What You Left Me

by Bridget Morrissey

  My phone starts buzzing. “Oh, yes, that. I almost forgot. No phones,” Ms. Hornsby says. “Bring it up here.”

  I pull it out of my purse and see that Turrey is calling. I stall, unsure if I should answer or hand my phone over. “Can I take this really quick?”

  “It’s now or never, Petra.”

  I miss Turrey’s call. Within seconds, Cameron is calling.

  Ms. Hornsby stands and walks over to me. “Whoever it is, they can wait. Your future is more important.” The phrase of the century. She snatches the phone from my grasp and gives me a textbook teacher’s glare. “Now or never.”

  • • •

  You’re always late, Spitty. I saw you push the other people aside to scoot down your row into your seat. I still don’t understand how you were late to your own graduation and you still managed to get your parking spot. “You can’t rush perfection, man.” That’s what you’d say about it. That’s what you always say.

  But I need you to hurry.

  I need you to let me help.

  • • •

  The timer beeps.

  It’s over. I’m done. I walk up the aisle and turn in my final.

  Ms. Hornsby hands me my phone in response. “You’re quite popular today. This has been going off all hour.”

  I don’t know why, but I decide to tell her the truth. “It’s probably about Martin.”

  Color drains from her face. Gone is her signature icy facade. She was on Martin’s case the entire ceremony, but I have a sneaking suspicion she was hard on him because she liked him. She knew, like I know, that he’s capable of being more. “Has there been any update? Administration’s been in contact with the hospital, but we haven’t heard anything in a while.”

  I look at the new voicemails on my phone. One from Turrey and one from Cameron, as well as several missed calls from both. And lots of unread texts. “I’m going to guess those calls were with news.”

  “I’m sorry I made you wait. I didn’t realize you two actually knew each other.” An idea comes to her. “I can run this test through the Scantron and let you know how you did if you’d like? Maybe you can listen to those voicemails while I do it. It will take only a minute or two.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’d really like to know. About both of you.”

  Her desperation makes me agree. And my curiosity. Maybe if I did it—accomplished the seemingly impossible—Martin can do it too.

  When Ms. Hornsby leaves the classroom, I sit in a front row desk and play Turrey’s voicemail.

  “Hey. I just left Daniel’s, and you weren’t there. Mama D called me. Said the docs are saying Fly’s made a turn for the worse. He’s stable for now, but it’s been up and down all morning. Shit. Sorry if you can’t hear me. I have this on speaker ’cuz I’m driving. It’s—I don’t know. I felt like I had to call you. Hit me back when you can.”

  Then Cameron’s.

  “Hey, Petty. Hope the final is going well. You’re gonna do great. If anyone can pull it off without studying, it’s you. I’m rambling. I’m sorry. Turrey told us something. This is…I don’t know. I love you. We’re driving to the school now. We’ll be outside when you finish. I love you. I know I already said that. I love you.”

  • • •

  Spencer, I’m not trying to rush perfection, I swear. I need it to be your dream next. It can’t be Petra’s.

  I’ve been seeing her a lot here. More than I’ve seen anyone else, actually. If it’s her before you, with her long pretty hair and her glow and her smart way of talking, she’ll make me ask more questions and force me to be even more patient until another answer presents itself. This Between—with the waiting in the blink and the idea of pain and the kinda, almost, sort of body—is the closest I’ve come to mastering the art of patience. But it’s been long enough. Helping you is an answer I like. Your life must be bonkers in the real world. This was the worst choice we’ve ever made in our lives, by far. They get to chew you out there. On my side, you’ve got to let it go. I’d rather sit in on a dream of us playing ukuleles on a beach. I’d even go to a Sox game with you. But we need to handle this crash dream, then call a truce. Okay?

  Nothing is weirder than feeling like you’re right under the surface of yourself, and I say this as a formerly dead kid who’s spent three days climbing into people’s dreams. It’s like my body is the air above the pool, and I’m swimming toward it, and I know I’m about to break through, so I keep swimming, but I’m not breaking through.

