by Paula Garner
“I don’t want to know!” I said, pulling my hand away and turning my back to her, afraid of what she might say.
“You never wanted to know!” she shouted. “But did it ever occur to you that maybe I needed you to know?”
The rain seemed to increase relative to Meg’s emotional pitch. It flattened the little pink flowers that encircled the base of the big oak tree.
I stepped off the porch and onto the grass, letting the rain soak me. Again, Meg was right there. She moved in front of me, pulling on my shirt, pleading. “I kept seeing him, Otis. I couldn’t make it go away. I had nightmares. I started sleeping with my mom! I missed school all the time — do you remember? Did you notice? I lost weight. You didn’t even notice!”
The rain washed the mascara off her lashes, charcoal rivulets running down her face.
I tried to remember details from those awful months — to remember Meg specifically — but I couldn’t. I barely remembered going to school myself, apart from the agony of having to bear up to people’s nervous glances — and my teachers’ soft words, their offers of support and leniency. They didn’t seem to understand that talking to me about it was the worst thing they could do. Their kindness was unbearable. I just wanted to be left alone. As for Meg . . . All I remembered was that she was there, by my side, through it all. Until she wasn’t.
“Your parents stopped talking to my mom and dad.” She was shivering, her teeth chattering. “Your mom . . .” Her face crumpled. “I begged my parents to move.” She wiped water and tears off her cheek.
She talked about her dad’s boss agreeing to a temporary transfer, but I wasn’t really listening anymore. I felt strangely calm, blank. Somewhere inside, a storm was brewing. But I couldn’t face it. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“I have to check on Dara,” I said, backing away from her.
“I told you, Otis!” she cried, her voice breaking. “I told you you wouldn’t like me anymore! This whole thing was a terrible idea. I could never come back here.”
“Come inside,” I said firmly, loudly, over the rain.
She followed me, choking back sobs. We were soaking wet and the air-conditioning in Dara’s house was set to “tundra.” I grabbed a towel from the kitchen and handed it to Meg, then turned and went upstairs.
Dara was still asleep. She had pulled off her shirt; it lay on the floor beside the bed. Bruises covered her chest and ribs — awful, purple bruises in places, others fading to yellow and green. Her tiny bra was tugged slightly to one side, exposing one of her nipples. I pulled the sheet up to cover her. Her face was so relaxed, her expression serene. At that moment, I almost would have traded places with her.
I sat down on the floor by her bed, pushing away thoughts of the things Meg had just said. I picked up Dara’s mirror box. It was heavy, a fairly crude construction of unfinished wood — pine, maybe. I put my right hand in. Two hands, ta-da. I twisted and turned my hand, watching its twin obediently copy every motion. What was the source of this magic? What mysteries of the human brain does a mirror reveal?
I set the box aside and lowered my head into my hands, unable to fight the onslaught of information, of thoughts.
Meg was right. I didn’t remember her missing school. I didn’t notice she lost weight. My grief was a river that drowned me, a black hole that sucked me in, a fire that devoured me. I was consumed with losing my brother; I didn’t think about Meg’s loss — Meg, who loved Mason with all her heart. Meg, who had to live in the place where he took his last breath. Where one of them found his body. Was it Meg? I hadn’t asked, because I didn’t want to know. I still didn’t want to know.
No wonder she wanted to leave, no wonder she never talked to me again. When I went through the hardest time of my life, she was there for me, as constant and strong as she could be. But she was also going through the hardest time of her life. And I was blind.
And I finally saw the truth of it: It wasn’t that Meg wasn’t there when I needed her most. It was that I wasn’t there when she needed me most.
“Hey.”
I looked up. Dara watched me with one groggy eye.
“What’s wrong?” she asked drowsily.
I shook my head.
“Don’t cry, Mueller.” She rolled toward me so she could reach me with her full arm. She tried to pat me but managed only to jab her thumb into my ear.
There was a rap on the door. Abby peered in, looking worried. “Can I come in?”
I quickly wiped my eyes.
Abby raised her eyebrows at me, a question. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Dara’s been sleeping.”
She hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to pursue a line of questioning. “Meg’s downstairs.” She glanced at me. “Also crying.”
“Were they mad?” I asked, sitting up a little. “About the relay?”
Her eyes flicked over to Dara. “They understood.”
But I could tell that she was downplaying it. For Dara’s sake.
She sat next to Dara on the bed. “Your bandage is coming off.” She leaned in and peeked under it. “Oh, honey,” she said, wincing at the stitches. She gently replaced the bandage and sat back, taking Dara’s hand.
Dara gazed up at Abby. “Thanks for being nice to me,” she said softly. It was an eerie, kind of beautiful moment — Dara devoid of defenses. Just feeling. Just being.
“You don’t have to thank me, silly,” Abby responded. Their eye-lock made me feel like I should make my exit. I stood up quietly, but Dara turned to me.
“Hey. Thanks.”
I picked up her mirror box, turning it over in my hands. “You know, we should devise a portable mirror box — something you could carry with you at college. I think I might be able to figure out how to build one.”
She pulled her hand from Abby’s and rolled away, pressing her face into her pillow.
