The Art of Losing

by Lizzy Mason

  “Audrey is awake,” he said. His voice was so quiet, I could barely hear him. “She opened her eyes a few minutes ago.”

  His attempt to hold in his emotions faltered. He reached out for Mom, opening up his free arm to me. I ran toward him and fell against his shoulder. But the teary family hug was over almost as quickly as it started; Dad “the doctor” started trying to be rational, to talk us out of being too hopeful.

  Yes, Audrey had awakened once, but it didn’t necessarily mean she would wake up again if she slipped into unconsciousness. The key to managing the situation was to have realistic expectations. If she did wake up, she might have difficulty walking and speaking, she could have amnesia, or a number of other potential issues.

  “Just let us have this moment of hope, okay?” I told him. “You don’t have to always be the voice of realism.”

  “Why do you think I read those articles about recovery out loud?” Mom added, getting out of bed. “I’m just trying to counteract your dad’s practicality. I’ve given up on making up for the bad jokes.”

  “Hey!” he protested, but he was smiling. “I’m hilarious.”

  I allowed myself a hopeful smile as I ran to my room to get dressed.

  Audrey was asleep again by the time we got to the hospital, but lucky for us, Keisha was waiting. She’d been on duty when Audrey opened her eyes; her EEG had tracked the change and alerted Keisha at the nurses’ station.

  “I rushed to the room,” Keisha told us. “And I took her hand and told her she was in the hospital. I told her she was going to be fine, but that there’d been an accident.”

  Mom huffed through her nose. No doubt she’d wanted to tell Audrey that herself.

  “I told her that her family was on their way. That you all were going to be so happy to see her,” Keisha added. She dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. I got the feeling that she didn’t see people waking up from comas very often.

  The doctor arrived then, so we moved to the hallway while he explained what was going to happen next. Which was, essentially, “wait and see.”

  I stayed with Audrey all morning watching movies while Mom and Dad went to work. They made me promise I would call as soon as Audrey did anything, but Mom stopped by the hospital near lunchtime anyway.

  I caught a whiff of her perfume—spicy, with a hint of money—when she bent to kiss Audrey’s forehead.

  “Since so far you have thwarted my attempts to find you gainful employment for the summer, can you watch Spencer tomorrow?” Mom asked. “Aunt Tilly needs to go to see a client out of town, and he keeps refusing to go to his day camp.”

  My aunt visited her agoraphobic clients in their homes. A few times a week, she traveled as far as a couple hundred miles away from northern Virginia. So Spencer spent a lot of time with us or with babysitters or, now, at camp.

  I couldn’t blame Spencer for not wanting to go to camp. I may have had fun, but Audrey had trouble with it when she was his age, and I remembered how homesick she was at first. And unlike Audrey, who had little trouble making friends, Spencer could barely speak to other kids his age.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Can I take him to a baseball game?”

  “Okay,” she said, but not without raising her eyebrows in surprise. Her idea of fun did not include baking in the sun watching the Nationals while the humidity made it feel like an overpriced steam bath you could eat in. But Mom recorded the nightly news, so clearly there are many definitions of fun.

  When her eyes locked on mine, though, I could tell this was not the end of the conversation.

  “While your sister is recovering,” she said, “she’ll need help around the house and someone to take her to physical therapy and things like that. But in the meantime, I really do think you should get a job. At least do some babysitting or volunteer somewhere. Something you can put on your college applications.”

  In my head, I added a notch to the “College Application Mentions by Mom” list I’d started on the last day of school. This was number seventeen. But what stood out in Mom’s statement was what she hadn’t said. In her insistence that I be available to help Audrey recover was a message: “This is your fault. You owe her this.”

  “I’ll talk to Tracey at the White Magnolia. I heard she needed a new part-time salesperson,” Mom added.

  I couldn’t keep the sneer off my face. I was absolutely not going to spend all summer helping middle-aged women try on boring clothes that cost more than my entire lifetime’s wardrobe.

