by S. K. Falls
“Do you think he’ll like it?” Jack’s dad asked Drew. He was a big guy with a bright pink face, the buttons on his shirt barely holding the fabric together. I could see some hairy belly skin through the holes between the buttons. “We got it last month and kept it secret.”
“Hey man, it’s Katie Henson. What’s not to like, you know?” Drew clapped Jack’s dad on the shoulder. He turned and winked at me, as if to show he was just humoring Jack’s dad. Did he think I might be jealous? I realized it hadn’t even occurred to me to be. Whatever was going on between Drew and me seemed beyond the scope of petty things like jealousy over pretty actresses.
Pierce and Zee were sitting at the table already, talking quietly. I couldn’t tell if Zee was comforting him. She didn’t seem to me to be the type to comfort someone anyway, even if she knew exactly what the other person was going through. Zee was the personification of the tough love mentality. If things had been different she might have made a good high school teacher, the kind kids simultaneously love and fear and thank decades later when they make it big.
“How’s Jack been?” Drew asked Jack’s dad, who still hadn’t introduced himself to me. He seemed nervous, on edge; it probably hadn’t even occurred to him.
“Oh.” He actually wrung his hands. “You know. He has good days and bad days, of course, just like anyone else…” His eyes shimmered, and he swallowed a few times.
Jack arrived then, hanging heavily on his mom Jeannie’s arm. I wondered why they weren’t using the wheelchair I’d seen beside his bed, but maybe he, like Drew, saw it as “the chair,” something heinous to be avoided unless absolutely necessary. When he saw the room, all done up in carnival colors with balloons floating around his guests’ ankles, he stopped short. His face twisted into something like a grimace. I wondered if he was smiling, but from the look on his dad’s face, I guessed probably not.
Jack stood there, panting, leaning heavily against Jeannie. When she tried to get him to move forward, he shook his head and yanked weakly on her arm.
“What’s… all… this?” he asked, gesturing at the banner and balloons. He wouldn’t look at any of us, choosing instead to look at some point on the floor between him and the table.
We were all preternaturally quiet. Finally, his dad said, timidly, “Your friend Zee thought it would be nice to do this room up a bit. Don’t you like it?”
Jack kept his eyes on the floor. “I… said no… presents.”
“These aren’t presents,” Zee piped in, sounding cheerful in spite of the situation clearly beginning to unravel in front of us. “It’s just decorations. You know, ’cause it’s a party.”
Jack’s dad looked like he was going to cry or throw up or both. Jeannie kept halfheartedly pulling on Jack’s arm, as if she thought there might still be a chance he’d come inside, sit at the table, and eat some cake.
“It’s… not a party,” Jack said, each word punctuated by his heavy hissing inhalations and exhalations. “I didn’t… want anyone… rejoicing. Fuck!” He kicked at a balloon that had bobbed up to him, and almost fell over—Jeannie caught his elbow just in time. His dad was openly crying now.
“It’s okay, Jackie,” Jeannie said, rubbing his back.
“Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t call me that. I’m… a big drain… on everyone. I know… that. No need… to… lie.”
“That’s not true.” Jeannie was trying valiantly not to cry. Her double chin quivered with the effort. “That’s not true, and you know it.”
“Take… me back… to the car.” He half turned and began to tug on her arm. “Now. Now! Now!” He began to hit his forehead with his open hand, over and over again.
“Okay, okay, we’re going,” Jeannie said, tossing a look over her shoulder at his dad. “We’re going right home, bud.”
The door swung shut behind them. Somewhere in the room a balloon popped, startling us all.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The horrible silence seemed to stretch on and on, pulling taut against my eardrums. Jack’s dad finally broke it by shuffling forward, his eyes fixed on the wall before him. He began peeling off the decorations one sliver of Scotch tape at a time. He moved slowly, but his nails dug into plaster, gouging out bits of the wall. Drew rushed to help, but the older man didn’t seem to register his presence.
