“Are you cold?” Lagan asks when he sits down in his usual near but far seat on the opposite side.
Startled for the third time today, I vow to stop reading in social settings. At this rate, I’ll die of a heart attack before any ploy of Dad’s destroys me. Sheesh.
“Where have you been?” The bell will sound any minute.
“I thought I told you. Didn’t you get my response on your locker?” My mind is spinning. Did Dad walk by my locker on his way out? I’ll know soon enough. Walking on eggshells almost sounds inviting when you’ve spent your entire life walking on broken glass. Annie Lennox, call me up. I’ll give you something to sing about. Mom loved that song.
“I had a meeting,” Lagan continues when I don’t respond. “With Mr. Donatelli? My guidance counselor?”
Coincidence? Or? “Oh. Good guy that Donatelli fellow.”
“You know him?” Lagan laughs. “Sounds like you two are friends or something.”
“You sound jealous.” I egg him on. “You know he’s old enough to be my d...”
I stop right there. I stop joking. I stop breathing. I need to rein in my words. And my distance. Inhale. Heart start beating again already.
Lagan tries to pick up where I dropped it: “You were gonna say your—”
“Forget I said anything. How was your meeting?”
“Fine.” Lagan lets me slide—away from uncomfortable—again.
“All set to graduate?” I smile, thankful to move on.
“All systems go,” Lagan chimes. “How ‘bout you?”
“Pretty much.” Looking up at the clock, I realize there isn’t enough time to explain everything. And before I can suggest we talk more later, the bell rings and lunch is over.
“Hey, do you want to meet in the computer lab after Gym? We can tell Mrs. Tyler that we’re doing online research for our final papers. She’ll give us hall passes. We just have to check back with a bunch of printouts to prove we found some resources. We can always read them on our own after school.”
Did you read my mind? “Uh? Umm. Okay.” I hesitantly agree. I am itching to tell him about my morning’s weather forecast. From sunny to thunderstorms, to cloudy to near tornado, to the sun returning. Like I’m Mount Denali, creating my own weather system relative to Dad’s proximity. From Glaciera to Montania. My name inventory increases. Alaska might just be my future calling.
“Awesome.” Lagan rises and puts one hand out with an open palm. “Now hand it over.”
I almost forgot. I wonder if I should explain. No time. I pull out the lilac sticky pad, place it on the table, and head to Gym. I turn back just before exiting the cafe to see if Lagan has left, but he’s sitting there flipping through the sheets very quickly. He looks up and catches me glancing his way. All smiles, he nods his head with approval. I swallow, smile back, and then turn to sprint to the girls’ locker room. Top of the hour weather update: Sunny with a ninety percent chance of love in the air.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My volunteer position at the Chicago Botanical Gardens, located only miles north of Evanston, materializes within twelve hours, shuttling me into an unlikely future with the speed of time travel. Back to a future I never dared to dream. Every possible glitch is zapped by one word: money. My dad agrees, because he will save money. The director at the garden arranges for my training before I hang up, because the gardens need immediate attention, and my help will cost them no money. Professor Deans informs me that my acceptance letter is in the mail, and I will be pleased to save plenty of money.
Lagan is the only person, besides myself, who could care less about the financial consequences. He calls my newfound opportunity a modern-day miracle. A way for us to see each other outside of our customary, twenty-six-minute lunch period. Somewhere other than class or the cafeteria. He schemes aloud, “Don’t mind me if I stop by between homework and basketball practices.”
I just listen at first. I allow myself a few laps in his romance-washed imagination. Risk of reality sets in, and I see Dad appear at the side of the pool. I quickly drown, and that’s that.
Lagan catches my lowering eyes. “Of course. I’ll be extremely careful not to tell anyone about where I’m going or who I’m visiting. And I’ll only come by if and when you want me to. I’m not going to sign up, either. It’s obvious what we’re avoiding. Your dad isn’t gonna come to work with you, is he?”
