The Radius of Us

by Marie Marquardt

  “Hey, Bree,” I say.

  “Yeah, honey?” She’s still leaning against me.

  “Do you think I’m better?”

  She pulls back and looks at me. “I think you’re getting there.”

  “Do you think I’d be okay traveling, you know, in airports and on planes and stuff?”

  “Sure, yeah. Absolutely. Why?”

  “I think I’m going to Texas on Tuesday, to help Phoenix with his brother.”

  Bree steps back. “This Tuesday? Like, in two days?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Is that crazy, Bree? Am I crazy to think I can do this?”

  “No,” she says forcefully. “It’s brave.” She shakes her head slowly. “You’re brave, Gretchen. You always have been.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PHOENIX

  “YOU HAVE TO APPEAL, Phoenix. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  It’s been two days since I fell apart in front of a bunch of strangers in the garden. I’ve been sitting on my bed in Sally and Amanda’s basement, talking to Sister Mary Margaret for an hour—which is about fifty-five minutes longer than we’ve ever talked on the phone. I’m not going to think about what an idiot I made of myself out there in the garden, because the truth is, it doesn’t even matter. I’m probably never going to see any of those people again—plus, I’ve got more important things to worry about.

  It’s not like Sister Mary Margaret and I have been sitting around shooting the shit for an hour. We’re working on how I can help Ari, running through the facts together. Ari’s lawyer out in Texas said that if I get even one fact wrong—a date that’s a day or two off, the color of a shirt—it could ruin his case, which is so completely nuts. I feel like I’m back in colegio, studying for a really hard test. I’m also worrying the whole time about how much this call is gonna cost.

  It took me a long time to get up the nerve to tell Sister Mary Margaret what happened in court a few days ago—with me. But she needs to know, and I need to stop talking her ear off before I make her go broke, paying for this call.

  “There’s nothing I can do about it,” I say. “The judge ordered me deported.”

  “You cannot come back here, Phoenix,” she says, her voice firm and scolding, like she’s one of those school-teacher-with-a-ruler nuns, instead of laid-back Sister Mary Margaret.

  “Where am I supposed to go?” I ask her.

  “Anywhere but here,” she says. “I haven’t wanted to worry you, Phoenix, but that Delgado boy has been coming around the construction site, chatting it up with the missionaries.”

  Delgado. I can see him acting all suave with those American girls, making them think he’s the good guy.

  “He’s asking about you and Ari, telling me how much he’s ‘missed you,’ and how he and his boys are planning to spend lots of time around here, waiting for you to get back.”

  I feel like I’m gonna puke.

  “And he said I didn’t need to worry, because if you’re thinking you might not come back to Ilopango, they’ll just meet you at the plane and escort you back themselves.”

  Or maybe I’m gonna dry heave. Good thing I didn’t eat breakfast.

  “How long do you have to decide?” she asks me. “Whether or not to appeal the judge’s decision?”

  “Thirty days, but it doesn’t matter, Sister. They know about what happened that night.”

  “What night? You mean, the night with El Turbino—the night you ran away from them?”

  I mutter a quiet yeah.

  “Damn,” she says. And then: “Damn it all to hell!”

  Neither of us says anything. We just sit, the phones to our ears, listening to our breaths come in and out.

  “Appeal,” she says. “You have to do it. If nothing else, it will buy you some time.” She sighs deeply. “Maybe Delgado and his boys will get bored and decide to go off and harass someone else.”

  “Who’s gonna buy me that time, though?” I ask her. “That shit’s expensive! I can’t ask Sally and Amanda to pay even more money, after all they’ve done.”

  “Watch your language!” she commands. “I hope you’re not using that foul language with your hosts.”

  Do as I say, not as I do. It’s Sister Mary Margaret’s favorite expression for a reason. She curses like a sailor, but she always threatened to wash our mouths out with soap if we said even one bad word.

  “Relax, Sister,” I tell her. “No need for soap. I’m squeaky-clean.”