Zee approached Pierce, Carson, and me. “Uh, I think we should split.” Her voice was just a whisper. It was the most toned-down I’d ever seen her.
Pierce and Carson nodded, but I took a step closer to Drew. “I think I’ll hang out here for a bit.”
Zee cut her eyes to Jack’s dad. “Okay. We’ll talk later.” The three of them trudged out, and the door shut softly.
When I turned back around, Drew was talking to Jack’s dad. It was difficult to say if Jack’s dad was even paying attention—he just stood there, holding a yellow balloon in limp hands.
As I got closer I saw he was crying. Not sobbing or whimpering, though. Tears just kept leaking out his eyes, as if he had so much hurt inside that his body couldn’t contain it anymore. He didn’t even react as the tears pooled under his massive chin and then dripped off, staining his shirt. I watched in subdued fascination. What was it like to feel that amount of pain on account of someone else?
“It’s getting harder for him,” Drew was saying. “And for you and Jeannie.”
He shook his head, his wide fingers pressing into the rubber flesh of the balloon. “I want to fix this, Drew. Goddammit, it’s all I want. And the only way I can think of to do that is to help him die.” His voice broke on the word die; it fluttered out as just a hitching of the chest.
I wanted to melt away, to leave this defeated man to Drew, but I knew movement would draw attention. So I stood there bearing witness to his agony instead, flashes of compassion flickering inside me like fireflies at twilight.
Drew stepped closer and wrapped his arms around him, the balloon wedged between them. “I’m going to try as hard as I can, Dave.” From the way his voice was pitched higher than usual, I knew he was fighting tears himself. My chest ached at the realization, a sudden pang that made me gasp softly. “This petition… it’s going to get their attention.”
Dave pulled back, clearing his throat. He looked straight at Drew. The tears were gone; his eyes were bright with anger now. “Even if it does… then what? You saw him today. He’s slipping away so fast. Will they even be able to do anything for him in time?”
Drew sighed, his entire torso—shoulders, chest, back—moving with the force of the exhalation. “They’ve expedited the process in other states for people like Jack, those so close to… the end. We’ll keep fighting.”
Dave smiled, cradling that balloon against his side. I’d never seen a smile like that before; vacant, bleak, just a slash of lips across the face. “Yeah. What else are we going to do?”
Dave insisted that he could dispose of all the decorations himself. I suspected he needed some time to himself, and Drew seemed to sense that, too. After a quick good-bye, we headed out.
“I feel so bad for his parents,” I said, driving out of the park. “Do his mood swings just happen without warning?”
“Usually,” Drew said. “Sometimes it’s more of a steady dip. It seems to be happening more and more, though. I’m worried about him.”
“So… what about the petition? I heard you guys mention it, but it didn’t seem like Jack’s dad really seemed to think it’d help.”
“He doesn’t think the petition would go through in time. Anyway, they’re having trouble with their finances, so they’re not sure they can even hire the lawyer they want. It’s a criminal defense attorney who’s supposed to be the best with out-of-the-box cases. He won’t do it pro bono, though.” He shook his head. “Fucking lawyers.”
“Who is it?” My dad was in criminal law, and he was fairly well-known. I couldn’t imagine him taking on a case like this one, where he had to help a poor young dying kid, but maybe it was one of his friends. And what if it is? a s
mall part of my mind asked. What are you going to say? Dad, I need help because one of my friends in the terminal illness support group I joined for fun is dying and he needs representation?
“Noah Preston,” Drew said. “Some guy in Portsmouth.”
The name stuck in my mind like a piece of melted candy. There was something about it, something familiar. I shook my head. “Sorry Jack’s not doing so well.”
Drew’s hand covered mine, firm and cool. “Let’s not talk about Jack anymore tonight.”
I looked at him. In the fading light, his eyes seemed to be rimmed with gold. “Okay.” I flipped my hand and entwined my fingers with his.