“Dara?” I stepped closer, trying to see her face.
“You might as well both know,” Dara said into her pillow. “I’m not going to college.”
Abby and I exchanged glances.
“What do I want to go to college for?” She turned back over and faced us. “I won’t have any friends, I don’t want to take classes, and I’d suck at college swimming. They’d only let me on the team for the PR. Or out of pity.”
“You’re just nervous,” Abby said, leaning in and smiling. “So am I! It’s normal. Cut yourself some slack —”
“I never even applied!” Dara yelled, startling Abby.
I stared at her. “You never applied? But — what about Grinnell?”
She closed her eyes, her forehead creasing. “Everyone was always asking. . . . It’s all anyone could talk about this last year. I just . . . I’m sorry. I was gonna tell you. . . .”
Abby stared uneasily at a spot on the floor. Dara turned to me nervously, waiting for a reaction.
“Well,” I finally said, “what are you going to do?”
“I just want to keep training you.”
No. No way. But how could I tell her now that I wanted out? I couldn’t. Not in front of Abby, not after the day Dara’d had. But there was no way I was going to be her full-time job. That was fucked up.
“I guess you both hate me,” Dara finally said, staring down at the sheets.
“I don’t hate you,” I said. “I’m just worried about you.”
“Me, too,” Abby said.
“Well, don’t be,” Dara said.
I glanced at Abby. “Could you give us a minute?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t want to talk about college,” Dara said, after the door had closed.
“You lied to me.” I shook my head at her. “Jesus, Dara.”
“I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t know how to tell you.” She looked away. “Could we just . . . Could we not do this right now?”
I sighed and set her mirror box down on her dresser. “We have to talk about it at some point.”
“Not today.”
&nbs
p; I knew what not today meant. It meant that she’d avoid it forever if possible. “Fine, not today,” I said. “Are you okay now? I think I’m just gonna go.”
She bit her thumbnail. “I think I might ask Abby to stay.”
I glanced at her with interest, a smile creeping up. “Oh?”
“Shut up,” she said, cracking a smile.
“Where’s your dad?”
“L.A.” She made a face. “Back tomorrow night.”
“He didn’t waste any time, did he?” I grumbled. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you later.”
“Wait,” she whispered. She craned her head toward the door, listening, then pulled down the sheet. “Does this look sexy?” she asked, glancing down at her bra.
I bit back a laugh. “Yes,” I said, nodding. “Yes, it does.”
She grinned and yanked the sheet back up.
“Are you gonna seduce her?” I couldn’t resist asking.
“Pff.” She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t know how to seduce a monkey into eating a banana.”
Ha, that sounded about right. “I’ll send her up.”
She held out her fist.
I reached out a fist, shaking my head. I see her through one of the worst days she’s ever had, and she gives me a fist bump.
When I went downstairs, Meg and Abby were in the living room, talking quietly on the couch.
“She’s asking for you,” I told Abby.
Abby gave Meg a quick hug, then ran up the stairs.
I sank down on a chair across from Meg.
“How’s she doing?” It was hard to meet her eyes, knowing how much pain was behind them.
“Better,” I said.
“Shafer says he’ll come get me,” she said softly. “He’ll take me home.”
“Shafer is a piranha.”
“Well, he’s a piranha with a car.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
Meg bit her lips together, making them disappear. I hoped she wasn’t going to cry again. “I wish I’d never come back.”
“Hey.” I navigated around the coffee table, a giant round puck of what looked like hammered brass, and sank in next to her on the sofa. I touched her shoulder to get her to look at me. Her eyes were bright. “We’re gonna figure this out.”
“How?”
“Somehow.” I sighed. “The thing is, I really don’t want you to go back to California. Unless you really want to.” Please don’t want to.
“Do you really think we can be friends, after all that’s happened?”
I didn’t honestly know what I thought. But what I said was, “Yes.”
Her phone dinged and she glanced down. “Shafer’s here.”
I stood. “I’ll get a ride from him, too.”
“What about Dara?” Meg stood and picked up her purse. She tossed her damp hair behind her shoulders.
“She wants Abby to stay.”
“You know,” Meg said, tilting her head, “I kind of think Dara might be gay.”
“Oh yeah?” I grabbed my swim bag.
“How else could she resist you?”
I laughed. Gay or not gay, I’m pretty sure Dara would always be able to resist me. But I liked the sentiment behind Meg’s theory.
We ran out to Shafer’s car, the rain pouring even more heavily now, my flip-flops splashing through puddles. I opened the passenger-side door for Meg before flinging myself into the backseat.
“Dude.” Shafer leaned back in his seat, glaring at me. “What the fuck about the relay, man?”
“Did you see Dara?” I asked, buckling up.
“Yeah, but —”
“Then kindly shut the fuck up and take me home.”
He did shut up. For about a minute. And then a few blocks later, as we approached the exit of Dara’s subdivision, he mumbled loudly enough to be heard over the rain, “I could have out-split that freestyler in my sleep. And you would have out-split the breaststroker by two seconds at least.”
“I know,” I mumbled. But I also knew that if I had it to do over, I would have done the same thing.