  So come on, Spencer.

  I need it to be you next.

  • • •

  Ms. Hornsby comes back in the room, beaming. She hands me the Scantron. Seventy-four out of one hundred. The old version of me would’ve been mortified by that grade. This Petra is elated.

  “I did it,” I say, feeling the weight of the words in my mouth. Something close to a grin almost creeps onto my face, but I bite it back, thinking of Martin.

  “You did,” she confirms. “I’ll let admin know straightaway.” She sits at her desk. “How’s Martin?”

  I choke out the details Turrey and Cameron left me in their voicemails. So much waiting. So many unknowns.

  Ms. Hornsby chews over my update. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but after he transferred out of my class, I actually missed having him as a student.” She cuts her stare back over to me. “You better get down there and see him.”

  I give her a hug. “Thank you, Ms. Hornsby.”

  My gesture surprises her. She tenses up then surrenders to it. Once we break apart, she gives me this wise, all-knowing look. “Now that I’m officially not your teacher anymore, I can tell you what I know. You’re not the type of person who takes anything lightly. Whatever made you avoid this test was something big. I’m proud of you for coming here and doing it. I wish your grade was higher, but hey, I wouldn’t be a good math teacher if I said I was happy with a C.”

  She gives me a significant look that I’m not sure how to decipher.

  “If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” she says, as if to explain. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that earlier. I wanted you to learn a lesson. I’m big enough to admit that I could have handled it better. We all could have. We could see there was a real problem, and our solution wasn’t the best.” She leans forward to whisper. “I’ll tell you another secret. We teachers are still learning too.”

  It’s incredible the power in having even one adult let me know she saw me struggling, and she handled it wrong too. Not just me. I spent my whole academic life crafting the image that I was willing to do whatever it took for my grades, most nights choosing studying over sleep, the rings under my eyes like badges of honor. You do it long enough, and eventually everyone accepts that it’s worth it to ignore your humanity in pursuit of helping you be the best. Then something real happens to you, and no one knows what to do. They treat you like a malfunctioning machine. That’s how I treated myself too. I was assaulted, and I let myself believe it meant I was broken.

  I’m not.

  “I really appreciate you saying that,” I tell Ms. Hornsby. “And thank you for working with the school to give me so many chances. I know it’s more than most people get. I hope you realize that every kid who’s struggling probably has a reason and deserves another shot. And deserves someone who will listen to why.”

  Her eyes are watering. “All right now, you better get going. You tell that Martin McGee he needs to wake up.”

  • • •

  Spitty, I’m serious. Something is different here. Heavier. I don’t think I have time. I need you to sleep. Nap. Something.

  How about this? I bet my life that you won’t be able to dream of me before Petra.

  37

  Because it’s Monday, the Believe Marty Can Fly team has dwindled. I can now identify almost everyone here: Mama Dorothy, Mr. McGee, Katie, her husband Rick, Turrey, Brooke, another boy t
hat I think is the Chris I’ve heard mentioned a few times, and two older women that must be family as well. Real life must resume I know, but it still surprises me to find the waiting room so empty. The dozens of unfamiliar faces gone, back home to start their summer rituals once more.

  As we walk in, everyone pastes on temporary happy faces. Turrey and Brooke stand up to give us hugs. I’m still coasting on autopilot. Too dazed to understand how this sequence of events continues to escalate. The four of us go to our usual spot. Whether it’s a lunchroom or a waiting room, you make a choice once, and it becomes yours forevermore. We sit down, a collection of ninety-degree angles: perfect nervous posture.

  Cameron wraps her arms around me. Daniel’s body wash, some woodsy scent called Rustic Mist that we all scrubbed ourselves with this morning, wafts off her. It should smell the same as it does on me, yet somehow, it’s more comforting. I breathe it in and exhale it out, pulling myself in closer to her to hold on to it. Cameron nuzzles me like a mother would, surrendering her personal space to my needs. “How are you not in the middle of some great life crisis like the rest of us?” I ask her.