  And I guess it feels good to know I really am squeaky-clean. I mean, I’ve got this amazing, beautiful girl who is really into me, and all we’ve done is kiss, which is sort of killing me, and I know it’s killing her, too. But damn, it’s all so complicated. I worry about Gretchen all the time—not just because it sometimes seems like she’s right at the edge of a meltdown. I’m trying to figure out why she wants to be with me, of all people, and I know I’m gonna do something to mess it all up. It’s just a matter of time.

  Amanda calls down the stairs, “Phoenix! We need to head out!”

  I shove my toothbrush into the duffel bag Amanda gave me. “I gotta go, Sister.”

  “You’ll do great, Phoenix,” she says. “And about your appeal, just give it some time,” she tells me. “We’ll figure something out.”

  I tell her I will, not because I think she’ll come up with some miracle solution. It’s just that I can’t say no to Sister Mary Margaret.

  I hang up, shove my phone into the pocket of the duffel bag, and head upstairs.

  * * *

  It feels really weird to haul ass out of town in the backseat of Amanda’s car, without having to worry about whether the stupid ankle monitor is going to start going off. I have Gretchen to thank for that—for all of it.

  After everyone else left the garden a couple of days ago, we were sitting together under the fig tree. I had just told her about Ari, and about how it was all for shit because he wasn’t going to talk to the judge, and if he didn’t talk, his lawyer couldn’t prove he had a right to stay here. I was telling her this, absentmindedly tracing shapes in the dirt—lines and swirls, nothing special. And that’s when she blurted it out: “He can draw it.”

  “Draw what?” I kept dragging my finger slowly across the surface of the dirt.

  “The story—what happened.”

  I looked up at her. “Do you think that would work?”

  “Sure. He’s an amazing artist.”

  I told her I wasn’t sure that anyone could get him to draw those images—that he wasn’t going to want to remember them, much less draw them. But Gretchen said she had a friend who could help. She said she used to go to these classes. They were called art therapy, and a bunch of kids in there were really messed up. Their parents had died and stuff. But the woman who taught them used these special techniques to help the kids draw their memories, even if they couldn’t talk about them.

  It seemed like maybe it was worth a try, to get him to draw stuff, but I still couldn’t figure out how a judge would know what he was looking at—what Ari was trying to say with the pictures.

  Gretchen told me the solution to that problem was simple. She said I knew every part of the story, so I could tell the judge what Ari’s pictures meant.

  At first we thought that maybe there could be a way to Skype me into the courtroom, or use some sort of teleconference system. But when Ari’s lawyer called my parole officer and explained the situation, Officer Worth gave me permission to visit Ari and go to the hearing as a witness.

  I always knew Officer Worth was a stand-up guy.

  Gretchen got in touch with the woman who ran those art groups, and she offered to help. That lady wasn’t gonna go all the way to Texas for my little brother, but she said she would come up with a plan for Gretchen to use, and that she could talk Gretchen through it. She said she knew Gretchen could do it. I’ve spent enough time around Gretchen and kids to know that lady is right. Gretchen can do just about anything with kids. But the completely, amazingly, insane thin
g is that she wants to do it. She wants to go to Texas and help me. And so do Amanda and Sally. They both said they “wouldn’t even dream” of not being there to support me and Ari. And they also said they’d pay for the whole thing, which I’m trying not to think too much about. I’m pretty sure I could work an entire lifetime and never come up with the money to pay Amanda and Sally back for what they’ve done.

  So there’s only one thing standing in the way of making this plan work: convincing myself to get on a plane.

  When Gretchen said we’d need to fly, my first reaction was simple: “No fucking way.”

  “Stop being such a baby,” Gretchen told me. “Planes are safer than cars!”

  “Let’s test that theory by driving to San Antonio,” I suggested.

  “San Antonio is a thousand miles away. There’s not enough time.”

  I told her I’d do it, or at least I’d try. So, I’m still wearing the stupid pinche ankle monitor, but I can fly to Texas and be there for three days. If I can keep from losing my shit on the plane.

  I’d say the chances are about fifty-fifty.

