by Cecelia Earl
Refocus.
Eye on the ball, Lainey, I can hear my dad say.
I can't forget that this final month of school is ticking away, like sands through the hourglass.
These are the days of our lives.
My life seems like the soap operas my mom used to watch before they became nearly obsolete. There was always someone in a hospital, on their death bed in the soap operas.
I don't want the days of my life from before to become obsolete.
Maybe going home will help me to hold onto my past a little tighter.
The problem is, days I recognize as my own may not hold onto me much longer. If what Nurse Sue says is true, there's a chance my family's hourglass is running out of sand. And, in real life, I can't pick up that hourglass, turn it over, and stand it on its head where the sand is plentiful, full of hopeful, promising grains.
In real life, sometimes hope runs out, and for the first time, I feel like there's nothing I'll be able to do about it.
21
something
There's a note taped to the doorknob of "our room" in the family center. When I unfold it, I see that silly face, two eyes, the raised eyebrows, nose, and a wide smiling mouth full of teeth. Above the drawing is a phone number.
That first night, when he first looked at me from in front of those family center windows, and when he pretended to sleep while I studied, I thought there was just this crazy attraction thing going on with me for Jax. (Seriously, I sweat when I spend any amount of time with him.)
I close my eyes. I could name the butterflies that flutter around inside me, even after simply seeing this drawing. There's Anxious Butterfly, Nervous Butterfly, Excited Butterfly, Happy Butterfly, Confused Butterfly, and Lust Butterfly. Let's face it. He's the hottest guy I've ever seen.
No guy at school has anything on him. Of course, Marc always had a cute, preppy look about him. The perfect hair, full-chiseled facial features with eyelashes Maybelline envies, good at sports, in good standing with the teachers, friends with the right people. Marc held the door, called on time, paid for my ticket at the movies. Sure, he drives me crazy, but most girls would faint if their boyfriend wrote them poetry and tried to win them back with flowers.
A part of me thinks I'm an idiot and may forever regret not giving Marc another chance. Maybe I should hold onto that one part of my past that is actually trying to stick with me.
But these butterflies. They're telling me that for the first time in maybe forever, I've woken up. I'm more alive. I'm on when I'm with him, when I think of him. There's more to love than what looks right. I think Marc would treat any girl exactly the same. He'll do the same exact things for the next girl that he's done for me. Even the poems are used, unoriginal. I want to be special to someone, the girl that makes a guy do things he'd never do if he hadn't met me. A guy that, knowing me, changes him.
There's something Jax has that nobody I've ever met has had before. I'm willing to spend as much time as it takes to figure out what that something is.
Whether or not I will get that time is another question altogether.
I pocket his number before grabbing my stuff and hightailing it out of Milwaukee. When does he want me to call? Right away? Later, the time when we'd find one another after the hospital had gone quiet? I decide to wait until later.
The first thing I do when I get home, beside spoil Muffy with kisses and a couple of treats, is strip and throw the contents of my duffel bag into the washing machine. Then I take the longest shower I've ever taken. The water cools to lukewarm by the time I turn it off. I stand wrapped in a towel in the steamy room for a long time, breathing in home.
Then I brew a large mug of coffee and settle in at the dining room table studying for a prefinal final exam, researching and writing an essay, going online to post in an ongoing discussion for a novel I finished before it was even assigned, and complete a week's worth of math problems. I ignore the fact that Lucy Fox has posted more than any other student in the online forum, and that the teacher praises her comments like she’d written the novel herself.
I break long enough to refill my mug and to notice our food is either old, moldy, or lacking. I nibble on some crackers and a cheese stick. There's still a stack of math to finish and I haven't even looked at my sociology homework yet, but it's time to head out to De la Vache.
I put my black dress on, clip my hair up, and drive across several small towns in my car. Oh, how I missed my car after driving my Mom's today.
