Phantom Limbs

by Paula Garner

  And that’s when I spotted a familiar figure, standing apart from the crowd, watching me. I thought I was seeing things. Meg? What was she doing here? How had she even gotten here?

  Dara turned to see what I was looking at. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. What’s she doing here?”

  “I didn’t know she was coming,” I said, my gaze locked on Meg. She looked like she’d been smiling a moment before, but it had faded.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I told Dara, already walking away.

  “Don’t you dare let her fuck up this meet for you.”

  I made my way to Meg, pulling off my cap and weaving my way through the crowd. “Hey!” I stopped in front of her, squinting. “What are you doing here?”

  “You invited me — remember?”

  I scratched my head. “Oh, right. That was a long time ago.” My hair felt like a tangle of wet steel wool. I tried to run my fingers through it, but it was hopeless.

  She looked worried. “Is it okay that I came?”

  “Yeah! Of course.” I guided her back a few feet from the pool — we were in the way of some girls who were cheering for a teammate at the pool’s edge. “I just — I didn’t expect to see you here. How did you get here?”

  She smiled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I asked my dad to drive me to your meet without fully disclosing the location until we were in the car.”

  I laughed.

  “I am seriously down in the polls with him. He’s hoping I’ll get a ride home with you.”

  Oh boy. Dara would not be happy with that arrangement. Unless she was so happy about the Abby thing, she maybe didn’t even care. “We’ll figure it out,” I said.

  She gazed at me, her eyes lit by the sun. “You were amazing.” She shook her head. “Watching you swim just slays me.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “It slays you?”

  She blushed. “You’re like a different person when you swim. You look like such a man.”

  I grinned. I might not act like a man or kiss like a man, but apparently I looked like one.

  I didn’t think I was imagining the sweep of Meg’s eyes over me. All over me. I’m pretty sure my heart actually stopped for a few seconds before it started back up in double time. After all, I was in a Speedo and that’s all. This thought almost never occurred to me. Only in Meg’s presence was I conscious of the fact that I was practically naked.

  “I guess I’ll get to see you swimming a lot in Michigan,” she said.

  “Right.” I nodded. “And your boyfriend, too!” Obviously I just couldn’t help myself.

  Her eyes widened for a moment. “Right. Apparently.”

  “That’s a nice gift. I guess.”

  “Ha.” Her expression suggested she didn’t think it was a nice gift at all, which gave me a moment’s hope, but then she said, “My mom has an agenda.” She ran her hand up the back of her neck and lifted her hair for a moment. The heat was brutal. “I’m sure she’s just trying to remind me of what I’d be leaving behind if I move back to Chicago.”

  “Oh.” It was hard to imagine her mom being that manipulative. But if she had a drinking problem . . . I guess that changes people. “What year is he, anyway?”

  “He’ll be a senior.”

  Fuck. I’d hoped he’d just graduated. Maybe heading off to college in New England. Or actual England. Or maybe Siberia. “Well, I hope he likes Silver Lake. It’ll be different having him there — not exactly like old times, huh?”

  She held my gaze. “It’ll never be like old times, Otis.”

  Fuck me. “Well, gotta go,” I said loudly, taking a step backward. “I have an event coming up.”

  “The two hundred IM?” she asked, holding up a heat sheet. There were ink circles on it; she’d found my name and marked my events.

  “Yup,” I said, walking away. Not my best event, the IM, since I sucked at fly. My fly looked like a robot with epilepsy.

  It wasn’t a great swim, but no surprise there. I came out at about the same time as usual. My hundred breast was much better — good enough to place in the top five.

  One event left: the medley relay at the end, which we stood a good chance of winning. Heinz and Shafer were pretty damn fast, and D’Amico was epic — a state-qualifying backstroker for two years.

  I stood with the guys while we waited, drinking water and sucking on sliced oranges, trying to stay cool when we weren’t in the water. We still had a good ten minutes before our relay, so I wandered over to Meg.

  “Hey, congratulations,” she called out, jumping up from her chair. She tipped her sunglasses back on her head and ran to meet me. To my surprise, she hugged me. Heat radiated from her, and she was damp with sweat. “Oh my God, your breaststroke is so fast!”