  * * *

  Damn, this airport is insane. I’ve never seen so many people in one place. And the parking lot, it’s like rows of cars in every direction, as far as I can see. Sally had to take a picture of some sign next to Amanda’s car, just so that she’d remember where she parked it when we get back. We walked about two kilometers to get inside the place, and then we stood in this really long line so that we could basically strip down in front of thousands of strangers. We took off our jackets, tugged off our shoes and belts, emptied everything from our pockets. Then we put it all on this conveyor thing, like at the Walmart checkout. We had to go one by one into this big-ass glass tube and hold our arms up, like we’d been chased down by the federales and one of them had a gun pointed at us. The tube swirled around us—I guess to see if we were packing heat, or had a bomb strapped to our thigh or something.

  Everybody in line was just doing all this shit, like it was perfectly normal. They all knew exactly what to do—how to get those big plastic tubs from the stack and put their computers inside them, when to take off their shoes. I did whatever Sally and Amanda told me to do, and I kept looking around for Gretchen, because I figured this whole thing had to be completely freaking her out.

  She texted me earlier and said she would meet us at the “gate,” whatever that is. Amanda and Sally don’t seem worried that we’re not seeing her. Amanda said this is the busiest airport in the United States, so it’s not like we’ll run into her before we get to the gate. I’m really hoping Gretchen’s dad is here with her, or that maybe there’s like a special line somewhere else for people who can’t handle crowds, and she’s in that one.

  It turns out that the “gate” is just a big open space with a bunch of seats lined up, but no Gretchen. Not yet, at least. There’s a lady in a blue pantsuit standing at this counter by a door—I guess the door goes out to the airplane, because everyone is crowded around it, like they’re all excited to be getting on an airplane, like they just can’t wait to climb inside that big hunk of metal and go hurtling through the sky in it. I’m way too nervous to sit down, which is fine, since there aren’t any free seats anyway. Amanda and Sally plop down on the floor by a big window, and I pace back and forth, trying not to think about how much I want to puke, and looking for Gretchen. She’s still not here, and she hasn’t texted or anything. I’m starting to wonder if she’s gonna bail on us.

  Christ, I wish I could bail.

  The lady in the blue suit says something into a microphone, and then Sally and Amanda stand and start gathering up their stuff.

  “Let’s go ahead and board, love,” Sally says to me.

  “I’m sure Gretchen will be here soon,” Amanda assures me.

  “And we want to get you settled,” Sally says, all sweet and gentle.

  I let Sally take me by the elbow. I want to wait for Gretchen, but I don’t really know what the hell I’m doing, and I need to let them take control. Because, here’s the thing: if I take control, I’m going to start hauling ass toward the packed-out shuttle that brought us out to this place, and I’m going to push my way into it and then curl up into a ball on that bench in the back corner, close my eyes, and ride around in circles for an hour or two. I’ll listen to the soothing voice coming through the speakers, telling all those people they’ve arrived at their terminal; I’ll hear the doors open and close, and the people and suitcases and bags coming on and off, and I’ll let all those sounds wash over me, and not move. Then maybe Gretchen will sit down beside me, and she’ll put her hand on my arm, and it will feel cool and smooth, and she’ll tell me that it’s fine for us to stay in that shuttle, that we can ride around in circles, holding on to each other for as long as we want, that we don’t have to get off, we don’t have to go anywhere.

  But I do have to go somewhere. Even if Gretchen doesn’t show, I have to get on this plane and try one last time to do the right thing. So I clench my jaw tightly and let Sally lead me through that door and down a narrow hallway, lined up behind a bunch of people who I guess also have somewhere they need to go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  GRETCHEN

  I PUT ON MAKEUP this morning before I left—mascara, blush, a thin line of brown eyeliner, and even lipstick.

  Bare Again.

  That’s the name of the color I’m wearing. I felt like I needed to ease back into wearing makeup, so I chose an almost nude tone. When I came out of my room, grasping tight to my duffel bag, my mom commented on the color.

  “You look so beautiful,” she said. “I love that lipstick on you.”