His question forces the wobbling walls of my cave to collapse. The word dad hangs in the air like a fully loaded gun. Pointed at me. Trigger cocked. I feel nauseated. If I had a lemon ice pop for each time the word dad tsunamied my peace, my tongue would be one frozen yellow iceberg. The name Glaciera seems more appropriate by the day.
“My dad...” I clear the frog from my throat and decide once again if I’m going to hide under a pile of rubble or push through with the truth. “My dad will do whatever it takes to control me.”
I speak as if talking about someone I know. But I expect nothing. Lagan can’t rescue me, even if he understands. As of late, really since I met this guy, I find myself asking the same question over and over again. What have I got to lose? So little remains of me, that any more loss is like a kick in the shins compared to all that Dad has already stolen from me: Mom, Jess’s legs, my childhood, Jess’s voice.
Lagan looks to the right. Off into the distance. Processing a clearer package of me cannot be easy. But I never asked him to. He’s the one who came knocking on the door of my life that has always had caution tape running across every inch.
I fidget in my seat, but the bell won’t ring for ten minutes. With my hands gripped to my tray, I digest the fact that no Sticky Note can cover my time bomb reality. Wanting to save Lagan from failing to solve my life, a puzzle that’s not his problem, I stand to leave. He doesn’t stop me. I move slowly, holding onto a grain of sand that maybe, somehow, he’ll suggest otherwise. Give me a reason to sit down. Reach out to me with his strong grip. Calm my racing heart with his smile that always lifts me out of the quicksand. A Sticky Note. Anything. But nope, nothing. He stares at his tray, speechless.
I don’t bother saying bye. A gush of sadness threatens to escape as I move away from the table. I say goodbye to my dreams. Of Lagan—of us—in my heart. I say farewell to the only person who has ever waltzed into my thorn-infested life and asked me to dance. With possibility. My life has known nothing but goodbyes, and none of them have been good. I move out of the cafeteria doors and all the sounds around me fade.
I think I hear Lagan’s voice. Come back! Don’t leave! I need you as much as you need me. Come back!
I turn my head to reply, but Lagan’s eyes stay fixed on his untouched lunch. Sigh. I contrived Lagan’s voice in my head, the only place happily ever after could exist. The space between us expands like paint spilled over, widening as the clock ticks away. Separated now, by more than a sea of cafeteria tables, a single tear escapes down my cheek and slips past my lips, reminding me of the salty taste of my bitter past, present…and future.
I hug my books and head to the nurse’s office. There’s a wait. Not that it matters. Time is one thing I have plenty of. At this moment. When the last bell rings, that’s when time becomes my enemy. For now, I watch my whimsical fairy tale shut close, the final page ripped out.
While sitting on the chair outside the room, next to two others, I recognize the girl next in line. She’s in my gym class. She gives me one look over, huffs, and rolls her eyes. The boy on the other side has his head slouched back, his baseball hat covers half his face, and his foot lightly taps the floor. The iPod must be tucked inside his pocket, the wire from one ear bud barely detectable as my eyes trace it behind his ear, down his neck, into his shirt.
I decide to close my eyes and sleep. I put my backpack under my seat, and lay my head in my hands. If I sleep, I might be able to escape the dam breaking that crackles within, as I exhale without a single friend in the world again. An unexpected friend shows up when my mind drifts away. The woman who bled for twelve years
. She’s inviting me to come alongside her. Maybe she’s not done telling me her story.
She holds my hand and pulls me along, and my once cemented feet loosen, permitting me to watch her journey. Her pace quickens as the sun begins to set in the garden and the crowd thickens with others carrying burdens alongside their broken hearts. I still don’t get it. Why is she here? She’s fine now. Her bleeding stopped.
When we’re inches from the gardener, she lets go of my hand and reaches for his back. A gentle brush of her fingertips, like a single paint stroke down a canvas, and he notices. And turns. And begins to search for her. For the woman who stole a touch.
We stop in our tracks. The crowd stops too. Ridicule and complaints fill the air. So many wall him in, it could have been anyone. Why does it matter? And then I hear her whisper in my ear, “It matters to me. He’s looking. For me.”
