One Last Song

by S. K. Falls

  He turned to her, and in that moment, I didn’t recognize him. He looked lean and mean, a little like a fox fighting over a scrap of food. “No, thank you. I can walk.”

  He took his time, but he walked out of the room by himself. He didn’t say good-bye.

  * * *

  They discharged me later that day. My liver might still suffer the consequences of my actions, but only time would tell for sure. Other than that, I was fine.

  The process was always the same: The nurse unhooked me, the doctor came in, told me I needed to see a therapist, and finished up our talk with a “God help you” look. Pinched mouth, raised eyebrows—it was always the same.

  They told me they’d spoken with Dr. Stone’s receptionist, who said she’d have the good doctor call me himself. This was the hospital’s version of hot potato. No one wanted the douchebag patient who wanted to stay sick—I was the dregs of society relegated to the shrinks. The shrinks would take anyone.

  Mum was waiting downstairs for me, sipping a coffee. I started to wonder if it really was coffee, and then stopped myself. I wasn’t going down that road. When she saw me, she closed her newspaper and stood. “Ready?”

  “Why are you here?” I asked. “It’s not like you can drive me home.”

  Her face closed off, went blank. She was like an Etch A Sketch; jar her too much and she erased herself. “They wouldn’t discharge you without someone here to see you home.”

  I smirked and jingled the car keys. “It’s a case of the sick leading the sick.”

  She didn’t respond.

  * * *

  Back at home, she melted away into the shadows of the house, and I went to my room to get my cell phone. Drew had said he’d texted me last night; I was curious to see what he’d said, how worried he’d been.

  I had four missed texts and two missed calls.

  R u ok?

  Pietce said you’re in ER. Pls text me back.

  Don’t want to bug u but wprried.

  Ctl me.

  I guessed the last one was “Call me.” I read the texts over and over again. He had had a hard time getting the words out. I wondered if he’d been embarrassed about the mangled words, but too worried to delete them and try again. My heart hurt for him, for his pride and for the inevitable encroaching evidence of his disease. I listened to his voicemail.

  “Hey Saylor, it’s Drew. Um, I’ve been texting you. Don’t mean to bother you, but Pierce said he saw you in the ER and I’m worried. Really worried. Okay, just call me when you get this and you have a minute, okay? All right.”

  I felt a deep warmth radiate through me at the concern in his voice, as if I’d been wrapped in a heated blanket. I liked that he worried about me—worried so much, in fact, that he wasn’t afraid to look desperate about wanting to hear from me. I liked that a lot. I stared at his texts again, at the words he’d tried so hard to form, and an idea began to form in my mind.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Five days passed, five days in which I didn’t talk to my mother and during which she didn’t talk to me. I couldn’t tell if it’d been a conscious attempt on her part to avoid me, or an unconscious attempt on mine.

  I slunk into Dr. Stone’s office and plopped onto the pinstriped couch that was becoming a little too familiar. How many appointments had we had now? How many times had I come in here and sat quietly while he tried to get me to open up?

  “I’m glad you came to see me. I know you probably still don’t feel ready.” His tone was kind, in spite of the fact that I’d rescheduled twice already in the past five days. But still, even in the face of his compassion, fury ripped through me like some snarling beast. I wasn’t even sure why.

  I bit my lip and stared out the window at the empty parking lot, cloaked in snow.

  “I’d like to hear the reasoning behind the Tylenol incident.” The Tylenol incident. I liked how that sounded, like some sort of PR spin. “You weren’t trying to commit suicide. Is that an accurate statement?”

  He knew. He knew exactly what I’d meant to do, that people like me didn’t try to kill ourselves. I looked at him. “Yeah.”

  “So what was it? That put you over the edge? That made you want to take so many of those pills so you could wind up in the hospital?”