  She looked me up and down—took in the jeans and high boots, the cute little sweater and the big dangly earrings. It was the first time in months she had acknowledged how I looked. I think maybe I did all this for her. I wanted for her to see that I was okay, that I was ready.

  I’m not ready.

  “This is the final boarding call for Delta Flight 2132 with direct service to San Antonio. All passengers must be on board at this time.”

  I am not on board. I am in a bathroom stall in Terminal A, holding on to the cold metal walls and breathing.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  Oh my God, what was I thinking? I am so not ready for this. I forgot how many people there are in this place—so many people, everywhere. Except for this bathroom stall, which is why I have been here for too long, trying to recover from the security line, and the shuttle, and the man who came running at me when I was standing perfectly still on the escalator, holding tight to the moving handrail. That man ran right past me. Of course he did. He was wearing a suit—a businessman, probably on his way to Takoma to sell insurance or something.

  “Final call for Flight 2132 to San Antonio, departing from gate A26. The doors are now closing.”

  I squeeze my eyes tight and try to think of something that will propel me from this bathroom stall. And it comes to me: Bree, shaking her head slowly from side to side, telling me I’m brave.

  You’re brave, Gretchen. You always have been.

  “No!” I grab my bag from the hook and burst out of the bathroom stall. Everyone in line is staring at me, because—apparently—I didn’t just say no in my head.

  “I’m going to miss my plane!” I call out, pushing past the women in line to get out to the terminal. I’m running as fast as I can toward Gate A26, and when I get close enough, I motion to a woman in a dark blue pantsuit, “Wait! I’m here.”

  She gestures with her hand, slowly up and down, up and down. “Calm down, sweetheart; you’re fine. We haven’t closed the doors yet.”

  And the beauty is, the gate area is completely empty. No one is standing in line; no one is jostling to get on board first. The only person left at the gate is a nice woman in an ugly blue suit, cooing at me with soothing words.

  I hand her my rumpled boarding pass. “I’m meeting some friends,” I say. “They need me.”

  “Come on,�
� she says, putting her arm around my shoulders. “I’ll walk you down to find them.”

  We walk together down the empty boarding ramp, and as soon as the airplane door comes into sight, I see them—Phoenix, Sally, and Amanda, standing in the doorway, talking with the pilot.

  When I see Phoenix, I know.

  I’ll be fine.

  He turns toward us. He smiles and I breathe. I feel the breath coming, filling me with energy and strength.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I whisper, sliding my hand into his.

  Phoenix’s hand feels damp, wrapped around mine. It’s shaking—not too much, but enough that I want to hold on to him more tightly. I lean in a little, pressing my side against his. I can tell he’s sweating, because the scent of spring fresh deodorant is coming off him, strong. The smell makes me think of those air-freshener ads with pictures of daisy fields waving in the breeze. It also makes me miss the real scent of Phoenix. The musky, spicy, warm one.

  Phoenix, Sally, and I are standing at the door of the cockpit.

  “What are we doing here?” I whisper to Amanda.

  “Introducing ourselves to the pilot,” she says. “Sally thought maybe if Phoenix met the pilot, he’d feel a little more trusting—a little less nervous about the whole thing.”

  “Hello, sir.” Phoenix lets go of my hand so that he can shake the man’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “It’s a pleasure, son,” the pilot says. He’s tall, with salt-and-pepper hair. He’s wearing a blue polyester suit and a bright red tie. He looks just like a pilot should—responsible, confident, calm. “Your friend tells me that you’re a bit nervous flying?”

  The pilot looks toward Sally, who is looking at Phoenix, who is biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut.

  “Yes, sir. That’s right,” he tells the pilot. “I guess it’s like a…”

  He looks at me, his eyes searching. I think he’s having trouble finding the right word.

  “Phobia,” I say. I wrap my hand around his again and squeeze.

  “Well, you’re in good hands on my plane, son. I’ve been at this for twenty-three years—longer than you’ve been alive, I imagine. I assure you, there’s not a thing to worry about.”