OC Me

by Kristin Albright

  “Actually, really well,” I answered. “I just found out that I’m in the top ten of my graduating class which means I’m eligible to apply for the merit scholarships to State.”

  “Good for you kiddo,” Grandpa chimed in, “Things are sure different now than they were when I was your age. Back then most of us fellas joined the Army right out of school. Not too many people headed off to college, but boy things have changed,” he mused and shook his head. “Heck they’d changed by the time your dad graduated, just so much more since.”

  I smiled, imagining my Grandpa as an 18 year old boy and all the things that would have changed since then – it was hard to imagine. What would the world look like to me over 50 years from now? We chatted about everything from the weather to my post-graduation plans. When the pizza was pretty much picked over, the waitress brought the tab, grandpa settled up and we headed over to the hospital.

  …

  Up in Lisa’s room, the only visible change was a handmade quilt that I presumed Gram had brought with her. “Pretty quilt,” I commented.

  “We made that together when Lisa was in high school,” Gram said, her eyes watery.

  “She looks good though,” I said trying to comfort her. “Look at her cheeks; they’re rosy.”

  “She has always been beautiful,” Gram sighed. “Even as a newborn and not many newborns are beautiful – most are kind of…”

  “Alien-like?” I supplied.

  A small grin stretched over Gram’s face. “Well…yes,” she said. She yawned and stretched, kissed Lisa’s forehead and settled into a chair by the window. It didn’t take long before she dozed off. I wheeled Lisa’s bed table over between Grandpa and me, and we played tic-tac-toe and hangman.

  The hours passed quickly. I was engaged in thought and didn’t worry too much about Aunt Lisa or what tomorrow would hold. I was trying to figure out what word would stump Grandpa. I thought of my conversation earlier with Kat and James. Malodorous. It was the perfect word and the only time all night that I “hung” Grandpa.

  …

  The next afternoon, after a day filled with lackluster academic performances, I was more than ready to be leaving school. I was walking quickly down the sidewalk when I heard a voice call out,

  “Hey Amy! Wait up.”

  I spun around to see James jogging down the sidewalk toward me. The buses were going to leave any minute.

  “Hey! Hi,” I said, “I’ve only got a minute until the buses leave,” I apologized.

  “No worries, are you heading downtown? To the hospital?”

  I was startled; I hadn’t mentioned Lisa to him, but Kat must have. “Yeah, I just have to go home and get the car first.”

  “You want a ride to the hospital? From here?” His eyebrows went up as he motioned to the student parking lot. “I have to go down to my dad’s office, so you’d be on the way.”

  “That would be great!” My words froze in a white puff in front of my face. We jogged toward his car. He hit the unlock button on his key fob and opened my door first. “Thanks,” I said and reached over the center console to push his open.

  When he sank back into his seat, he turned the ignition and blew into his hands as the engine warmed up. “This cold snap is brutal,” he complained.

  “If I hear ‘polar vortex’ one more time on the news…” I trailed off as James burst out laughing.

  “No joke,” he said, “Why they have to make up new descriptions, or worse, name storms, is beyond me.”

  His mere mention of a storm grabbed my attention and pulled it away from the cute guy in the striped knit beanie and back toward my aunt. I swallowed hard and looked out the window. I just wanted her to wake up; I wanted to know that we would talk once again, that she was going to live.

  James fiddled with the blowers and glanced again at the temperature gauge. “Obviously Kat told me about your Aunt. I’m so sorry…has there been any change?”

  I shook my head no and focused on not getting emotional. “Not yet,” I answered in a small voice.

  “I wish I could say something that would make it better,” he said softly.

  I met his eyes - he was so serious - so different from the boy who had tried to steal my cupcake. “I know,” I said, turning up the corners of my mouth a bit. “We all do.”

  As James pulled out of the parking lot, I relaxed back into my seat. It was wonderful not having to pay attention to the roads and the other drivers or imaginary accidents. I snuck the occasional peek at James; he looked cute all layered up with windburned cheeks.

  “So what takes you downtown?” I asked.

  “Eh, my dad wants me to attend a career night his company is hosting for high school kids.”