Spring is in full swing. The day is longer, prolonging the sky from fading to navy. The stars and moon are kept at bay. The breeze is faint and full of a flowery fragrance. Birds flit and tweet, and if I wasn't so tingly from lack of sleep, too much coffee, and stress, I'd be loving it all.
The hostess stand looks inviting and friendly compared to where I am. I'm behind the bar training with Bart, the bartender, for an hour and a half. By six I'm making old-fashions, manhattans, pouring cabernet, merlot, Riesling, and flipping caps off beer bottles. Bar tending requires a lot of smiling and schmoozing. A lot. I am not cut out for this line of work. Bart is hard to read. He's like a car salesman with the customers. His hair is dyed white and spiked out in all directions. His eyebrows are thick and black, and his teeth are crooked but endearing. The customers love him. I'm not sure he loves me. He's working the left end of the bar, and I'm falling behind on the right. Several hands with money in them are hanging over empty glasses. Bart's swapping stories with customers and laughter continues to erupt from his end.
"Stay away, I keep telling you. You're too young to drink that, now isn't that right, Marty? Tell your wife she's way too young."
"I have to card you every time," Bart tells Marty's wife, a silver-haired lady sitting on a bar stool. Marty is looking at his wife like they're twenty and just met for the first time.
On my end I can hardly keep up with the drinks, much less learn anyone's name or throw out a joke. If Bart's listening amidst his banter, he'll likely hear,
"What can I get you?"
"Here you go. What else?"
"I'm sorry. Can you say that again, please?"
"You want what? Oh, that's the name of the drink." Cue nervous laughter of an idiot, clueless bartender. "Sure, just a moment, please."
I race down to his end to whisper shout, "Bart, what's a Sex on the Beach?"
Another hour and a half pass, and his tip jar is spilling over. Mine is countable through the glass, about ten bucks. I'm soooo beyond thankful tomorrow night is server training.
I'm filling a beer from the tap when someone asks for a Coke. I look up to serve the beer and lock eyes with Marc. Unprepared, my heart stutters, almost like he gets a dwarf name for a butterfly of his own. Heart-stopping butterfly. "Sure, a Coke coming right up," I tell him.
He's so predictable when I hand it over, his fingers lingering so they mingle with mine too long. It doesn't take much to brush him off when he can't help but notice there are five more orders being called out to me from all sides. By the time Bart tells me to take off, I'm famished, sweaty, covered in soda, whiskey, beer, and who knows what my makeup and hair look like. Probably frizzy and streaked. I'm sure that didn't help my pathetic-looking tip jar.
The wind has picked up with the blackness of night, and I'm grateful. I lean against the building and breathe. Eyes closed, the air refreshes me, even when I'm chilled from my damp clothes. Tonight: a bath. Then I'll call Jax. Tingle butterfly emerges.
"Need a ride?"
Marc interrupts my respite. "No, thanks. I have my car."
"Need a meal?"
I do, but not with him. "It's super late. I'm disgusting."
"Not even close. Can I have a ride?"
"What?"
"Joe dropped me off."
"You're not serious."
"I knew you'd blow me off but wouldn't leave me stranded."
"That's . . . really desperate of you."
He turns to me, grabs both of my hands. "Yes! Yes, I am desperate. Th
is is how badly I need to see you, to talk to you."
I don't even know what to say. His dark eyes look even darker with the shadows on his face flicked there by the overhead streetlight.
He always knows what to say, and he says it just right. How to make everything sound sincere, not skin deep.
Why do I trust him less than a boy I’ve known for two days? Am I being naive to put so much faith in my feelings for Jax, someone I know nothing about and am not even sure thinks of me as more than some girl he bided his time with?
Heart-stopping butterfly is still, maybe having fluttered off to some other girl's heart. In its place is a stillness that's been there where Marc's concerned for a while now, since long before I caught him lip-sucking Lucy Fox's mouth.
He drops one of my hands and turns to look up. "Sliver of a moon," he says.