  His question was nonjudgmental. He was merely trying to identify a solution to a problem. But he didn’t understand. My life was a jumble of problems, like a jumbled old ball of yarn. Untangle one thread, and a dozen more would be there behind it. “Take your pick. Was it that I’m the biggest fuckup in the history of mankind, so much so that my dad can’t even stand to be around me? Or even better, how about the fact that my mum’s a fucking alcoholic because of me? Because she can’t deal with the idea of living life with me as her daughter.” My voice threatened to break at the end, but I flashed him a big grin to show I was fine. I was completely, 100 percent fucking fine.

  His carefully groomed eyebrows knitted together. “She’s an alcoholic? What happened to bring you to that conclusion?”

  “She was arrested last week.” It felt so incredibly good to say it out loud. I realized, besides my vague confession to Drew, that this was the first time I was truly talking about it. Not being talked to about it, not being shut out, but actually saying the words, letting them go free like a fistful of balloons. “She got a DWI, but my dad was able to get her out of jail.”

  Dr. Stone shook his head slowly. “How did you feel when you found out?”

  I leaned forward, hands on my knees, fingers gripping them with so much force I was afraid they’d break off. “Are you serious? How do you think I felt?”

  He didn’t answer the question, choosing instead to counter with one of his own. Fucking shrinks. “You said you think she’s an alcoholic because she can’t deal with having you for a daughter. Is that something she’s said to you?”

  I sat back and tried to get my breathing under control. “She didn’t have to. It’s all over her face. It’s in everything she says to me, hidden behind her words like some beast no one wants to acknowledge.”

  “Saylor, do you know why alcoholics drink? Besides all the biological aspects of addiction, how their brains are wired, et cetera, do you know what they’re actually trying to accomplish?”

  I shook my head.

  “Usually, they’re trying to mask intense pain. They’re trying to forget their own actions, their own pasts, or both. I’d venture that your mum isn’t drinking because of you. She’s drinking because of herself, her own demons. And I’d bet anything she feels guilty as hell about how it’s affected you.”

  I stared at him, wanting desperately to believe his words. Was alcohol Mum’s mask, as Munchausen was mine? But it seemed so far-fetched. So utterly unlike my mother, this vulnerable, sad, lost person he was talking about. “I don’t believe that,” I said quietly, halfheartedly. “You haven’t been there, in our conversations, in our house. You’re wrong.” But even as I said those words, a splinter of hope embedded itself deep in my heart, countering them.

  * * *

  Zee and Drew had set things up with Jack’s mom so we were supposed to get to Prescott Park at three p.m. for his birthday party. It was supposed to be an unseasonably pleasant day for mid-March, near fifty degrees and sunny. The perfect weather for a bunch of sick people—and I included myself in that category—to have a party to celebrate life.

  At eleven a.m. the morning after my appointment with Dr. Stone, my doorbell rang. Dad was at work and Mum was at her alcohol education class; I had no idea who it could be. I peeked out the peephole.

  Zee, in a trendy black bob.

  I opened the door. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

  She gestured behind her, where her car stood with its back passenger door open. “I need help.”

  Frowning, I stepped outside in my slippered feet and followed her to her car. She had two cardboard boxes on her backseat, filled with what looked like brightly colored party supplies.

  I looked up at her. “You
do realize Jack is turning twenty-five, not five?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “I have a thing about birthday celebrations.” When I raised my eyebrow, she explained, “I like them to be big. And Jack said no presents. So you have to help me.”

  “Help you do what?”

  “Blow these up!” She rummaged in a box and pulled out two giant bags of balloons. “I have the lung capacity of a ninety-year-old man with no lungs. If he doesn’t want presents, he’s going to at least get a festive community center, damn it.”

  I laughed. “Okay, fine. But you know what you could do? Buy a balloon pump.”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “Do I look like I could carry a balloon pump from the store to the car? As it was I had to bribe the neighbor kid to put these boxes in when Mom was out grocery shopping. She totally freaks out about me overdoing anything.”

  I picked up the box nearest to me. “All right, well, let’s get you inside where it’s warmer. I’ve got a fire going.”

  But she was already making her way up the driveway.