  “Please don’t,” I said. “I’ll start looking, I swear.”

  She leaned down to kiss me on her way out but paused a couple inches away and sniffed. Her face transformed immediately.

  “Harley. Please don’t make me tell you to stop smoking,” she said. “Don’t I have enough to worry about?” She gestured needlessly to Audrey’s inert body next to us.

  Damn it. Well played, Mom.

  I wanted to roll my eyes. But I couldn’t. She wasn’t wrong. I mean, I didn’t even like smoking that much; I just needed something to keep my hands busy and my mouth from screaming. But now, on top of being soothing and a nice distraction, it was also an excuse to see Raf.

  “Okay,” I whispered, ashamed.

  “And the job?” she prompted, clearly not convinced by my half-hearted appeal.

  “I’ll see what I can find,” I said, trying to sound more sincere this time. I even gestured to my open laptop.

  She kissed me on the cheek and left, saying, “I’ll be back soon, baby duck.”

  I wanted to tell her she was a pain in the ass. I also wanted to run after her and give her a hug and tell her that I loved her. It was only after a few seconds that I realized I had a smile on my face.

  About an hour later, when I was halfway through Never Been Kissed (which was equal parts terrible and adorable), there was a quick knock on the door, and then Neema poked her head in.

  “Oh, hey,” she said, walking in and standing by the side of the bed. She stroked the back of Audrey’s hand with one finger.

  “Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

  Neema’s eyes slowly drifted over Audrey’s body until they landed on me. “I’m fine. Has she woken up again?”

  “No,” I said. “But she’s moved her fingers and toes a little. She twitches sometimes.”

  She didn’t respond, so I took the hint and stood up. “I’ll give you some privacy,” I said.

  She barely glanced at me as I walked out, but I saw tears pooled in her eyes.

  I went down to the cafeteria for a soda and when I returned, Neema was gone. But somehow I could still feel a misty cloud of sadness hanging over the room. I moved my laptop off the chair and sat back down, putting my feet up on the bed and closing my eyes.

  I wished I could talk to Audrey about what was going on. About Mom and Dad and how they were reacting to what was happening. About Raf and how weird it was that we’d reconnected. I wanted to tell her I was sorry for ever bringing Mike into her life and for not being strong enough to dump him. To be alone.

  I’d been with Mike since I was a freshman, and I didn’t remember what high school life was like without him. Aside from Cassidy, Mike and Audrey were the people I was closest to in the world. And Mike was the reason I had plans on weekends. Now, I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself.

  I thought of Raf telling me he felt alone.

  Damn it. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I did need a job.

  That afternoon, Raf texted to ask what I was doing. Mom and Dad were out and I was bored. And I wanted to see him. So I told him to come over.

  Raf hadn’t been in my room since the last time I’d been in his—the second-floor room, that is. It had been more than ten years. He took his time exploring while I fidgeted nervously, hovering near the door.

  “I like the new color,” he said. Now a soft dove gray, it had
been a hideous bubblegum pink, which you could still find inside my closet. I opened the doors to show him and his jaw dropped. Not at the pink. At the sight of all the books, graphic novels, trade collections, plus the long boxes of bagged-and-boarded comics stacked on the shelves that were intended to be used to display shoes or purses.

  “When you told me you liked comics, I don’t think I understood the extent. This?” Raf spread his arms over the collection. “This is more than a hobby. This is an obsession.”

  I shrugged. “Dad and I used to take road trips to different comic book shops all over Virginia and Maryland, even Delaware and West Virginia a couple of times. New Jersey once, for a local comic con. I got most of these from dollar bins, but you should see my dad’s collection. He’s taken over half of the basement.”

  “What makes you think this isn’t something to be proud of? That there’s no future in this?” Raf asked. He leaned close, his gaze roving over the spines. “Who do you think makes these things? Robots?”