  “What kind of career?” I asked.

  “Electrical engineering.”

  “That’s cool - a guy of many talents I see,” I teased him.

  “That’s me,” he said with a lopsided smile. It seemed forced, but I didn’t know him well enough to say for sure. Then he turned up the radio, “This must be the new song Kat was telling me about,” he said loudly over the electric guitar intro.

  “Pretty good!” I nodded along to the music wondering if a boy would ever turn up his radio based on something I had said.

  When the song tapered off, he confessed, “Kat’s been giving me some music suggestions; I need to mix it up some more.”

  “She does come in handy for that,” I admitted, thinking of my play-lists on my computer at home.

  “So what does she have you listening to?” he asked. We discussed our favorite kinds of music. I liked listening to music based on the mood I was in. James was more systematically working through genres and bands that he liked. It was fun talking about our painting routines - we both used music to set the mood. Before I knew it we were downtown, and I was almost disappointed. I wanted to go in and see Lisa, but spending time with James had been so nice. For a half hour I forgot about the grim reality of Lisa’s situation.

  As he pulled up to the main entrance, I unbuckled and pulled my backpack up into my lap. “Thanks so much for the ride! You have no idea how stressed I was driving here last night - I feel a million times better today.”

  “Well I’m glad I could do something to lighten the load - you’ve looked so sad this week.”

  Butterflies tickled my stomach. I was flattered that he noticed, that he wanted to help, but I pushed them away, wanting to focus on Lisa. “Thanks James - enjoy the career night thing.”

  “I’ll try,” he rolled his eyes sarcastically. “But seriously, no problem - I’m glad to help…Wait!” he held up his hand. “Do you need a ride home later?”

  “No, my dad will be stopping by tonight,” I smiled, “Thanks though.”

  “Well, if you need a ride down any other night just let me know; I could always grab a coffee in the cafeteria and do some homework,” he offered.

  My insides warmed with his offer - my eyes nearly teared up. “Thank you,” I said hoarsely and looked out the side window preparing myself to go in.

  His hand squeezed the top of my shoulder. “I enjoyed the company,” he said with a small smile. “See you tomorrow.”

  I stepped out, closed the door and waved goodbye as he pulled out of the parking lot. Then I took a deep breath and went upstairs to my family.

  That became my routine for the next week or so. Not the James part - as much as I would have loved to have him chauffeur me to the hospital, most days Dad was able to go with me. I went to school, rushed home, and went directly to the hospital. We would meet Gram and Grandpa for dinner and go sit with Lisa. Then one night, something was distinctively different.

  I knew something was wrong when we arrived to find a couple of doctors in the hallway talking with Gram and Grandpa. One of them hugged a clipboard against his white jacket, and they were all talking quietly with their heads tilted in toward one another.

  A single tear rolled down Gram’s face that she hadn’t bothered to wipe, and even Grandpa looked sullen.
Dad’s shoulders sunk an inch or two, and he reached out toward me. I slid my fingers into his big rough hand, hoping that this wasn’t what it seemed.

  “But she was fine this afternoon,” I heard Gram say to the doctor in her shaky voice.

  “Yes, but we’ve known all along that these things could change quickly,” the youngest doctor responded. His name tag said “Luke – neurology” He nodded to us and continued, “About an hour ago, Lisa’s limited brain activity stopped. Her organs are still good because she has been on life-support machines since she arrived. Her driver’s license has an organ donor sticker, but it is not signed, so we need the consent of the family to donate,” he paused, and continued once more, “We know this is a lot of information for you to handle, and we have some time. So please take time to think things over and say your goodbyes. Again, we all offer our sincere condolences for your loss.”

  Sincere condolences? His words spun like a twister in my mind. What does that mean anyway? That he’s honestly sorry that we lost a member of our family…but her organs are still good, so he’d honestly like to take those away too? It was unfair of them to ask such a thing: not now, not later tonight. I hadn’t even had time to process that Lisa was dead; it was like a bad dream except everything was happening in double time. Grandpa broke the silence, “Let’s go inside.”

