One Last Song

by S. K. Falls

  My eyes scanning the snow and ice, my breathing heavy and ragged, I pulled into his parking space. He wasn’t outside as far as I could see. I turned off the car and ran to his door, slipping and sliding as I went. How had I never realized how horribly difficult the streets were to navigate in the winter, unless you were completely healthy and sure on your feet? I rang his doorbell, and while it dinged, I began to knock on his door.

  “Drew,” I said loudly, checking my cell phone with one hand to make sure he hadn’t texted me back. “It’s Saylor. Open the door, please.”

  I could hear sounds through the door, muted and muffled. I pressed my ear against it and realized it was Carousel Mayhem.

  There was a soft click, and I watched the doorknob twist, the door open a crack. Drew stood in front of me, his plaid shirt rumpled, leaning heavily on his cane. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. He frowned when he saw me, as if the light and my face combined were too much for him to take in.

  “Saylor?”

  “Yeah. I tried texting you. And calling you.” I held up my cell phone like evidence. “Can I come in?”

  Drew rubbed a hand up and down his face, as if he was trying to wake up. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He stood to the side so I could enter.

  The sounds of Carousel Mayhem got louder when I walked into his living room. There was a trail of CD cases arranged in a straight line in the center of the room. On the coffee table were two empty forty-ounce beer cans on their sides, a shot glass, and an open, half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. Drew sank down on the floor next to the table and poured himself another shot. He held it up to me in a sort of salute and downed it in one go.

  I sat on the floor next to him and crossed my legs. Passing my cell phone from one hand to the other, I said, “Shitty day so far?”

  Drew looked up toward the ceiling, like he was thinking. “When I fell on my face trying to walk out of your hospital room and the nurse told me I needed a chair, I knew I needed to call my doctor. I finally got up the nerve to do it today, and guess what? He says it might just be time.” He looked at me, his eyes bright and hard. “A fucking chair.” He poured himself another shot and downed it.

  I watched his beautiful throat as it spasmed while the liquor went down. “Can I have one?”

  He handed me the bottle and closed his eyes to listen to the music, his torso swaying slightly.

  I did a shot and shuddered from the awful taste. But then the warmth began to spread deep in the pit of my stomach, like a sunbaked ocean wave washing over me. I pointed to the CD cases. “What’re those for?”

  Drew glanced in the direction I was pointing. “My own balance and coordination testing center. I failed.”

  I could imagine it: Drew trying to walk without stumbling, using the CD cases as his guide. His big feet tangling, his deceptively muscular legs buckling under his weight, refusing to bend to his will. I saw him fall in a heap, crawl to the liquor cabinet, try to drown himself in whiskey and sound waves.

  I scooted closer to him and put my arm around his waist. He went rigid for a moment, staring straight ahead. But then he sank down, lowering his head so it rested on my lap. He hugged me to him, as if he wanted to crawl inside me. He began to cry, soft, quiet, defeated sobs.

  I stroked his hair. I said, “I love you.” My heart shattered; my tears fell into his hair.

  We sat there, not speaking, not doing anything but listening to the music. When the CD ended, I put in another and sat back in my spot, pulled his head back onto my lap. He looked like he was falling asleep. I raked a curl off his forehead.

  What was it about pain that made us crave oblivion? We liked to think that we, as a species, were tough, that we could take anything, overpower anything, come out on top every time. But make us face our own individual mortality and we’d lie down and weep, curl in on ourselves, fade into empty space. We couldn’t deal.

  I traced the flat, hollowed-out spots where my abscesses used to be. I stuffed myself full of bacteria and disease, trying to outrun myself, my anonymous existence in my own house. I numbed myself with physical pain because the emotional stuff was too messy. I knew that. The shrinks had told me a thousand times. What I didn’t know was how to stop.

  In that way I suppose Drew and I were the same: We were both defective with expired warranties. They couldn’t send us back, couldn’t exchange us for something bright and shiny and new.

