The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash

by Candace Ganger

  I finish the sketch and grab my bag full of things. Here goes nothing.

  On the twenty-six-mile drive to the children’s hospital, I have one thing on my mind. I throw on a baseball cap, sneak through the front door, and with the drawing in my hand, slide by every set of eyes that might find me. Mr. Taylor says they’ve moved the kid to another room, so now I have two nurses’ desks to avoid. Head low, drawing pinched between my fingers, I graze through the jolly, music-filled hallway, noticing all the open doors where families have gathered to be with their sick children on this fine holiday.

  When I get to the room, a thunderous burst of singing begins. I poke my head around the corner carefully, so as not to be seen. A dozen carolers, including nurses, doctors, and the family, are surrounding the kid’s bed. Birdie is near the wall, holding a tower of wrapped gifts. She’s smiling, glowing, in this big, frumpy Christmas sweater, like the kind Vinny would wear. My heart thumps a little louder just looking at her, and I get lost in the sounds of “Silent Night.” When the song ends, the carolers prepare to move rooms. I’m nearly surrounded, so I move fast to idle nearby.

  “Merry Christmas,” a nurse says with a smile.

  I tip my hat. When she’s gone, conversation and laughter continue. I try not to listen to what they’re saying, because it’s not my place. I stretch my eyes to see something so beautiful—not pretty—it drowns out all noise anyway: Birdie is still smiling. It’s clear to me now, no matter how she feels about me or what I’ve done, she is better.

  Without me.

  I’ve written this apology to her family about a thousand times but can never manage to send the thing. And anyway, I’m not good with words. So, at the foot of the door, I leave the drawing, my magnum opus.

  “Merry Christmas,” I whisper to the air. “I’m sorry.”

  And one last time, I lift my arm.

  To wave good-bye.

  birdie

  When Dad gets down on one knee, it makes a loud CRACK.

  Brynn makes a joke about how geriatric he is, while I’m more focused on the ketchup stain that’s splotched all over his left pant leg. With his back arched and a strained look on his face like it hurts to be so low, he holds a velvet box propped open in one palm. A plastic quarter-machine ring sits in the center. Mom is crying with her hands over her mouth, but I can see the smile lines around her eyes that web out when she’s really happy—something I haven’t seen in a long time.

  “A plastic ring?” Brynn asks, unimpressed.

  “You don’t know the story, then,” Dad says. “When I first proposed, I was broke, kind of like now, but I was younger and better-looking. But I couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life with your mother, so I dug into my pocket and got one of those twenty-five-cent rings at the drugstore and proposed to her right then and there. Best decision I’ve ever made.”

  Mom can’t get a word out, she’s crying so hard now. The nurses are saying, “Aww,” while resting their hands over their hearts. But Brynn is sticking her finger down her throat with her eyes rolling into the back of her hollow head. A lot of things have changed—she’s not one of them.

  “Bess,” Dad says, “we’ve been through hell.”

  Mom nods. She’s clutching an armful of the gifts the doctors and nurses brought us since we’re spending our Christmas in here instead of at home.

  “And God knows, I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and—”

  “Who hasn’t?” Mom interrupts.

  “I don’t deserve to share my life with you, but…” Dad is crying now, too. Brynn and I smile at each other. “Would you please do me the honor of marrying me—again?”

  Sarge clears his throat. We all stop to look at him. “Guess you don’t need my blessing the second time around. Or the first, for that matter,” he grumps, scratching his jaw.

  “Sarge,” Dad says.

  “Oh, forget it, ya ninny. Finish what you were saying.” He waves Dad off, and we all chuckle.

  Mom pauses, bites the tip of her nail, and with a somber face, asks, “Will there be cake?”

  Dad grins. “Unlike the first wedding at the justice of the peace, yes—we will have cake! We’ll have ten cakes, if you’ll just say yes.”

  “Of course I will.” She pulls him up from the floor and buries her happy tears in his sunshine-colored polo. Sarge is smiling big now, his head angled away from us all like he doesn’t want us to see, just as Dr. Stein walks in.

