with no surprise and no fear in his voice. “Maybe you died and came back and you’re an angel.”
“Everyone said I was a miracle.” I turn around to face him. Without the sky and lights in front of me, we are suddenly enclosed. There is no opening to the night. We are bound to this place. It is solid and it is ours.
“You are.” His eyes light up and I see the moon.
“But not a good miracle.”
“Yes, Evie,” he says, cupping my face in his hands. “The best miracle.”
“But I think my friend died for me. I think she died so I could live. I think I took her life and I’m wasting it.”
And then the sky opens up and takes us in it, hands like cherry blossoms, and all the statues nod their blessing, all the skeletons in the ground dance for us, and the earth shakes, and the grass shivers, and Marcus’s breath is the world, and his arms are its bones, and his lips are the kiss of God that makes me exist, that make my life worth something.
“Was that an earthquake?” I say.
“That was you.”
The ground settles. It is his body, my body, moving. It is our limbs taking root. It is our clothes drifting away and becoming clouds. It is all the passion and truth it is possible to feel, burning through my skin and into his.
“I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to think I was sick. I didn’t want you to think I was weak.”
He stop
s kissing the valley between my ribs and touches my nose with his. “Evie. Are you crazy? You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. I had a feeling. I knew it before I knew. ”
“You had a feeling I had cancer?”
“I had a feeling you survived something. I knew you were like me. We have dark places to climb out of.”
“Sometimes I’m so tired. Sometimes I want to stop climbing.”
“You have to climb. It’s the only way to get out.”
He returns to my ribs. He kisses each one of them. He kisses the place between my breasts that is bursting with warmth. He kisses my shoulder, my throat, my ears, my face. His skin glides across my body and I wrap myself around him until there is nothing between us.
“I want you,” I say.
“I want you, too.”
“Do you have a condom?”
He nods. He says, “Are you sure?”
I say, “Yes.” I say. “Absolutely.”
“Are you sure you want our first time to be in a graveyard?”
“I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Our bodies merge and our histories swirl around us. One of us is crying but I don’t know who. I see scars but I can’t tell if they are mine or his. Our love patches up the mysteries. Our breath paints healing across our bodies. His hands are gentle, confident; they are mending me; they are putting me back together.
The dead dance around us, but they are not scary. Not sad. They tell us, Stay where you are. They say, We’re not ready for you to join us yet.
And the night explodes in every color. The lights from the city march a parade around us. I laugh at their production, at the showiness of it all. The particles and waves weave us a cocoon of light. We are wrapped in it. We are held.
“I died too,” Marcus says in the stillness that follows. “We’re the same.” We lay in each other’s arms in the grass. The city has taken a break from its pyrotechnics. It is as spent as we are. I look up and see nothing but the blackness of the sky, like a thick blanket over us.
“Who is DL?” I say. I am not scared of her. Whoever she is, she cannot find us here.
“My brother,” he says. “David. David Lyon. My brother,” he says again, as if to practice the sound of a forbidden word. I turn my head to look into his eyes. They are as deep as the sky above us.