  * * *

  Inside, I got Zee a mug of hot cocoa and a throw blanket for her legs. “Thanks,” she said, flexing her feet and looking around. “You’ve got a nice place.”

  “Can’t take any credit for it.” I sat cross-legged on the floor next to one of the boxes, pulled out the pack of balloons, and ripped open the package. “My mum’s the decorator.”

  “Your parents at work?” Zee asked, sipping her hot cocoa.

  I paused for a second while I considered how to answer. Pulling out a white balloon, I said, “My dad is. My mum’s just at a class.” I began to blow up the balloon to preempt any more questions.

  Zee sighed. “You’re lucky. You’re not at the stage yet when your parents begin to do the hovering hummingbird thing.”

  I looked at her over the swell of the growing balloon. How could I explain that I’d kill for the “hovering hummingbird thing”? That even a “good morning” from Mum was a hard-won comment, one I’d hug to my chest like a sparkling jewel only to be brought out and examined when no one else was around? I settled for tying the top of the balloon and batting it over to her, a white rubber cloud.

  Her eyes lit up. “Look at how fast you did that! Lucky bitch.”

  I laughed, shook my head. That was the thing about Zee. Even while she was insulting you, you were just glad she’d taken the time to compliment you first.

  “So,” she said, leaning her head back against the couch. I could see the strain on her thin face from the exertion of being here, of sitting up, of holding her mug of cocoa. “What’s going on with you and Drew?”

  I kept blowing air into the balloon, afraid of what I’d say if I stopped. We’d been talking on the phone several times a day, but I hadn’t had a chance to see him again. He’d been busy with practicing his music with some guys he knew. Finally, when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I tied off the balloon and looked at her. “That’s a nebulous question.”

  She raised her eyebrow. “And that was a nebulous answer.” Setting her mug on the coffee table, she leaned back again and pulled the throw up to her chin. “All I know is, every time he said your name these past couple of days, he grinned. Like an idiot. Over nothing.”

  I found my own mouth smiling in response. “Really?”

  “Really, really.”

  I rummaged in the packet for another balloon and pulled out a red one, studiously avoiding Zee’s eye. “So, like, what did he say?”

  “That you two fucked long and hard.”

  I jerked my head up, my mouth falling open.

  Zee burst out laughing, her narrow chest heaving with the effort. “God, I’m just kidding! But you should see your face right now. It’s priceless.”

  I snapped my mouth shut. “Fuck you,” I muttered, pulling the balloon tight. It looked like a long red tongue between my fingers.

  “Someone’s touchy.” Zee grinned. “Hit a little close to home, did I?”

  I glared at her and began to blow up the balloon.

  “Oh, all right. I’m too tired to tease.” She took a deep breath, then reached out for the mug and took a languid sip instead of telling me what Drew had said. I couldn’t tell if she was genuinely tired or if she was lording her power over me. With Zee, either was equally possible. “He said he really liked you. That you were special or made him happy or something.” She waved her hand around, like what she said was inconsequential. Like she wasn’t holding information in her hands that had the power to put me on top of the tallest mountain, my arms out like I was flying, wind gusting through my hair.

  I tied the red balloon off and began to blow up a turquoise one. I didn’t trust myself to speak just yet. The memory of him, the smell that was like the beach and soft smoke mixed together, filled me up until I was sure I’d pop.

  “You two are good for each other,” Zee said. “You’re healthier than he is, you know, and he needs that. He needs to do stuff other than all the euthanasia, TIDD group, sick-people things he usually does.” She blinked quickly, several times, and drained her cocoa.

  That’s when it dawned on me, like a fire slowly catching, that Zee really liked Drew. Maybe she hadn’t acted on it because she wanted him to have better, to have someone who wasn’t so ill. Maybe she felt guilty about dating him and then dying. If I was any kind of friend, I would’ve asked her.

  But I didn’t. I didn’t want to know. It was easier—for me—that way.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  At two thirty I loaded Zee’s car with her boxes and the balloons, banners, and party bags we’d assembled. I decided to drive the BMW because I needed to pick up Drew and Pierce. Zee would pick up Carson, and we’d meet at Prescott Park.