  “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but congratulations,” he says, holding his hand out to Dad for a shake, “again.”

  The good doctor walks over to Benny, who, though he isn’t the same Benny from before, is wide awake. Parts of him have come back, his limbs move more freely, his eyes know us, he fights the nurses when they take his temperature, but there’s an obvious speech delay. However, Dr. Stein is hopeful—a word I don’t fear anymore—so I am, too. He sticks his light in Benny’s ears, then his eyes. Benny lifts one small hand and pushes it away. We all gasp in excitement and gather around him. He’s our Christmas tree this year, lighting the whole city. It almost makes us forget it’s been a year since Nan passed now. And anyway, Dad and Sarge trashed the baby cypress when Chomperz started using the base as a litter box.

  Dr. Stein steps back, his arms crossed. He tells us about all the therapies Benny will be starting soon—that it will be a very long road—but the most important part, the most important truth for us to hold on to, is that he is alive. With his eyes wide open.

  “Anyway, just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas,” Dr. Stein says, grabbing Benny’s chart. He thumbs through and signs off. “Doctors Morrow and Schwartz will keep an eye until after the holidays. If there’s an emergency, call my cell. Anytime. I mean that.”

  Mom and Dad rush toward him to say good-bye. Because this man did more than save my brother. He saved a family on the verge of collapse.

  “Did anyone feed Chomperz today?” Brynn interrupts. Their voices muddle into a pool of fuzz because, out of the corner of my eye, I see a piece of paper resting at the foot of the door. I excuse myself, my heart beating faster and faster with every step, because from here, I see it—a bear—and I know he was here.

  I hold the drawing close to me to see the detail in the charcoal bear’s bleeding heart. The way the pain seems to drain into the sky where it forms, clings, and separates in the clouds. Kind of like me and Bash. I feel the warmth of him in the words written below the bear:

  (Bi)Pax + (Ba)Alv = x

  SOMETIMES GOOD-BYE IS LIKE A SECOND CHANCE

  (OR WHATEVER)

  On the back, there’s a little pink Post-it that reads

  MY BIRTHDAY WISH WAS FOR BENNY TO OPEN HIS EYES. SOME WISHES DO COME TRUE, I GUESS.

  My heart is thumping a beat I’ve never felt before. It’s a wash of fear and joy and pain and something else—something I liken to hope. The charcoal is so fresh, it clings to my fingertips. I push through Mom and Dad’s embrace to look out the window where I see the back of his leather jacket weaving through cars parked on a blanket of snow. I press my hand to the glass and mutter beneath my breath, “Don’t go.”

  “What are you doing?” Brynn asks. She shoves her forehead onto the pane and gasps. “It’s that Bash dude! MOMMM!!! DAAADDD!!! LOOK!”

  I ignore her. My eyes sting and water as I pound my fist against the pane. Dad and Sarge gather behind us to see the snowy footsteps that lead to this boy who changed it all. He hears me—he must, because he stops abruptly. His feet send an electric pulse into the ground; it travels through the lot, up the building, and directly into my palms. I suddenly lose my breath, and I’m gasping now.

  Sarge idles close for a better view. If ever there was a time for him to say something profound, it would be now. Never one to let me down, he pulls my attention away with a firm grip on my shoulder. “Your light is back.”

  “Ugh—why is he here?” Brynn asks with a curl of disgust. “Shouldn’t he be in jail or at the skating rink punching my friends?”

 
“That’s enough, Brynn,” Mom says. Her hand glides against my arm, too, so I turn to her, my eyes pleading. She looks to Dad. They both smile with a silent acceptance of what I’m about to do.

  “Go to him,” Mom urges.

  I hesitate.

  “Stop thinking. Go.”

  “Thank you,” I say pushing past. My feet sprint through the hall, down the emergency stairwell, and out the main door, where the air smacks me in the face. I don’t stop to put on a coat or catch my breath or think about anything other than this moment I’ve thought about so many times since the night of his arrest.