  I couldn’t help beaming like an idiot when she pulled away and smiled at me. She picked up the hem of her shirt and waved it a little, trying to cool herself. “It’s so hot. I had forgotten how psychotic Chicago weather is.”

  “It’s actually supposed to rain later,” I said, squinting to the west. “You should go inside when you can, cool off a little. Are you drinking enough water? You have sunscreen on?”

  She didn’t answer, but she looked at me with an expression that resonated with something in the recesses of my memory. Finally, I placed it: it was the same expression she’d had that time she’d gotten lost in the hallways and I’d taken her to the classroom. Just like then, I wasn’t sure what was behind that expression in her eyes. Also just like then, it stirred up feelings in me.

  Abby appeared out of nowhere, panting. “Otis! It’s Dara.”

  I heard her before I saw her — a high-pitched scream. I turned and scanned the place. She was curled up on the ground by the girls’ team, clutching her arm.

  I had never heard that kind of sound from Dara. Not ever. If Dara couldn’t stop herself from screaming, from drawing attention like this in a public place . . . I couldn’t even imagine how bad it must be.

  Meg clapped her hands over her ears, her face going white. Oh, shit — the screaming.

  “Come on!” Abby pulled me by the arm.

  I couldn’t attend to both of them. With an apologetic glance at Meg, I took off after Abby.

  When I reached Dara, a crowd was gathering — the thing she hated most. I pushed through and knelt on the concrete beside her. Between the bruises and the bandages and the agony on her face, she was a heartbreaking sight.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” I gathered her up in my arms and stood. She jerked and twisted. “I’ll take you to the parking lot. We’ll do the hand thing.”

  “The box,” she managed to get out.

  The box? I hesitated. The box was at least forty-five minutes away. I still had the relay. But she knew that.

  “Let’s try the hand thing first,” I said. “I still have the medley relay.”

  “Box,” she repeated, louder.

  If she was asking me to miss the relay, things must be dire. “Okay.” But it wasn’t really okay. I wished it were an individual event and not a relay, because I was costing the guys the race.

  As I turned to head out, my eyes lit on a single face: Meg’s. She was watching us, her lips moving. She stood plucking that hair rubber band that always seemed to be on her wrist.

  Oh Jesus. I was supposed to get her home, too.

  Abby appeared and stroked Dara’s head. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’ll be okay.” She turned to me. “I have a relay! Otherwise I’d come.” Then she mouthed, You have a relay, too.

  I glanced around and caught Meg’s eye. I gestured her over with my head.

  Dara twisted in my arms, eyes shut tight, and let out another shrill cry. Meg approached, hands hovering by her ears.

  “Can you get my stuff from Shafer and bring it to us in the parking lot?” I asked Meg. “I need to drive Dara home. I’m sorry — I think you have to find another ride.”

  “I can give her a ride,” Abby said, nodding at Meg.

  Meg looked at Dara for
a moment, then shook her head. She looked at me. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Christ,” Dara said tightly, twisting her head to glare at Meg. “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” Meg said, looking not at all sure that was a good idea. It probably wasn’t. It probably very much wasn’t. “I can help,” she said, nodding as if trying to convince me, or maybe herself. I certainly wasn’t convinced. What if Dara screamed all the way home? What then?

  “I’ll get your stuff and meet you in the parking lot,” Meg said, backing away and then breaking into a jog on her way to find Shafer.

  Abby handed me Dara’s bag. She stepped close to Dara and stroked her head one last time, saying, “I’ll come see you after the meet, okay? Hang in there, sweetie.”

  I pushed out of there as fast as I could, the asphalt of the parking lot burning my feet. Dara was crying now, occasionally spitting the word “fuck” out. Honestly, to me, her crying was almost worse than the screaming. This was such a bullshit way to live. I couldn’t believe nobody could figure out how to cure phantom limb pain.

  The interior of the Stupidmobile was a sauna. I started the engine and got the AC blasting, leaving Dara sitting in the passenger seat with the door open. I walked around to her side and squatted by the open door.