My hands drenched, I hear the nurse calling my name. My plan to tell her I have a headache is no longer a lie. My head pounds as if circus elephants have taken up residency between my ears, but she has no patience for my drama. I can’t remove myself from the seat. Defeat nailed me here two bells ago.
“Talia?” The nurse repeats my name. “Talia, either come into my office or go back to class.”
I still can’t move. Where’s that cape from Harry Potter when I need it? The option to disappear vanished the night Jesse jumped off the roof. How’s that for a story, Nurse Eva?
The nurse meant what she said. She must deal with this all the time. Students who just park themselves outside her door in order to skip class without being marked up. She’s already back in her room, filling out paperwork. If I want to receive a pass into last period, I have to move out of this seat, into her office, state a legitimate complaint, and qualify as sick enough to warrant missing my previous two classes.
I wipe my wet hands on my jeans, and as I lift my arm to wipe my face on my sleeve, Kleenex finds itself in my hand. Warm fingertips from behind wipe the damp hair from my eyes.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Lagan’s voice pulls a wooden block out from the bottom row of my heart, and before he has a chance to place it on top, I stand up, face him, and crumble into his arms—a whole bigger mess than Jenga. I see the nurse glance up from her desk. Shake her head. Then return to her paperwork. Drama. Nothing new. If only she knew the details. No one. Not even Lagan. Knows the details. Yet.
Saturated Kleenex disintegrates with the second and third dam break. Lagan moves me back into my seat and leaves to talk to the nurse. She glances over at me. Then writes something down and hands a pink slip to Lagan.
“Let’s go.” Lagan lifts me. Fresh Kleenex replaces the shreds in my hands. He reaches below to retrieve my book bag, and we head out the back doors of the school. The afternoon sun forces my eyes shut as I let the warmth of the spring day dry my face, and I trail away from fresh disappointment. School lets out in about twenty minutes.
Lagan holds my hand and walks me over to the elementary school, two blocks down from our schoolyard. The younger kids don’t finish for another hour. We near the playground as I watch my left foot step in front of my right. Not sure why I’m letting him lead me, Lagan backs me onto a swing seat with a gentle but firm lift and cups my hands around each chain. He leans into me and our foreheads touch.
“Swings.” He whispers the word like a memory. “This was on your list.”
And before I have a chance to protest, Lagan moves behind me and pushes me once. Twice. And then pushes so hard, he runs under me and screams one word: “Underdog!”
I am the underdog.
I am flying. And I am screaming. I am so high my feet sail toward the dangling branches of the nearest maple, my toes brushing the bottom leaves. My screaming ceases as I allow myself to taste the wind against my cheeks. I imagine jumping off, sailing into the clouds, somersaulting into the sun.
Then I hear a sound I don’t recognize. It’s a sound I haven’t heard in so long. Someone is laughing. I can feel my stomach shaking. She’s laughing louder. Guffawing with all of her might. She is free to laugh. For once in her life, she is free to know joy. If only for a moment. She is free.
My lips close. The laughing ceases. The swing slows. A school bell sounds in the near distance. My toes skid on the dirt below. Lagan stands in front of me and catches me as I slide off the swing. The sweet scent of peppermint hits me as my face nearly collides with Lagan’s. I am in his arms. And I am shaking like a leaf. I need to move. Back away. Head home. The list. Jesse. D...
“I accept you.” Lagan says these three words as if he’s known his whole life, and he’s just letting me know. In case I still don’t believe him.
“I have to go.” I ignore him. I can’t afford to add to my list right now. I turn to run home, and he catches my arm.
“Wait.”
Every second is one second closer to boiling water. Bleeding lips. Jesse crying. I need to go.
“I just want you to know...” Lagan wants to talk. I am already moving away. Backward. I can still see his face as he squeezes one last thought past the caution tape. Into my heart. “I accept you. No matter how little of you I can have. I accept you.”
I turn to sprint, and after running a hundred or so yards, I reply over my shoulder, shaking my head and smiling, “ You’re crazy!” Then I face forward to pick up speed in order to make up time.