  Pierce was first, because he lived closer. When I pulled into his apartment complex, he was already sitting on the curb in a heavy white coat with his white surgical mask covering half his face as usual. I noticed immediately just how still he was, almost preternaturally so. With the snow all around, he just about blended in with the sidewalk. It was his shock of black hair that attracted my eye.

  I pulled up to him and got out. “Are you okay?”

  Grabbing the hand I offered, Pierce pulled himself up. He was incredibly light, and in his big white coat, he looked like a feather—transient, delicate.

  “Fine,” he said, his voice weak. “Just cold.”

  I helped him into the car. Once I was in my seat, I turned up the heat as high as it would go and turned on his seat warmer. After a minute, he unfurled and leaned back.

  “Okay?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. The seat warmer’s kick-ass.”

  “You could’ve waited for me inside,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, my mom was driving me crazy. I had to get out of there.”

  “Ah.” I kept my eyes on the road as I got on the highway. “She didn’t want you to go?”

  He put on a strong, mocking Chinese accent. “Prescott Park in March. Bad idea, Pierce! You stay home. You have gay disease.” Then, sighing, he said, “I’m exaggerating. It’s not really that bad. I just… sometimes it’s hard to understand her way of dealing with it.”

  I shook my head, tried to look sympathetic. If my mother hovered that way, would I be tired of it? Would I feel bad that she didn’t understand who I was? I couldn’t imagine the luxury of having an opinion about how my mother felt about me. “Sorry.”

  “She means well, I guess.” He watched the plowed snow out of his window, a steady, solid stream of white. “I can’t believe Jack’s turning twenty-five,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

  “Really?” I signaled left and came to a stop at the light. I glanced at Pierce. “Have you known him long?”

  “Nope.” He began to laugh this really wheezy, throaty laugh, still looking out the window. His left hand rubbed absently at the tumor on the back of his right. “I met him three months ago when I joined TIDD. And even back then, you know, I was sure he was going to be
the first one to die. I mean, the cancer had spread everywhere. He was a fucking skeleton even when he was able to come to group. And I just looked at him and thought, ‘There is no way. There is no fucking way that guy is going to make it to his next birthday.’ And now, yep, he’s turning twenty-five. It’s like there’s a game of Russian roulette going on, and as long as somebody kicks the bucket, the rest of us have some time left.” He turned to look at me then, and I saw that he was crying, not laughing. His mask was soaked with tears and snot. “Jack’s still here. Hanging on by a fucking thread. And meanwhile the gun keeps spinning. It’s slowing down, but it hasn’t stopped yet, and I have a feeling when it stops, it’s going to stop on me.” He slammed his fist into the window, and I jumped.

  The car behind us honked—the light had turned green. I began driving again, but I put one hand on Pierce’s arm.

  Pierce could be a scarecrow. Under my hand, I could feel the down of his jacket, the bunched-up sleeve of his shirt. Layers and layers of clothes. But no matter how hard I pressed, I couldn’t feel any body at all.

  * * *

  Drew got in the car smiling, but when he saw Pierce’s red eyes, his smile faded. He looked at me. I knew he had questions, but all he said was, “Thanks for the ride.”

  I nodded and started the car back up. The drive to Prescott Park was quiet, the only sound the hum of the tires on the street. It seemed wrong to turn on music when Pierce was feeling so low, as if I should pay homage to him by listening to his breathing. It was a stupid, petty thought, the kind that healthy people think about the ill. Even though I hadn’t been in their midst long, I knew that. It was as if I was picking up on bits of their culture, their language.

  * * *

  Jack’s dad had come early to help Zee put up the decorations. When we walked into the little community room they’d rented for his birthday party, I saw the banner I’d helped tape together hanging up in the doorway. The balloons were scattered all over the room and taped to the chair I guessed would be Jack’s. There was also a framed, poster-sized photograph of the actress Katie Henson in a silver bikini that left little to the imagination. The photograph had been autographed to Jack.