Reflexively, I look up. My eyes connect the dots of our stars. I'm smart in all things but astronomy. The constellations are a mystery to me. Not the stories, but the star clusters. We spent many-a-night making up our own. "Look, it's Ode to Elfa."
"And Oh-tomatato-ah-paea." His head drops to touch mine. "Shooting star."
"You know I don't believe in making wishes."
"You know I always make one for both of us."
"You know it won't come true."
He turns to me, forehead to forehead, and runs his fingers down my jawline. "I know you believe that's the case." He looks at me. "I know you don't believe in anything. Not even love."
Stutter-a-fly returns, but I'm relieved it doesn't have anything to do with how I feel about him, only about how I feel about the situation. I'm more upset than excited by his closeness and touch. "That's not true. I believe in things."
"Things? Name one."
My heart constricts, not because of Marc, but because this brings me back to the hospital. To Paul's crucifix and promised prayer, to my last conversation with Jax. Does he, too, think I believe in nothing?
Hard work. Success. Dedication. Those are things I believe in.
"I'm tired. Let's get you home," I say.
22
dead end conversational path
Okay, so I love my car. Like love, love, love my car. But the passenger door sticks. A little. Once in a while. Like right now when Marc is trying to get out. I'm tired. I'm impatient. I reach across his lap to unstick the latch. My efforts are a success, but when I release the handle and lean up, there's his face. All smiling and crap.
"Laine," he says with his soft, warm voice. The one he'd use to whisper sweet things in between kisses.
"Good night, Marc." I sit back, straight, leaning more toward my door than the center console. I want to tell him not to get the wrong idea, but I'm thinking mentioning said wrong idea is an invitation to talking about it, and I do not want to talk about anything of the sort right now. I want him to get out.
"I'll tell you what I don't believe."
I sigh. He’s not getting out. "What's that?"
He leans over, his elbow on the center console, his face touching my shoulder. "That you don't still have feelings for me."
I put my pointer finger on his nose and push until his face is where it belongs. On the other side of the car. He finds this funny.
"Believe what you want. That's the thing about beliefs, they're subjective and personal and free." I put the car in reverse. "Good night, Marc."
"I am very sorry about your dad. Please, if you ever need anything, I at least hope we're still friends. You can call me. Anytime."
I nod. "Thanks." His head is all droopy and he is finally getting out of the car . . . two years together is a long time. I miss his family, especially his little brother. He's making this so hard. "I do wish you well. Know that. Tell your family I said hello."
He slams the door. It’ll be impossible to get unstuck now. Finally, I'm free of him, and I'm now five minutes from a bath and my phone call to Jax.
Once I'm warm and my skin resembles albino raisins, I climb into bed and dial the number Jax gave me. I have the three notes he’s left me spread out on my black bedspread. I can't help grinning at his crazy drawings.
Shoot. Voicemail. I didn't plan for this. Leave a message or hang up? Leave a message or hang up?
"This is Jax. I'll call you back." Beep.
"Jax, hi. It's Laine. From the hospital. I'm home for a few days. Hope you're doing okay. Call if you get a chance. 920-477-1168. Bye."
I should have texted instead. It's really late. Probably too late to call.
I page through my sociology textbook until the tenth chapter and read. And reread. And reread. What's the matter with me? I never have trouble focusing. Giving up, I let the book slide to the floor with a thud, which reminds me I'm alone in this empty house. I think I'm tired enough without reading to fall asleep until I hear every creak and groan in the floor, walls, and roof.
I decide to try sleeping with the lamp on.
Toss.
Turn.
Creak.
Groan.
I say the alphabet backwards.
Recite the periodic table.
Muffy’s even given up on lying by my feet I’m so annoying to sleep with.