  There was now only one beeping machine. It was tracking Lisa’s heartbeat. I took in all the machines that surrounded her like a small army. Somehow I’d managed to ignore them all, convincing myself that it was as if she was sleeping. In reality, she’d been suspended somewhere between life and death, unconscious, with machines orchestrating her vital functions.

  I’d wished for her to wake up – prayed for her to heal. I’d talked to her, combed my fingers through her hair and planned our next outing all while ignoring the visitors that had come to see her. Even my mom drove across the state to see her.

  I was so focused on Lisa and so used to my mom’s absence, that after the fact - when I found out about the visit - I wasn’t even angry. I did question how a mother could drive all the way across the state to see a dying relative, but not stop to comfort her own grieving child. Yet I know everyone deals with grief in their own way, and perhaps my mom’s way of dealing with hers was to avoid mine. I just don’t know.

  I reached down one last time and took Lisa’s hand in mine. It was warm, as if she were still alive. My chest heaved, and I gasped for air. Tears streamed down my face, and the bright lights made it so hard to see. I rested my head on the pillow next to Lisa and cried. I couldn’t believe that she wasn’t going to wake up. Dad reached behind me and pulled my head toward his stomach. I wrapped my arms around his middle and buried my face against him, my tears soaking the soft fabric of his shirt.

  I don’t know how long we sat in there; our grief quiet, but strong. Eventually Grandpa spoke up, “Well, unless one of you can convince me otherwise, I’m gonna sign them - the donor forms. Lisa was one of the most giving people I’ve ever known,” he choked. “This can be her last gift; it’s obvious to me that this is what she would want.”

  I nodded, my eyes filling quickly but not spilling over. Dad and Gram nodded too. “Well then it’s settled,” said Grandpa. “I’ll let the doctor know,” he said hoarsely.

  Chapter Five

  I have to remind myself to breathe - almost to remind my heart to beat!

  ~ Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

  “Ames, I’m so sorry,” Kat said softly. She looked pretty in her long brown dress layered with a purple cardigan. She threw her arms around me and squeezed. We rocked back and forth for a moment, holding each other; it felt so good to be hugged. As I squeezed her back, I looked up and was surprised to see James step into view. Kat glanced over her shoulder, excused herself, and walked off toward my dad.

  “Hey,” he said quietly, while opening up his arms to offer me a hug. I reached forward and stepped up to him. He wrapped his arms around my back and rested his cheek on my head. It wasn’t an awkward funeral hug like so many that I’d already received; our bodies felt like they belonged together. “I’m so sorry about your aunt,” he said softly. I let my head relax against him, taking comfort in his familiar cologne. His voice resonated in his chest against my ear. “I had to come,” he said clearing his throat. “I know how close you guys were, and well…I can’t imagine how awful this is for you,” he said apologetically. He tightened his arms, and I did the same, acutely aware that under any other circumstance this embrace would be too intimate for our relationship. My heart raced, not wanting to let go, but knowing that I needed to. I stepped back and looked up. His eyes were filled with empathy and concern. He looked extra cute all dressed up. He tugged at his tie; it was thin and black and paired well with his dark gray shirt. His thick dark hair was just a bit on the long side, and it curled softly around his ears.

  “Thanks for being here,” I said softly, “It means a lot to me that you came.” Aunt Lisa would have approved of him: funny and lighthearted, yet capable of being serious. She would’ve pointed out that he was handsome, and I would have bragged about what a phenomenal artist he is. His paintings are always the best in the class, almost like vivid photographs but with more texture.

  He’d been making it a habit to stop by and hang out with Kat and me in the mornings. I liked to imagine that he was interested in me, but it was probably inevitable that he had a crush on Kat. My whole life, guys followed us around vying for her attention, and I never really let it get to me before. Today however, it made me wish that I was the more outgoing and memorable half of our duo.