  “No,” I said quietly. “I’ve just always read comics, like, my whole life. I never thought it was anything special. I mean, doesn’t everyone read?”

  He snorted. “Not everyone, no.”

  “You do,” I said.

  I distinctly remembered a shelf full of books that I’d snuck looks at. I’d taken note of the copy of Slaughterhouse-Five that had been sitting on his bedside table. I’ve always believed you can tell a lot about a person by their taste in reading material. Of course, not everyone kept reading material on hand. I went to school with people who refused to open a book, as if it was some kind of principle they were sticking to. Most days, I was the only person in the school’s library who wasn’t there just to study.

  Raf glanced at me and then back at the shelves, as if he couldn’t tear his eyes away for too long.

  “Do you want to borrow something?” I asked. A number of books had been gifts from Mike, and I was more than happy to have them out of sight for a while.

  “What do you recommend?” he asked. Keeping in mind the books on his own shelves, I figured he’d best start with something like Watchmen—a modern classic. I pulled it off the shelf and handed it to him.

  “I expect a full report,” I said.

  Raf grinned as he took the book. “I want to see the movie of this,” he said. “Would that ruin it?”

  “Well, that’s hard to say and it depends on who you ask,” I said. I sounded like my dad before he started in on a rant.

  “What?” Raf asked.

  “Nothing.” I sat down on the bed, and Raf sat next to me. “The movie followed a lot of it really closely, and they got a lot of details perfect, but they didn’t change any of the super misogynistic storylines when they could have. Instead, they changed the end. But both are good, in different ways. I don’t want to say more until you’ve read it. Then we’ll watch the movie.”

  My cheeks flushed. I had just forced a movie date on him without even thinking about it. But Raf didn’t seem to notice.

  “Cool,” he said, still engrossed in the first few pages.

  I liked that he was enjoying something I’d given him for once, rather than giving me advice about what I needed to do to make myself better.

  But as if he’d read my mind, he glanced up and asked, “Do you write at all?”

  I turned away, embarrassed. “Not lately. My poems are terrible.”

  Raf shook his head. “I don’t believe that. Your brain is built for words.”

  I could feel myself blushing. “I guess,” I practically whispered. “But the literary magazine has only published a few of them.”

  He looked smug. “Well, at least think about it. Because someone has to write the comics, right?”

  “Yeah . . .” I said.

  “Why not you?”

  I squirmed uncomfortably but didn’t answer. Because I didn’t have an answer.

  “You used to write comics all the time when we were little. I’d be coloring, and you’d be scribbling away next to me, plotting out these intricate stories. And then you’d make me illustrate them for you in these tiny boxes that you’d drawn.”

  The memory made my lips tilt up at the corners. “They were pretty tiny.”

  “I started drawing because of you. So I guess my mom should thank you for all the destruction I’ve done to my bedroom.”

  I laughed, relieved we’d moved on from the subject of me. “Since you’ve now admitted that you owe me, I’ll be expecting a commission when you become a famous artist.”

  Raf rolled his eyes playfully. “Only if you start writing things for me to illustrate again. Because your stories were good, even when you were seven.”

  My smile slipped. This was edging dangerously close to a conversation about my lack of ambition, and I already got more than enough of that from Mom.

  “You want me to shut up now?” Raf said, bumping me lightly with his elbow.

  I nodded.

  “I have to get going anyway,” he said. “I have to go to a meeting tonight.”

  “You’re still going?” I was surprised. He was done with rehab, so it wasn’t a requirement anymore. And I didn’t think he thought of himself as an addict.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I kind of like going. It makes my parents feel secure that I’m not out using, for one, but mostly, I find it really inspiring to see people pull themselves up and dust themselves off after reaching bottom, and I mean rock bottom in some cases. It’s encouraging. And it’s making me think about what more I could be doing.”

  “Doing how?” I said.

  “Like school, for one,” he said. “I signed up for community college classes in the fall. I’m going to take some art classes, but also a psych course.”