  I kissed his forehead, inhaling the soft warm scent of boy. His eyelids fluttered open, then fell closed again, a small smile playing on his lips.

  “Don’t ever leave,” he said.

  “I won’t,” I answered, closing my eyes and lying back against the couch to join him wherever he was.

  * * *

  When we finally woke up, Drew holding his head and wincing, it was pitch-black inside the house. I cracked the blinds and looked outside at the billowing gray snow clouds, like the undersides of enormous doves flying overhead.

  “It’s four o’clock in the afternoon,” Drew said, behind me, staring at his cell phone screen. “Did we really sleep five hours?”

  “I think we did.” My voice was husky, my brain foggy. “That’s the best nap I’ve ever had.”

  Drew smiled at me and held out one hand; the other held his phone to his ear. I put my hand in his and he pulled me down to his lap. I could hear my voice on his voice mail—the message I’d left before.

  “What’s this something ‘fairly awesome’ you have to tell me?” he asked, kissing the back of my head.

  “Oh,” I said, smiling at the memory. “I almost forgot! You’re never going to believe this, but…” I turned around, straddling him so we were face-to-face. “I got Jack and his parents a meeting with Noah Preston.”

  Apparently distracted by the fact that I was straddling him, Drew leaned forward and kissed me. I was just getting into it when he broke off and looked at me, his face a picture of disbelief. “Wait. Noah Preston the attorney?”

  I grinned, loving his “no way” face. “The very one.”

  “How? I mean, but he’s—how?”

  “Let’s just say I have connections.”

  Drew smiled, leaning in to kiss me again. “I love your connections.”

  * * *

  We were lying tangled up in each other on the floor, when Drew’s cell phone rang. He sat up and answered it while I traced circles around the small constellation of beauty spots on his perfect back.

  “Yeah, this is him.” A pause. “Oh. Yes. He did tell me. Uh huh. Next Thursday at nine?… That’s faster than I’d expected.” Another pause while he listened. “No, that’s okay. I can make it. Thank you.” He hung up and set the phone on his knee, staring straight ahead.

  I sat up, kissed his shoulder. “You okay?”

  “That was the physical therapist my doctor referred me to,” he said. “She wants me to go in Thursday, get fitted for a chair.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I said.

  He remained staring straight ahead. “No. I want to go alone.”

  “But—”

  “Please.” There was a tiny tremble in his voice that cut at me. “I just can’t have you there when I’m going through that. Okay?”

  I hated myself so much in that moment. I wanted to flay myself open right then and there so he could see just how putrid I was on the inside, how marred and ugly and infected. I wanted him to know that he had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, that there were some people in this world riddled with scars of their own choosing.

  But instead, I said, “Okay.”

  And I held him.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Eight days later—Thursday—I woke up to a deep rumbling. In my sleep-drugged state, I had a weird waking dream that it was Drew. He was trying to walk up my driveway, but fell over in a heap and couldn’t stand. So he began to army crawl up to me, his breath coming out in panting rumbles. Behind me, my mother laughed.

  I woke up with a start and realized that the sound was coming from outside.
I hurried out into the hallway to look out through the bay window to the driveway. Mum was getting into a taxi van. Drunk-driving school.

  As my brain caught up with the rest of my body, I realized that today was a big day. Drew had his physical therapist appointment at nine, and Jack was meeting with Noah Preston at eleven. I had the whole morning stretched out before me, with nothing to do. I’d asked the hospital to move my “volunteer shifts” to the days with the TIDD group. And while they thought I was down there, giving generously of my time, I sat in with Drew and the others and shared what it was like living with “MS.” But I didn’t want to think about that.

  As Mum’s van drove off, I noticed an advertisement on the back windshield. After a moment’s pause, I texted Zee.

  Can I come over in an hour?

  She answered a few minutes later.

  Sure. Couch-surfing all day.