Shafer drove me home first, undoubtedly so he could get Meg alone and try to make some progress. But when he pulled up to my house, Meg’s dad’s car was there, and Meg said she’d just get out at my house and go home with her dad. Unsurprisingly, Shafer sulked. Surprisingly, I wasn’t thrilled. I was running on empty. I needed to be alone. I didn’t have the wherewithal to deal with much of anything. Not even Meg.
Especially Meg.
“Hey, how was the meet?” my dad asked as we came in. Our parents were sitting in the living room drinking wine. “You never answered my texts.”
The swim meet seemed like days ago. Hard to believe it was only hours. “Sorry. It was good,” I said. “I medaled in the hundred breast and had a personal best in the fifty free.”
Everyone exclaimed about how great that was. Frankly, it was the last thing on my mind. It felt stupid, trivial.
“You got caught in the rain?” my mom said. She was looking at Meg funny — whether it was concern or something else, I couldn’t tell. I thought about what Meg said — about how hard it had been for her and her parents, thinking my mother blamed them — and my stomach undulated. “Otis,” my mom said, nodding at Meg, “get Meg a towel and give her something warm to put on. The air conditioner’s running — the poor girl will freeze.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“Thank you,” Meg said, so softly I’m not sure my mom even heard her.
Meg followed me upstairs. I took a towel out of the linen closet and handed it to her, then went into my room and pulled my favorite sweatshirt out of a drawer.
“Thanks,” she said, taking it. Our eyes met for a silent moment before she stepped out to go change in the bathroom. I took the opportunity to put the wet stuff from my swim bag into my hamper and change into a clean shirt.
When she came back in, she said, “I love this sweatshirt.” She draped her damp shirt over the back of my chair. “You might never get it back.” She turned and gave me a smile that made me go melty on the edges, then raised it one by adding, “It smells like you.”
“Is that good?” I asked nervously.
Holding the sleeve to her face, she closed her eyes and inhaled, nodding.
The rain pinged on the roof as the daylight faded in my room. I just wanted to lie down, to close my eyes and rest under the tap dance of the raindrops. Maybe with Meg lying beside me. Maybe curled up close. Maybe with her head on my chest, her hand on me. I wanted to not talk. I wanted to make the past go away, to live in the universe where Meg never left and Mason never died. I wanted to kiss her, to feel her arms around me, to be able to touch her in all the ways I’d thought of a thousand times. I wanted to be happy. Right now “happy” seemed about as likely a place for me to visit as a beach resort on Neptune.
Meg crossed my room and stood by the window. She rubbed at a spot on the windowpane with her sleeve, just as she’d done last time. “Did you write a poem about the magnolia tree?” she asked, gazing out the window.
My eyes widened. How could she know that? I scanned the room — where had I left that thing? “Why?”
She turned around. “That night at Dara’s party, after you left, Kiera asked me if I had a magnolia tree in my yard. She said you wrote a poem about it for English.”
Damn that raven-haired, quick-eyed, poetry-loving witch. “I did,” I said casually. “When it was in bloom. It was pretty inspiring.”
“Did you know the magnolia tree is associated with beauty and perseverance?”
Well, that was perfect. You be the beauty and I’ll be the perseverance.
“Could I read it?”
I picked up a gum wrapper off the floor and tossed it into the trash in an effort to conceal my alarm at the question. “Can I read your poetry?” I asked.
“I don’t have any poetry. I only have a journal.” She slid the window up and a breeze blew into the room, scattering papers across my desk. I gathered them together and s
et a mug of pencils on top of them.
“Okay,” I said, sitting in my desk chair and clasping my hands behind my head. “I’ll trade you that poem for a page from your journal.” I was wildly tempted at the idea of reading her journal, but I was gambling that she’d never agree to the deal; no way was I letting her read that sonnet.
“I can’t,” she said, turning her hands palms up.
“Oh yeah? Why?”
She ran her fingertips under the neck of her sweatshirt — my sweatshirt. “I’m not supposed to.”
“Says who?”
“My therapist.”
“You have a therapist?”
She laughed. “Uh, yeah.” She glanced up at me. “Did you keep going to therapy?”
“For a while.”
She tilted her head. “Did it help?”
I thought about it. “I don’t know. I wasn’t that good at it. I didn’t talk that much.”
“Part of my treatment was being able to talk to you without talking to you. Because I needed that distance from you, but I still needed you. You know?” She gave me a sad smile. “I was lost without you.”
I laughed bitterly. “Well, that’s perfect. Because I sure as hell was lost without you.”
Another breeze blew in, and strands of her hair drifted into her face. She brushed them away. “So I had a journal, which was basically just me talking to you. Everything I ever wanted to say to you, and some things I never would have said to you.”
“Like what?”
She moved away from the window and sat on my bed, one leg folded under her. “I just talked to you. The way I always did. I told you stuff that happened, stupid things I thought about, movies I saw, songs I liked . . .” She hesitated. “Dreams I had . . .”
I wished I could read it. Maybe it would help bridge this epic, impossible gap between us.
I sat down next to her on the bed. “What kind of dreams?”
She shook her head. “I knew you’d ask that.”
“Dreams about us?”
“Maybe.”