He squeezed mine and then, as if he was whispering a secret, he said, “I don’t know what I’d do. Without you. When Pierce told me you were in the ER and I couldn’t get a hold of you, I was terrified. Like, really fucking terrified. Almost more terrified than I was when they told me I had FA.”
Guilt dropped like a heavy curtain. “I’m sorry.” I tried to keep my voice even, but it came out strangled, like there was an invisible fist wrapped around my throat. I had so many reasons to apologize, none of which Drew knew about.
He turned to me, studying my profile as I drove. “I’m so lucky you decided to come to TIDD.”
I stared at him, imagined what would happen if I blurted the truth in that moment. The longer he looked at me, the longer I was confronted with those blue eyes, the closer I came to saying it. This whole thing is a lie. I’m not who you think I am. Please forgive me.
But then he leaned forward and kissed me softly on the cheek. And the truth remained untold, like a jagged razor in my mouth.
* * *
The next morning I was making my way down the hall, when I heard a sort of murmuring coming from my parents’ room. I stood in the doorway and watched Mum sitting on the edge of the bed, her head bent. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
She was praying. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her do that. Stunned, I found myself stepping in without even thinking about it.
Mum looked up and stiffened. “Saylor? What do you need?”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. She continued to watch me, not offering to fill the silence. Finally, I said, “That’s… were you praying?”
She looked down for a minute before meeting my eye again. “It’s called the Serenity Prayer. They teach it to us in AA.” The tips of her ears were scarlet.
I walked in a little closer, my heart leaping when she didn’t ask me to leave. Dr. Stone’s words came back to me: I’d venture that your mum isn’t drinking because of you. She’s drinking because of herself, her own demons. And Mum’s own words, when I was in the hospital: Sometimes people are more than what you think they are. “I like it. Does it help you?”
She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if the conversation were physically painful. But when she answered, her tone was even and soft, no hint of impatience there. “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s still bloody difficult. The need to take a drink… it’s a viselike grip, you know. There’s no escaping it.”
I was floored by the openness, the honesty flowing from her to me. I struggled to keep my face calm so as to not scare her away. I didn’t want to shatter the moment. “If you… if there’s some way I can help…” I shrugged, hoping she’d take my meaning.
She smiled at me. It was a tight-lipped thing, but it was genuine. I stared at it, reveling in the absolutely surreal moment. “Thank you, Saylor.” She opened her mouth again, as if to say something else. I waited. But then she turned away, and I knew it was my cue to leave.
* * *
I ran into my dad in the kitchen, making himself an espresso. He smiled a quick, distracted sort of smile while he fiddled with the machine. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hi.” I glanced at the clock on the wall: ten fifteen a.m. “Running late today?”
“Ah, I’ve got a flight out at noon. I’m going to be in Arizona for a couple of days.” We hadn’t yet talked about me having been discharged from the hospital last week, but I wasn’t surprised. If there was something unpleasant going on, my dad left the state.
His phone buzzed on the counter. He cursed under his breath. “Just leave it. It’s probably that asshat lawyer again, trying to get me to answer. Guy’s like a goddamn pit bull.”
My mind flashed back to Jack’s birthday party. Noah Preston was the attorney his parents couldn’t afford. I’d wondered where I knew the name from, and now I remembered: Preston was the name of the lawyer my dad didn’t want to talk to.
I looked down at the BlackBerry screen. Noah Preston wanted something from my dad—a meeting. And Jack’s parents and Drew wanted Noah Preston’s time. Quid pro quo.
I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and a bottle of water from the fridge. “Have a good flight,” I said, my wheels spinning. I had some research to do.
* * *
It didn’t take long for me to find Preston’s phone number on the Internet. Before I dialed, I went to the hallway and peered down into the living room. There was no sound.
“Dad?”
He must’ve left. I walked back to my room and dialed the number, wishing I didn’t have to do it this way. I wasn’t good on the phone. That was something my generation didn’t exactly have to be good at: We were texters, master Skype conversationalists, and Twitter enthusiasts. Our phones functioned as cameras and maps and music players. Using the phone to talk on was something old people did. But Noah Preston belonged to that category, so I had to suck it up.