  After a shower and a peek at the pitted skin on my chest, I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. The drive to Zee’s was quicker than I would’ve liked, and as I got closer, I felt my stomach begin to spasm with nerves. What the hell was I doing? I barely knew this girl. What if she was incredibly offended by what I was planning? But there was nothing I could do about it now.

  I pulled into the driveway and saw Lenore there, shoveling snow. She waved one mittened hand.

  “Zee’s waiting for you inside,” she said. “She’ll be glad for the company.”

  “Great.” I stopped and lingered. “Um, do you want some help with that?”

  “Oh no, no. You go on in where it’s warm. Rest.”

  Right. Rest. Because she thought I was sick. I nodded and went inside, guilt settling like drizzle on my skin.

  Zee was on the couch, her skin pale as she watched TV. She had on her red pigtails today, and she looked like a strange, overgrown child. Her eyes looked abnormally huge, staring out from her gaunt face. She smiled, but it was a token gesture, devoid of real feeling. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I took off my jacket and went to sit beside her. “How are you feeling?”

  She stared at me a long moment before she said, “Wow, I must look like old, moldy shit. You never ask that.”

  Pulling off my gloves, I said, “What? Sure I do.”

  But she was already shaking her head. “No, you don’t, actually. I’ve always liked that about you. You don’t come with this ‘aw, poor cancer patient’ look on your face. You ask me what I’m doing or whatever, but you never comment on the big bad cancer wolf.” She paused, chewing on the inside of her lip. “I don’t feel as sick around you as I do around others—even Drew.”

  I thought about the incredible irony of her statement. Me, someone who strove to be as sick as I could be without actually crossing the line into death, making someone who was, in fact, at death’s door, feel less sick. If there was a god, I was inclined to think he was one twisted dude.

  “Good to know.” I looked around the living room, only to break eye contact with her. “So, what’s on the docket for today?”

  “You’re looking at it.” She gestured to the untouched breakfast tray that Lenore had undoubtedly optimistically set up for her. “But that’s not all. In about an hour, I get to have an enema! I haven’t pooped in about three weeks. Exciting, huh?” She waggled her eyebrows at me.

  “Um, yeah. Totally. But if you, you know, want to put that enema on hold, I have something in mind we could do today.” My heart began to bound, and I was amazed at how ridiculously nervous I was again. It wasn’t just that she might be offended, if I was being honest with myself. It was that I really, genuinely wanted her to like my idea. And, by extension, I wanted her to like me. To think of me as a friend. Realizing that made me feel sicker with anticipation.

  Zee cocked her head at me, one pigtail flopping past her shoulder. “Really? You’ve piqued my interest, Saylor Grayson. Let me throw on a pair of sweats, and you can take me on this grand adventure.”

  * * *

  We pulled up in front of Wigs and Twigs about forty minutes later. The boutique was tucked away in the northwest corner of Ridgeland, so I’d never been to the area before. We stood outside the storefront, looking at the window displays. There were wigs of every color and style and length, displayed on creepy mannequin heads. The heads were set on faux bird’s nests made of twigs. Some of the wigs had a crown of twigs, too.

  “This is… interesting,” Zee said, stepping closer to look at a green Mohawk-style wig.

  “We can go someplace else. I just… I saw the advertisement, and they looked like they were this chic, hip place. But this…” I gestured at the display and shook my head, at a loss for words.

  “No way! We’re totally going in.” When I hesitated, Zee came over to me, grabbed my hand, and dragged me in.

  There were more twigs inside. There were bird nests everywhere, too, with what I hoped were fake robin’s eggs inside them. Racks and racks of mannequin heads lined the walls of the small store.

  “Wow,” Zee breathed. “This is cool. My mom makes me order my wigs from a discount store catalog.” She glanced sideways at me. “That’s all we can afford, and it’s totally fine. But this is pretty wild.”

  I smiled. “It’s on me. Pick out whatever you want.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” The wide-eyed wonder gone, Zee looked uncomfortable. Her face was vaguely pink. “Really.”

  “I want to. Come on. MS doesn’t come with any excuses for a cool shopping trip like this.”