  I weave through the rows of vibrantly colored cars, my footsteps barely keeping up with my will to be in front of him. When I reach him, he turns to me with downcast eyes and a slouched, forlorn posture. His breath puffs a thick cloud between us. Mine does, too. I imagine the two masses of vapor combining to form a heart, but even in this thought, there’s a big, gaping hole in the center, a pang I can’t ignore. With the drawing still clutched in my hand, I search for the words that are shouting, tangled in my brain, where all the files, once stacked, are now in a big old mess.

  “Shut up,” he says with a slight grin.

  My eyebrows scrunch together. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You don’t have to. I hear your brain, Couch Girl.”

  I dive headfirst into his eyes, but still can’t find the words to understand if this is hello or good-bye. Before I can think another complicated thought, he removes his hat, grabs my waist, and pulls me into him. Our bodies smash into one another where all the heat radiates, and right now, I’m not thinking about anything else. His lips press against mine. They’re wet, but not too wet, with just the right amount of pressure. Our heads tilt like puzzle pieces to fit into one another just so, and as I squint my eyes open slightly to be sure I’m not dreaming, I see him fall into me, too. He’s soft and safe, all the things that I’ve missed in the days of his absence. When he pulls back, my cheeks are wet with tears. They’re not happy tears, and they’re not sad.

  They’re somewhere in between.

  Like me; like us.

  We linger in the cold, connecting breaths between us. There’s a lull where he brushes away my tears with his thumb. We both begin to speak: “I’m—” then nervously giggle and shove our hands into our respective pockets. He fidgets, shuffling his boots deeper into the snow, almost as if to hide them. I do the same.

  “Birdie—” he starts.

  “What are you doing here, Bash?” I blurt out.

  He kicks his feet around, and I sense a slight regret in his hesitation. “I just wondered,” he asks, pointing to the drawing, “if you could help me … balance an equation that’s been bothering me.”

  I step closer, though, as the reality of seeing him again settles, I keep a slight distance now. And cross my arms over my chest to shield my heart and, maybe subconsciously, protect it. My eyes sink into the drawn formula he holds between us.

  “You see,” he continues. His hands are trembling as he moves the two steps closer that I’d taken back. “We can probably assume x is negligible compared to one reactant’s smart, compassionate, beautiful—not pretty—concentrations, right?”

  My tears cease, and I nod, slowly. The corners of my mouth begin to turn up. “Only if x never meant to be so reckless with the reactant’s feelings, I mean, concentrations.”

  He lifts the drawing from my fingers and holds it so I can see. His eyes water now, the remorse evident. “But”—his voice is breathless, almost a whisper—“the thing is, when some reactants collide, only a lucky few gain enough traction to go the distance. So they can’t form new bonds and shit. I think it’s the moment of impact that determines this. Like when two reactants meet at a party, or a wretched skating rink, and though they maybe shouldn’t combine, can’t explain why they need to. They just know it’s where they belong. Feels like home … or whatever.”

  My eyes take in every subtle movement of his lips—the way they twitch before he says my name, and the little dimple only evident when he’s trying hard to stow it away. “You’re forgetting that a catalyst can change the equation. If one reactant keeps something from the other, like coefficients or car accidents, the equation won’t balance. No matter how much you want them, I mean it, to.”

  With the paper clutched in his fist, he takes a stub of charcoal from his back pocket, and looks so deeply into my eyes, I swear he can see every last drop of my being.

  “So,” he says, “what you’re saying is, a successful collision with these reactants in particular is shit out of luck?”

  My veins are pulsing, pumping blood in through and out of my heart so fast my body shakes, and I am beaming that light Sarge spoke of. I shrug. “Depends.”

  “I have it on good authority the reactant in question will do whatever it takes to balance this equation. So the earth can move freely beneath my feet, I mean the formula’s feet, again.”

  “I’m not sure I know the answer to that yet.”

  He grabs my hand. “Listen, I don’t want you to forget a single thing I’ve done to hurt you, or pretend it didn’t tip the world on its axis. There will never be enough apologies in the English—or Portuguese—language to say how sorry I am. For everything.”

  There is a pause. A moment where my files reorganize, forcing the top one into full view—Bash.