  “That’s great, Raf!” I said. I suddenly wanted to hug him, but I wasn’t sure we were at that point in our friendship yet. “So, have you met anyone at your AA meetings? I mean, like, have you made any friends?”

  He shrugged. “Kind of,” he said uncomfortably. “I mean, there are some people I hang out with at the meetings, but it’s weird going to a party by yourself, you know? I need a wingman, but all my men are on the No Fly List.”

  I could see that even though he was making jokes, he really was sad. “Well, if you ever want a wingwoman, I’m a very good flier. I don’t get airsick or anything.”

  I regretted saying it immediately because, truthfully, I wasn’t great with strangers. Or parties. But even though he laughed, he also looked grateful, and I knew I’d go anywhere with him if it made him happier.

  “Thanks,” he said. “And I will report back on this,” he added, gesturing to Watchmen.

  I walked him downstairs and bummed a cigarette off of him before he left.

  “Hey,” I called to him before he reached the shadow at the corner of his house. “Do you want to go to a baseball game tomorrow with me and my cousin Spencer?”

  It was getting dark, but I could see his smile in the porch light. “Yeah,” he said. “I definitely do.”

  I couldn’t keep the smile from my face, a goofy reflection of his. “Good. Come over at noon. And you’re driving.”

  I turned around and went inside before he could argue. Spencer was going to love his Jeep.

  Eight Months Ago

  I was halfway through the latest issue of Batman when I heard a car pull into the driveway. It was Mike. I hadn’t been expecting him. I sighed as I closed the book, wishing I could finish it. But instead, I got up and headed downstairs to meet him.

  Audrey was at the door waiting for Mike as he came up the front walk. I saw her check her hair in the mirror before he reached the storm door.

  She startled guiltily when she saw me and backed away. “Mike’s here,” she said.

  “Yeah, I saw,” I said. “So you can . . . leave.” That came out harsher than I planned, but I couldn’t figure out
what she wanted. She shot me a dirty look before rounding the corner.

  “Hey, Harley Quinn,” Mike said as he opened the door.

  I leaned in for a kiss, catching the lingering smell of alcohol from the night before. “How was the party last night?”

  He shrugged, but I saw the dark shadows under his eyes, indicating that it had gone late and there had been plenty to drink.

  “Same old, same old,” he said. Then he reached for my waist and pulled me against him. “I missed you, though.”

  I smiled up at him. “I missed you,” I said. And I had. I’d spent the night watching half of a season of Orphan Black, which I’d already seen several times before. I hadn’t been bored, but I did think about him. Maybe worried a little bit that I wasn’t there to police him, to keep him from doing something stupid.

  I hadn’t regretted skipping the party until just that moment, though. Now I longed for Mike’s comforting embrace, his warm smile and his familiar kisses, I wished I’d been with him.

  He herded me toward the basement stairs, and I smiled up at him. “How did you know my parents aren’t home?” I asked.

  “I saw them,” he said. “They were leaving the neighborhood as I drove in. I don’t think they saw me, though.”

  “What timing,” I said as we headed down the stairs.

  As we sat on the couch, Mike pulled something out of his pocket. It was a small navy-blue velvet box. A jewelry box.

  “Michael, what is that?” I asked warily.

  My stomach jumped into my throat as he got down on one knee in front of me.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mike just shushed me. “Harley Quinn,” he said, “I have loved you for two years exactly as of today. And I plan to love you for many, many more. Will you continue being my girlfriend?”

  My stomach dropped. I had forgotten our anniversary.

  Part of me was thinking that I was a horrible, selfish girlfriend. Mike snapped open the box and held it in front of me, proudly displaying what was inside: a silver necklace with a pendant in the shape of the jester’s hat. The original Harley Quinn’s hat. I still hadn’t told him I didn’t like Harley; I liked his attachment to her, and me, too much. But another part of me was thinking that he should have realized by now that I didn’t like Harley. He should have figured it out long ago.