  After a pause where I thought I’d really offended her, she laughed. “Okay, fine. Then I’m only doing this for you.”

  “Understood,” I said solemnly. “And thank you for letting me live vicariously through you.”

  A sales clerk came up to us, her hair—or wig—a giant Marge Simpson–esque beehive. She wore retro cat’s eye glasses and smiled at us. “Welcome to Wigs and Twigs, girls. What are we shopping for today?”

  Zee turned in a small circle, ogling all of the wigs. “A bit of everything, I think.”

  * * *

  I’d never been on a shopping trip with a girlfriend. It would be kind of a hard thing to pull off, when my idea of a fun shopping trip consisted of going to medical supply stores to check out the latest in tools that could make me sicker quicker. But now, seeing Zee try on all the different, outrageous wigs, begging me to take her picture every other second, I could sort of see what I’d missed out on.

  It wasn’t really about the shopping so much as it was about watching your friend find something new. It was about watching her turn to you with happiness in her eyes because she believed she’d finally found the one thing that would make her beautiful. You wanted that for her because you desperately wanted her to see what you’d seen all along: that she was already beautiful. But if the right dress or shoes or wig was what it took for her to see it, then that was totally okay with you, too.

  Zee ended up picking two wigs, but I threw in another three for her. I paid with a credit card my parents had given me to use at college and had forgotten to take back, and we made our way back outside. It was beginning to snow again. We were climbing into the car when Zee rushed over to my side.

  I frowned. “Are you o—”

  She cut me off by grabbing and hugging me, squeezing me as tightly as her thin arms would let her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered in my ear.

  I nodded, my throat tight.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I drove home after I dropped Zee off. In the silence, I reached automatically for the syringe in my hoodie pocket. My skin was healing. It was clean now—too clean. But as my hand closed around the syringe’s slim middle, I felt an unsettling twinge, an almost physical discomfort like a twisting muscle cramp.

  Strange.

  I reached for my cell phone instead and the cramp eased.

  When I pulled into my driveway, I began checking my cell phone for text messages. It was noon. I’d kept my eye on my cell the entire time I was with Zee because I didn’t know how lon
g Drew’s physical therapist appointment would take. Apart from one missed phone call and voice mail from Dr. Stone, my phone was silent.

  My hand sweated slightly as I brought the phone up to my ear to listen to what he had to say. I’d skipped my appointment with him this morning, not really willing to delve deeper into my mother’s subconscious—or mine, for that matter.

  In spite of my reluctance, I genuinely liked Dr. Stone. He seemed like a respectable enough guy, not all new-agey and full of bullshit like some of the others I’d seen. If nothing else, he’d introduced me to something I’d never had before: friendships I cared about and the opportunity to be a member of the most elite of populations. But this new life, this new identity I had when I was with Drew and the others was too precious for me to ruin it by confessing everything to Dr. Stone. I knew there would come a time when I’d have to step back and be honest. No secret could go on indefinitely. But the time didn’t feel right just yet. Not yet.

  “Hello Saylor, this is Dr. Stone. We had an appointment this morning and it seems you’ve missed it. I’d very much like to reschedule. Could you please give me a call back? I look forward to connecting with you soon.”

  That wasn’t so bad. “Connecting with you soon” didn’t sound too ominous. I set my phone down, pushed the button on the garage opener and glanced up in time to see Drew, sitting on my front porch steps. I stopped the car and got out, my heart pounding, a mixture of joy and anxiety coating the inside of my throat.

  “Hey,” I said, forcing myself not to ask the question I most wanted to ask. “I didn’t know you were coming over. Have you been waiting long?”

  “Nah, just a few minutes.” He got up but remained leaning against the pillar, as if he didn’t trust himself to walk down the icy brick steps to me.

  I stepped up and kissed him on the lips. “Come in.”

  When we walked inside, Drew whistled. “I know I’ve seen it before, but man, your house is nice. It’s really noticeable after you’ve spent some time in my apartment.”