“Preston and Link, how may I direct your call?”
I glanced at the note I’d scrawled to myself so I’d sound competent. “Hello. This is Victor Grayson’s office returning a call from Noah Preston.”
“Hold, please.”
And just like that, I was in.
“Hello?” Noah Preston’s voice was rich and robust, and it reminded me of this very expensive bronze body oil I’d bought once on vacation.
“Hi. My name is Saylor Grayson. Um, I think you know my dad, Victor.”
Silence.
“Look, I’m sorry I had to pretend it was his office calling you. But this is important.” I switched the cell phone to my other hand and wiped my palm on my jeans.
A pause. “Really? I’m intrigued.”
I imagined him in a pinstripe suit, puffing away on a cigar in an office that overlooked the sea. “Well, I know you’ve been trying to contact him. I’ve seen your number on his phone.”
“Mm hmm…”
He was unflappable. In direct contrast, I was mopping sweat from my forehead. “I—I wanted to make a deal with you.”
“What could I possibly have that you want, m’dear?”
“It’s not exactly for me. I can get you a meeting with my dad, but only on the condition that you’ll meet with my friend and his parents.”
There was a silence. Then: “Your friend, is he a potential client?”
“Yes. And he doesn’t have a lot of money, but what he has to say is really, really important. I want you to listen to him, to really consider his case. That’s all I’m asking.”
“And what if your father refuses to talk to me?”
I shrugged, which was stupid considering Preston couldn’t see me. “I can get him to come to you. It’s your job to hold his interest.”
After a minute, when I was sure he was going to hang up on me, Preston laughed. Loud and hearty, as if we were old friends shooting the shit. “All right. You’ve got my attention, Miss Grayson. I will meet with your friend and his parents. Have them come by my office next Thursday at eleven a.m. sharp. And in turn, I expect to have a meeting with your father the day after that. Shall we say noon? You can specify the place.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I hung up, grinning, and absentmindedly palpated my drained abscesses. I got Jack an a
ppointment with Noah Preston. I still didn’t know that he’d take on the case, but he had to, right? No one could turn Jack away after meeting him and seeing how badly off he was.
After a moment, I realized my skin didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had been. I walked to my vanity, pulled down my shirt, and peeled back a bandage. The area was almost completely healed. I hadn’t injected myself in… a week or more. I hadn’t even been obsessing about it like I usually did, hands shaking with need for the needle. I shook my head at my reflection. What was happening to me?
Maybe some questions were best left unanswered. I took a deep breath, sat back down at my computer, and pulled up my email. I had one more thing to do.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Hey. Have something to tell you. Can I come over?
A minute passed, then two. I went to the bathroom to get dressed. When I came back, Drew still hadn’t answered.
Hello?
Still nothing. I called him, but it turned over to voice mail.
“Hey, it’s me… Saylor. Um, I was wondering if I could come over to hang out. I have something fairly awesome to tell you. Call me.”
I tried to remember if he’d mentioned having something to do today, but I couldn’t think of anything. Besides, something poked and prodded at the back of my mind, like a tongue with a sore tooth. This wasn’t like Drew. He wasn’t the kind to not answer texts or voice mails. If he was busy, he’d text me back and tell me that. This silence… something was wrong with it.
My brain began throwing visions at me. Drew on the floor, helpless, fallen, injured. Drew outside in the ice with a broken leg and no one to help him, slowly succumbing to the deep sleep of hypothermia.
I grabbed my car keys and phone and ran down the stairs.
* * *
I knew driving like a maniac wasn’t the smartest thing to do on icy roads, but I couldn’t help it. Every minute I wasn’t there was a minute longer Drew wasn’t getting help. My brain had picked over the images so much that I was convinced I’d find him outside in the snow. I just hoped he wasn’t dead when I got there.