I remember Mom's prayer card, so I get up to dig through her underwear and socks. In the back corner, there's a laminated, yellow obituary of someone I've never heard of, and a card. On one side is a picture of a bearded man holding a staff, hand over his heart. On the back it reads A Prayer to Saint Jude for Healing. This must be the one. Back in bed, Muffy settled once again at my feet, I read the prayer and continue to wonder where Mom got it, what made her think of it, and why she wants it. I read it a couple of times, hoping it will help me to sleep.
Prayer to St. Jude for Healing
Most holy Apostle, St. Jude, I place myself in your care. Pray for me; help me remember that I am not alone in my struggles.
Please join me in asking God to send me hope in my sorrow, courage in my fear, and healing in the midst of my challenges.
Please ask our loving God to fill me with the grace to accept whatever my life holds and to strengthen my faith in His healing power.
Thank you, St. Jude, for the promise of hope you hold to all who believe, and inspire me to give this gift of hope to others.
Amen.
My phone rings, and it's Jax.
I set the card on my nightstand and clear my throat. "Hello?"
"Laine."
"Hi." I sink down into my covers. The way he says my name starts up enough dwarf butterfly names for dozens of Snow White butterflies. I can't believe his voice saying one word can have even more of an effect than seeing his blue eyes does. What is it about this boy?
"You're home?"
"Yeah. Job. School work to catch up on. Thought I'd grab a change of clothes."
"Shower."
"Definitely. I've been home twelve hours, and I've already showered and taken a bath." The way his voice rumbles through the phone as he laughs softly makes me feel like I admitted something too personal, and he likes it.
"I'm home too."
"Is that where you disappear to?"
"Not always. But I'm on sister duty. My aunt, grandma, and I have been taking turns being with my sister, Maggie, at the hospital, or at my mom's store."
"Ah. How old is your sister?"
"Thirteen. Sixth grade. I suppose schoolwork would be a good idea, too, but I figure there are only a few weeks to graduation. It's all pretty much decided at this point."
"Finals?"
"I'll take 'em," he says.
"Don't you have to study first?"
"Nah."
"Nah?"
"I'll do fine."
I smack the palm of my hand on my forehead.
"That would be the end of you, wouldn't it?" I can tell he's holding back laughter.
"Couldn't handle it."
"I've made it this far. No worries," he says.
"To each his own." I sigh, frustrated.
"Not always. I'm not a survi
val of the fittest kind of guy."
"I can tell," I say.
"Can you?"
"Your notes. They make me smile."
"Yeah? Good."
"You're thoughtful. Caring. You took me bowling."
"It was a crime against your childhood you never went bowling before. Your friends need a good talking to."
"I have a germ thing."
"Germ thing?"
"Bowling shoes, the ball. Too many germs. My best friend, May, would never subject me to the horrors."
"Ah."
"You understand?"
"Not even a little bit." This time he does laugh.
"You think I'm crazy?"
"Completely."
I say nothing.
He rushes to fill the silence. "But in a good way?"
"There is no good way with crazy," I tell him.
"There's your way," he says, softer than he spoke when he was laughing before.
"My way?"
"Cute crazy. It's a good way. I promise. Crazy is cute on you."
"Thanks?"
"Crazy’s probably not the right word. Silly. Neurotic?"
"Definitely not that," I tell him.
"I’m terrible with words. Volay, remember?" He clears his throat. "Okay, new topic."
My eyes are getting droopy. "I’ve got nothing. You?"
"Tough decision. Religion? No. Politics?"
"No," I tell him.
"Already covered test taking and nonpast times . . . hmmm where to go from here?" I imagine him tapping his lips while he thinks.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" I blurt. I’m tired and groggy and can't take the wondering anymore.
"Abrupt."
"Well?"
"Okay, we'll throw romance out there for a try."
"Well?" I ask again. He's killing me here.
"No."
"No?"
"No girlfriend. Boyfriend?"
"You have a boyfriend?" I can't believe I didn't consider this, after my embarrassment with Chase.
He laughs. There's that rumble again. "No. I'm a girl kind of guy. Do you have a boyfriend?"