  She reached out a clammy arm to hold on to me, a slightly sour smell emanating from her. She buried her face in my shoulder. “This fucking sucks.”

  “I know. We’ll get you home to the box.”

  I glanced up. Meg was headed our way, wilted and stressed, her arms full of things.

  I whispered to Dara, “Okay, let’s go.” But she clung to me. “Come on,” I prompted her gently, trying to extricate myself. “Here comes Meg.” When Dara finally released me, I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact with Meg, who stood by the car. She held out my bag to me.

  I took my clothes and flip-flops out of my bag and pulled them on, then tossed the bag into the backseat.

  “I want the back,” Dara said, crawling in back and moving my bag to the floor. She curled up on her side, holding her stump.

  I waited for Meg to climb in the passenger seat. She bit her lip, then opened the other back door and climbed in next to Dara.

  “What the fuck?” Dara said.

  Ignoring her, Meg opened her bag and pulled out a towel and a bottle of water.

  I still stood outside the car, staring in. Towel in hand, Meg scooted closer to Dara and dabbed her face. “Your bandage is coming loose,” she said softly, leaning over and pressing the edges lightly. Dara eyed Meg suspiciously, but she didn’t stop her. Meg opened the bottle of water and held it out to Dara.

  Dara was lying on her arm, so she had to shift and sit up a little. She took several long swallows. “God, that’s good,” she muttered, wiping her mouth with her forearm. “So cold.”

  I sat in the front seat but turned to look at Meg. “Where’d you get cold water?” There hadn’t been time for her to go inside to the vending machines.

  “From a cooler.”

  I bit back a smile. “Whose cooler?”

  “I didn’t stop to get names, Otis.”

  “You steal the towel, too?”

  “‘Steal’ is a harsh word. I gathered supplies.”

  I glanced at Dara, who I knew was impressed but trying not to show it. She handed the water bottle back to Meg and lay back down.

  I set my phone to navigate home, since I wasn’t sure I knew the way. Then I started the car and pulled out.

  Dara was sniffling in the backseat, and I knew how much it must be killing her to cry in front of Meg. It was going to be a long ride.

  “Sit up,” I heard Meg say. When Dara didn’t respond, Meg repeated, “Come on, sit up.”

  What was she doing?

  There was a rustling and then a small click. I glanced back, but I was going to crash this beautiful piece of machinery and possibly kill us all if I kept staring into the backseat.

  I heard Dara ask softly, “How did you know?”

  Meg responded, “Otis.”

  I heard some more movement and murmuring, and then things grew quiet. When I came to a red light, I looked back. Meg sat close to Dara, and Dara stared at something, calming down.

  Meg held a mirror steady as Dara opened and closed her hand next to it, watching.

  Meg.

  God, she gave me such an ache. She said I didn’t know her anymore, but that was bullshit. She hadn’t changed as much as she thought. This was Meg to the marrow. She had always understood what was important — had always been able to put other people before herself.

  A horn startled me. The light was green.

  We drove back to town in silence, save for the navigation lady who piped up with directions. Occasionally, Meg repeated after her softly, in the damnedest exact same voice. After a while Dara fell asleep.

  When we got to Dara’s house, Dara leaned on me as we went up the long walkway, Meg following behind.

  “Four-seven-six-three,” Dara mumbled, and I pressed the code onto the panel and went inside.

  “Pills.” Dara waved her arm toward the kitchen.

  Meg and I exchanged a look, but we went into the kitchen. Dara swallowed a couple of pills from a prescription bottle with a glass of water that was already sitting on the counter.

  “I’m so tired.” She slumped over onto the counter, her head resting on her forearm.

  “Come on,” I said softly, herding her toward the stairs. Meg followed behind.

  “Do you want the box?” I asked Dara.

  She shook her head. “It’s not so bad now. I just want to sleep.”

  “Want me to close the curtains?” Meg asked. When Dara nodded, Meg pulled the curtains closed, then came around the bed to stand next to me.

  “The dosage was one,” Meg whispered. “I looked at the bottle. One capsule.”