  “Being the mother hen to you dysfunctional chicks is my life crisis.”

  “I’m serious. It’s come to my attention that I’ve missed quite a bit for the past year. I need to make sure you’re okay too. It’s not enough to just assume.”

  “I am. Swear.”

  I try to scrape off her neutral expression and see the truth beneath it. “You did borderline steal a wallet.”

  She flicks my wrist, nervous one of the adults overheard me. In her heart she knows, like I do, that everyone is far too distracted to eavesdrop on us. “Can I be honest with you?” she asks. I tilt my head up and give her a look that says duh, but I understand some stories require this kind of preface, even when being told to your best friend. “My parents pretty much want the opposite of what Aminah’s and yours do. They’re excited that I’m staying out all night and stuff because they’re afraid I’m some kind of zombie with no real life outside of school. I mean, it’s summer now, but you know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  “They’re sort of right. Aminah’s sleeping on my floor and sneaking into her house to get things she needs. Daniel’s having this sweeping love affair. You’re some kind of mysterious dream communicator who skipped out on a final for an entire year then took it without studying and passed. I don’t know how to be interesting in the midst of such interesting friends.” She pauses. “I took the wallet so I could have a story to tell.”

  “Aw, Cam,” Aminah says. She was eavesdropping. “You’re the best slash most interesting human I know.”

  “I agree,” I say. “I’ve never met a single other person with a self-made Art Garfunkel shirt, and if one other such person does exist, I’m positive they wouldn’t wear it three days in a row just to be supportive.”

  “I’ve always loved the fact that you never really screw up,” Daniel offers, also eavesdropping. “It makes me a little mad while also secretly inspires me to be better.” He hugs us for a brief moment, then pulls us all apart. “Okay. Do me next!”

  Aminah thwacks him with Cameron’s magazine. “You’re so humble, and you love sensitive moments,” she starts. “You wish they could go on forever and ever. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

  Daniel grabs her. “Ding ding ding! Time’s up!”

  Mama Dorothy comes over to us. She’s carrying a container of food. “People won’t stop bringing me stuff they made,” she tells us as she starts handing out chocolate chip cookies. “I need to pawn it off on you kids.” She pauses when she gets to me. “I tried to place you the other day, but I don’t think you’re the girl who broke out in hives at Marty’s choir concert in sixth grade.” She looks so inviting, even when bleary-eyed and distant, keeping her happy face plastered on to make everyone else feel better.

  “Martin and I didn’t go to the same grade school.”

  “Did he take you to a dance? I swear I know your face.”

  Her hand rubs my cheek so gently, so maternally, that I get up to hug her. “I met Martin at graduation.”

  “And you’ve been here all weekend? That’s the sweetest thing.” She starts to cry. Daniel grabs the cookie container from her hands so she can hug me tighter. We just hold each other, two almost strangers in the most personal of embraces. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Petra,” I say with a small laugh. Finally, I get to tell her my name.

  “Petra,” she repeats back. “Like the Metra.”

  Katie laughs. “That’s totally a joke Marty would make.”

  Mama Dorothy pretends to fluff her hair, shaking her hips. “Where do you think he gets it from?”

  “Mom, please stop,” Katie says.

  Mama Dorothy does one last shake. “All right, that’s enough. I need to go see my boy. Who’s coming with me?”

  “I am,” I say. It falls out of my mouth before I can consider it. This time around, it makes more sense for me to see him.

  Martin McGee is not a stranger to me anymore.

  “Let’s get to it,” Mama Dorothy says.

  We walk down the hallway to those same doors I buzzed through on Saturday morning. Our hearts are heavy, but our heads are high, one foot in front of the other. The nurse lets us in, and we go to Martin’s room. Right away I head straight to his bedside. Some of the swelling on his face has gone down, but he looks…distant. His haircut is already growing out a little, filling in those small patches I’d noticed on Saturday. No movement beneath his eyelids.