  “I know you are. But where do we go from here? So much has happened.”

  “You remind me of Rose,” he says.

  “Who?”

  “Beautiful girl who lets a poor boy draw her before his icy demise in the North Atlantic.”

  My grin expands. “I think you missed the point of that movie.”

  “So then it’s fair to assume the answer to ‘Where do we go from here?’ shouldn’t be ‘I’ll never let go?’” His eyes never abandon me. They’re intense and electric and all the things I remember feeling the second I saw him at the party.

  I chuckle and playfully punch his arm. It’s strong and unflinching, even still. The muscle catches my fist like a net. “Maybe we’re the Titanic. Destined to sink.”

  “Nah. Icebergs don’t exist anymore. Global warming. Besides, you don’t believe in destiny. You’re a facts kind of girl.”

  “Touché.”

  “So … before we freeze our asses off out here, how about we go back to the one thing that needs our immediate attention. Can we solve for x, or is it too late?”

  I take the charcoal from him and smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  LESSON OF A LIFETIME: I’m learning love isn’t tangible, something I can hold in my hand. We are round and flexible, traveling a full 360 degrees to stay in motion—not square, where one of us is left behind, trapped between the angles. When I look at him, think of him, it’s a feeling. Like with hope or faith (Sarge), I’ve got to open my eyes (Benny), feel every single layer whether it hurts or not (Mom and Dad), learn to forgive (Brynn), and mostly, ignore the theories and rationale (me), because when it comes to love, logic doesn’t exist.

  And now that I’ve met Bash, I’m okay with that.

  I hear and I forget.

  I see and I remember.

  I do and I understand.

  –Chinese Proverb

  Acknowledgments

  This book was a true labor of love, and I mean that in every sense of the word. For many, many years, I felt a nagging pang to rewrite an ending to a tragedy my family endured in the late 70s, but nothing ever felt quite right. I had to be sure whatever story I told came from a place of love and hope. Thus, I would first and foremost like to thank the McCann family for living the epitome of courage, even in the aftermath of loss. You are perseverance at its best, and I admire and love you more than any words could express, in this book, or otherwise.

  Along those same lines, I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without the unwavering adoration and support of my beloved Gram, Elsie Carvin. I started this book’s journey as she fought death in various nursing homes, and so
ld it after she passed. She will live on in Sarge and Nan, respectively. Gram—I’ll miss you until time no longer exists. Thank you for showing me all the things I never knew I could be. You are absolutely my infinite beacon. Now, please come back. Pat pat pat.

  To my mom, Kathy, for pushing me out of your body and feeding me and stuff. Thank you for always being there, no matter how big my hair or how sarcastic my jokes. I’m grateful for our friendship and the material you’ve given me over the years (like the time you thought someone broke into our house and called police when it was really just a dream). Thank you to my dad, Jay, for continually singing my praises through the years. Your support, however far away, truly means the world to me. And to my brother, Jacob, for constantly reminding me I’ll never be cool no matter what I do. Humbling.

  Bethany Buck, my B2, I cannot thank you enough for believing in this story, and in me. Your resolve to find a home for Birdie & Bash remains to be one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Thank you for your wisdom and for being a gallant cheerleader when all felt lost.

  I’d be remiss not to give a Herculean-sized THANK YOU to my fearless editor and badass rock star (#bar), Vicki-positive-kitten-Lame. I don’t know who the eff I was before I knew you, but I know who I’ve become since. You’re brilliant and insightful and I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have the chance to know you, let alone work with you. Thank you for totally getting me and loving cats and wearing twirly dresses and mostly, for buying my books. You gave me the chance to shine, and so shine, I will.

  I’d like to also thank Jennifer Enderlin and Anne Marie Tallberg at St. Martin’s Griffin for bringing my precious book(s) to life. And to my publicist, Brittani Hilles, as well as Ana, Jonathan, DJ, Kerri, Karen, Jeremy, Lisa, Brant, and the fantastic team at St. Martin’s Press, for giving me the wonderfully supportive place my stories can call “home.”