  I let out a sigh. I mean, what was I going to do about it?

  Dara seemed three-quarters asleep already, but she looked up at me. “Don’t turn off —”

  The bathroom light. “I won’t.”

  She closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed and became regular, and soon she was all the way asleep.

  THE BANK OF WINDOWS IN THE LIVING room was a study in gray: the sun had vanished and the sky grew ever darker. Meg sank onto the sofa — butter-soft leather, of asymmetrical design. It probably cost more than both my parents’ cars put together. I sat in a nearby chair, having no idea what range of proximity would be welcome or appropriate.

  “What if she calls out or something?” Meg said. “We need a baby monitor.” As soon as the words were out, her hand went to her mouth, and then she dropped her face into her hands.

  No. Not this. “I’ll check on her in a while,” I said, craning my head to look toward the stairs. “She’ll probably sleep hard.” I whipped my head in the opposite direction and stared out the window at the deepening gray. Anywhere but at Meg. Anything but this. Why did it always come back to this?

  The fact was, I didn’t know the exact details of Mason’s death. All I knew was that at 1:30 he was in Meg’s room, supposedly going down for a nap, and at 2:00, as I tore through our basement looking for a video game, sirens were screaming, emergency vehicles piling up on our street. I went to the front door to see what was going on. Meg’s dad stumbled over, white-faced. He intercepted me before I could go outside. I don’t remember what he said. He steered me back inside and sat with me in my basement. We watched old episodes of SpongeBob. One of them was the one with jelly-fishing. That I remember. I must have been worried. I had to have been. But I can’t remember what I knew, what I was thinking or feeling. I remember getting caught up in SpongeBob after a while — I remember laughing at it. I laughed, and I looked at Mr. Brandt, wanting him to laugh, too. But of course he didn’t. And to this day, I think, How could I have laughed? How the fuck could I have been laughing? Even now, I cannot bear the sight or sound of SpongeBob.

  Unfortunately, I also can’t forget the look on my mothe
r’s face when they got home. If I live to be a thousand, I hope I never see that look again. She sank to her knees in front of me, her face pressed against my legs. It was weird. Embarrassing. Terrible, barking noises came out of her; in another context, the sounds might have been comical. My dad stood limply in the middle of the room, a faraway look in his eyes. Like he wasn’t really there. Just his body.

  We kept a baby monitor at the Brandts’ around that time, since we sometimes stayed there past Mason’s bedtime and let him go to sleep in Meg’s bed. Maybe, if the monitor had been on, they would have heard the signs of trouble. Maybe, if it had been on, Mason would still be alive. I could only guess that’s what Meg was thinking.

  There was much I was spared. I know that he choked to death. That was all I knew. I didn’t ask anything. I didn’t want to be left with images, questions, ammunition for assigning blame. He was gone and he was never coming back. Nothing else mattered.

  But the truth would always be this: I wasn’t there when Mason died. But Meg was.

  I stood up and went to the window. The trees leaned hard with the wind, as if they were trying to pull free. “Did your dad really get transferred back to California?” I said.

  I tracked her approach: The sticky sound of the leather releasing her legs as she stood. Her footfalls, light like always. Her hands on my shoulders, her forehead pressed against my upper back.

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  My mind reeled. I was losing my sense of time and place. She couldn’t possibly be telling me that they left because she wanted to? That she lied to me when she told me it was because of her dad. Maybe they had all lied to me, including my parents.

  Outside, the wind picked up, the sky a deep gray-green. The color of my mother’s eyes.

  I pulled away from Meg and walked out the front door. On the porch I watched the low, dark clouds rolling in. The wind smelled of rain and ozone, of summer memories from my childhood, happy times from another life.

  Meg came up behind me again as the first drops plunked down. I could feel her there.

  She put her hands on my arms and turned me around to face her. She took one of my hands and held it in both of hers, clutching it to her chest. Her hair whipped in the wind, strands crossing over her face. “I’m sorry.” She blinked as her eyes filled. “I couldn’t tell you the truth, because it would mean telling you what happened.”