  In my mind, I start a conversation with him. Maybe this is what it takes. Talking to him when I’m awake like I do when I’m asleep.

  Hi, Martin, I start. I decide to fill him in on what I’m seeing. I don’t know how any of this works. It’s worth a try. Maybe he will be able to see it too. Or hear me.

  Please hear me.

  Your right eye is swollen shut, I continue. It’s bulbous and purple, like a baseball is caught underneath your skin. You have a tube in your throat. It’s ugly and cruel, but it keeps you breathing because I guess you aren’t doing it on your own. I’m hovering over you, examining the tiny details I promised myself on Saturday I wouldn’t get to know. I’m double-checking them against the face I’ve come to know so well in my dreams.

  That little scar above your lip, on the left side, uncorrupted by the crash. When we danced, before I put my head back on your shoulder and that song we both knew but couldn’t hear was on, I caught a glimpse of it there. I put my finger over it when I shushed you. It’s an old scar, level with your skin, a little whiter than the rest. I want to know how you got it, Martin. I want you to tell me that, in your own words, in the here and now, not in some airplane I’ve created in my brain to have some great symbolism about the lack of control in my life or whatever.

  You’ve seen my fears. Literally. And you keep showing up. You keep asking to be there. You held me so nicely when we danced, close, but not too close. Maybe we can do that in real life.

  But it would have to be here, Martin.

  I’m supposed to head off to college. It’s really happening now. I passed my last exam. That’s two months from now, though. Look how much we’ve accomplished in three days. In two months—wow—what could we do with two whole months? Even if it was here, you in the hospital relearning how to use your good hand or learning how to talk again or whatever it is you need to learn. I would help you. Whatever it takes.

  But it would have to be here, Martin.

  My pleas are probably so empty. Maybe I don’t mean to you what you’ve come to mean to me. Maybe it’s silly to make you mean so much, but somehow, you do. Maybe the you in my head isn’t the one that’s lying here on this hospital bed, but this voice deep inside of me tells me it is.

  Earlier today, when I dreamed of us at your party, you started to say I’
d shown you what there is to love about this place. I’ve been thinking about that. It’s who you’re with that makes a place great, you know? I have these fantastic friends. They’ve been with me every day since your accident happened. They are what make this ordinary town so extraordinary. I’d like you to meet them, like I’ve gotten to meet your friends. We all get along so well. You’d fit right in.

  But it would have to be here, Martin.

  I can’t say any of these things aloud. Your mom, who is extraordinary too, I must say, is standing over my shoulder. I’m telling you here, in my mind. Isn’t it amazing how full a mind is, all these deep, complex thoughts happening inside, when in reality, my body is just standing? Your body has betrayed you altogether, and yet I know your mind is still spinning. I know it.

  It doesn’t make sense.

  It’s been only three days, Martin. Such a short amount of time in the bigger picture. In the long, full life waiting for you on the other side of your eyelids. Just open them up and it’s yours.

  I don’t know what else to say. All you have to do is open your eyes. Prove the doctors wrong. Doctors can be wrong. Life may seem like a science, but I’m learning that it’s never black and white. Be the gray. Be the miracle. Whatever you want to call it.

  Prove that kindness can be fairness.

  Come back, Martin.

  Please.

  • • •

  Don’t do this to me, Petra. It’s like I can feel you here, so close, hovering over me, listening to what I’m saying to Spitty, telling me to think this through. I have, Petra. I swear I have.

  You reminded me to be patient, and that’s the only reason I noticed this stuff in the first place. You don’t understand what this is like.

  I know. That’s a cop-out. I’ve tried so many times now to explain it all the way, but all I ever say is that I’m stuck and I can’t wake up and I need help. That’s not deep enough. Have you ever really been stuck? Like, as a kid, did you ever get your head caught between the banisters of a staircase? Or climb all the way up a tree and look down, realizing you have no idea how to get back? You feel helpless. This place is like that times a billion.