“You’re right!” I can hear Lagan screaming. “I am crazy! About you—Talia Grace Vanderbilt! Crae-crae, I tell ya!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
During the last weeks of March, Dad accompanies me from college to home, to the garden, back home several times on the “L” and buses in order to gauge when to expect me on my volunteer days. Always in the business of control, Dad surprises me when he allows me to navigate the train system alone from Loyola’s campus and walk the final mile to Chicago Botanical Gardens for my orientation.
It’s Saturday, March 20, and based on travel times, I agree to four-hour shifts once a week to fulfill my six month contract. Never having done more than take the bus back and forth to school, I feel the thrill of accomplishment before I even pick up a rake. Or do they call it a spade? Jason, the grounds director, hands me a rake-like thingy and a roll of twine, then tours me around the garden, pointing out the heaviest traffic zones that require weekly maintenance. Jason reminds me of a shorter version of Liam Hemsworth. I guess the shaggy, full head of hair look is in again. Then he guides me to my special project area, which will be my focus during the last two hours of my four-hour shift.
We cross a sea of green as we approach a weeping willow, and I stop in my tracks, stunned. I get it instantly, the moment I see this tree. Like the clouds rolling away to make way for the sun, I know without a doubt that I’m in this place for a reason bigger than landscaping. So many branches drag their fading leaves on the earth below, and like the girl who hides her deepest hurts behind chapped lips, under the canopy of the willow lies the bark of the trunk, peeling and inaccessible to the sun. So many limbs lie half or fully shattered, hidden from the eye of any distant viewer, that the garden staff considered uprooting her or letting her die slowly. Most onlookers will never see the irreparable damages underneath her branches. Most will never know of her damaged heart, weighed down by the tornadoes in past days. Storms that have left her wanting to sleep and weep no more.
Jason leaves me after instructing how to make reasonably sized piles of debris. I listen silently, all the while merging with my surroundings. I am the weeping willow. I know why I’ve been brought here. And I’m not alone. Someone I never expected showed up today: the gardener from The Beautiful Fight. He’s here to tell me something.
I lay my rake down and pull on my gardening gloves. Then I reach down and begin gathering a pile of branches scattered all about the tree, and with each drop of a limb, I find myself laying my hurts at the invisible feet of the gardener. And instead of rejecting, resisting, judging, or wincing. I sense his invisible hands asking for more
. Of me. All of me. Every broken branch. Every hurtful memory. Every lost moment. Every vanished dream.
I don’t know exactly why, especially why now, but I want to try again. I’m the bleeding woman and I want to reach for him. Someone I cannot see. Do not know for sure exists.
I cannot do this alone. I want like I have never known want before. I want to be wanted.
Like a puzzle with only the edge pieces fixed in place, I see only part of the picture. I have time to put this puzzle together, one piece after the other, and if the completed picture doesn’t sit well, I’ll just collapse it and go back to same old, same cold.
I’m lost in thought as I gather and tie, rake and bundle. When Jason returns to check on me, his smile affirms that I won’t be fired. At least not today. He turns to visit his other new volunteers, and I’m reminded of my question that I forgot to ask him earlier.
“Jason?”
He turns to listen, but only slows down his pace.
“Speak.” He walks backwards now. “I have to still check on a few more zones. Can it wait?”
“I just... What time does the garden close at night?”
“Shortly after sunset.” And with that, he races off and out of sight behind bushes of hydrangeas, purple and blue.
That explains why the wood plank with hours etched into it only displays opening hours. It hangs at the end of the parking lot by the entrance gate. But this is a garden, absent of walls or doors or locks. I like this place more and more. A plan births in my head of a rendezvous with a friend.
Lagan wanted to meet me here on my first day and pose as a casual visitor in the garden. Disguised with sunglasses, hat and wig, he suggested. I told him no. I asked him to wait. In time. I needed time. I need time. To adjust to this nibble of freedom I’ve never known before. And, of course, to assess Dad’s radar for this rare allowance. Give it a month. Give me a month. By then, I will know how safe we will be if we meet here in the garden after hours.
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