  “Amy?” My dad motioned toward the projector. I excused myself and followed my dad. The slide show started up on the far side of the reception room on a screen set up next to the urn. Lisa expressed to my dad years ago that she wanted to be cremated someday. To bring her image to the funeral, I designed a photo slide show set to her favorite songs. Everyone got a bit teary-eyed seeing pictures of Lisa as a baby, chasing her dog Ghost, sitting on the swings with my dad, going to prom, holding me, and dating Brian. I hadn’t excluded any part of her life – it seemed as if doing so would be denying who she was. My eyes were uncharacteristically dry. I guess I cried myself empty while putting all the pictures together. As people gathered around the screen, I began to feel a bit claustrophobic. Having it memorized anyway, I slipped away.

  I was reaching for a glass of lemonade at the far end of the reception room when my art teacher, Mrs. Ropert, approached. “Amy,” she paused and reached for me. She wrapped her arms around me and whispered “I’m sorry Hun. So, so sorry.” The scent of lavender and cloves hugged me right along with her; I closed my eyes, and squeezed her in return. The backs of my eyes began to burn. “How are you doing?” she asked sincerely. I picked up the glass of lemonade and took a small sip. It was the made-from-powder variety. I wrinkled my nose – it seemed terrible to celebrate someone’s life with fake lemonade. I opened my mouth; I wanted to respond, wanted to say I was “fine, thank you,” but I wasn’t. I was just sad. I shrugged and listened quietly while she talked to me. I took another sip of the gross lemonade and startled when a pit suddenly formed in my stomach. My heart beat faster when I remembered that I’d bumped another lemonade cup on the rim while picking mine up. What if I’d wiped my nose on the back of my hand earlier? What if I got germs on the cup that could get someone else sick? What if one of my grandparents picked up the glass and got sick? I tried hard to concentrate on what Mrs. Ropert was saying, but her words became hollow and distant. I leaned in again when she hugged me for the second time, but my eyes danced back and forth between her face and the questionable cup of lemonade. All the while, unease churned in my stomach.

  When she bid farewell, I stepped back to the table where I lifted the offending cup. Holding one in each hand, I turned and James - with his impeccable timing - walked over.

  “Where’re you headed?” he asked, nodding to the second cup of lemonade.

  I quickly sought out a
response, “To the kitchen…I’ll be right back.”

  It wasn’t a lie – not if it was where I was going. I figured the easiest way to ensure no one would drink from the cup was to dump the lemonade out and put the glass in the sink. It was, after all, cold season, and I didn’t want anyone to get sick. I watched as the last of the cloudy yellow liquid swirled down the drain. As it disappeared, the pit in my stomach slowly dissolved. I liked being in the kitchen; it was quiet and void of well-wishers. I looked out the window and stared. Snowflakes fell slowly: gently landing in fluffy bunches on the evergreen branches. It was a perfect winter day - perfect on the outside anyway.

  Chapter Six

  Sadness flies away on the wings of time.

  ~ Jean de La Fontaine

  As the weeks passed, my sorrow began to fade. Don’t get me wrong; I still miss her like crazy, but it makes me feel good to know that so many other people were helped with her donations. The hospital sent a thank you card, letting us know that eight different people were helped or saved by her. In some ways, those people make it seem as if she was still alive; she could be driving past me, taking a delivery from my dad, or sitting in a first grade classroom learning how to form her letters. I saw her everywhere I went and in everything that was beautiful.

  As we headed into February, the intensity of schoolwork picked up, and the distraction of homework aided my healing. Calculus was still my nemesis, teasing me into thinking I understood it, only to tap me on the shoulder during a pop quiz, sticking out its aggravating tongue. It was my daily challenge much in the same way that art was my daily therapy.

  Now that he’d broken the ice, I frequently took the opportunity to visit James during painting class. I loved pulling up a stool to watch his hands. Observing him with a paintbrush was something else; it was as if he didn’t even need to think about what he was doing. He mixed the perfect shades of paint on his palette with what seemed like no effort at all, and he was capable of talking and joking with me as he created on canvas the masterpieces that resided in his head. I found myself thinking about him often, pondering what he was thinking while he painted. I wondered if he thought I was pretty. Occasionally I found myself staring at my closet questioning what sweater he liked best and then sighed when I remembered that his eyes twinkled when he and Kat teased one another too.