by Meg Leder
I hug myself and look around. The lawn is overgrown. Finn’s truck is in the driveway, along with Johnny’s Datsun, its hood open, insides exposed to the elements. The woods behind their house are encroaching onto the edges of the backyard, as if in another five years, the trees and roots might just swallow the whole house. From the corner of my eye, I see a hand nudge aside bent window blinds, then drop them back just as quickly.
There’s no way I want to run into Johnny.
I go over to Finn’s truck and open the passenger side, climb in, jiggling my leg, the change in the cup holder rattling with the movement, and watch a squirrel dart across a phone line and leap onto a tree.
I leave the ballerina where she is.
Finn slides in a few minutes later, smelling like soap and minty toothpaste. “Where to?” he asks.
I don’t say much on the way to Wild Meadows, and Finn doesn’t either, which I appreciate. I haven’t been to Wild Meadows since Grandma McCullough died when I was in second grade, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.
“Here,” I finally say, motioning him to the visitors parking.
As soon as I take in my surroundings in the lobby, I feel like I’ve jumped into a time machine and gone back to when Grandma McCullough was sick. The faux-homey decor is exactly the same: a maroon and pine-green flowered print, innocuous art, a grandfather clock, even a glass aviary with small finches hopping around.
Charlie and I used to wheel Grandma to the aviary while Mom and Dad talked with the doctors. We’d sit with her there, watching the birds, while she told us stories about the cowboy music society and helium people and George Bush offering her a cream puff.
It was a few years before I realized her chemo made her confused, that she hadn’t really met George Bush.
“Parker?” Finn asks, his hand light on my elbow, and I shake my head.
“Sorry.” At the desk, a perky blond-haired woman with a name tag that says PAM looks brightly up at me. “I’m here to see Alice Roell,” I say.
“Oh, are you her niece?” the woman asks. “I’m so excited you finally made it!”
“No. I work at the place where Alice comes for her ceramics classes.”
Pam smiles and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, of course.”
“Alice has a niece?” I ask, signing my name and Finn’s in the visitor log.
“Yep. Her name’s Lily,” Pam says. “Come on. I’ll show you to Alice’s room.”
As we follow Pam down the hall, she keeps mindlessly chatting, clearly glad for the company.
“I help Alice FaceTime with Lily and her son, Jack, every week. He is just the cutest thing! I’m not sure how much of it Alice actually takes in, but she’s always calmer after hearing Lily’s voice.”
“FaceTime?” I ask. “Why doesn’t Lily visit?”
“She lives in Texas. She’s a single mom, and I don’t know that she can afford a ticket up. But she makes sure to call every Tuesday and Thursday at six thirty p.m., right after Alice has dinner.”
I nod as Pam points us down a hall. “Room 116,” she says. “I’ll buzz you through. Have a good visit!”
When we enter Alice’s section, my breath catches.
This section doesn’t remind me of my grandma.
It reminds me of Charlie.
Of hospitals.
Of sickness and generic cleaning supplies and vanilla pudding cups.
The hallway is spotted with residents sitting in wheelchairs. Some of them are sleeping. One older man has his mouth open and is breathing heavily, and another older man is muttering under his breath about bacon.
Without thinking, I reach my hand out toward Finn, and he takes it, holds tight.
“Alice?” I say as I knock on the open door of 116.
She’s lying in the bed, awake, but her eyes are glazed over, and I’m not sure she sees us or even knows we’re there. She looks so small and flat against the sheets.
I motion Finn to the chair near the window and pull another up next to her.
“It’s Parker, from Carla’s Ceramics. I’m here with my friend Finn.”
She doesn’t respond or move, but I continue talking.
“We’ve missed seeing you. I’m sure you know already, but there’s a new guy, Henry? And Miss Peggy and Harriet both have a bit of a crush on him. Oh, and we made something for you.”
I dig through my bag until I find the brightly colored vase we all painted for her, round-robin style. There’s a plastic pitcher filled with daisies on the bedside table next to her, and without asking, Finn takes the vase from me and grabs the pitcher of daisies, heading to the bathroom. I hear him pouring out the water from the pitcher, filling the vase.
I take in the picture next to Alice’s bed—one of a couple on their wedding day, the woman tiny and birdlike, the man dapper, with a sparkle in his eye, a man and woman standing at each of their sides, the best man and maid of honor.
I realize the bride must be Alice.
“Your husband was so handsome, Alice! And look at how beautiful you are,” I say, leaning over and taking the picture, studying it more closely. “This bridesmaid has to be related to you, yes?”
I take in the two women, each with meticulously curled hair, the same button noses, careful posture, high cheekbones. The bridesmaid is breaking the pose and squeezing Alice’s elbow, just as excited as Alice is.
Even though I don’t know for certain, I feel like she has to be Alice’s sister, Lily’s mom.
I look back at Alice, her eyes gazing vacantly at a spot on the wall, and I wish her sister were still alive now, holding her hand, or that Lily and Jack could be here.
A fierce wave of missing Charlie comes over me then, and I remember running after him and losing him, how he came back for me.
I’m not sure he would do that for me anymore.
Finn returns with the flowers in our vase, placing it where Alice can see it. He grabs his chair and scoots it closer to mine, and I pick up Alice’s hand, her skin tissue-paper thin.
“Alice, did you know my friend Finn is an artist? He paints amazing messages to people all over the city. You’d like them. They make you think outside of what’s around you. They take you to other places. And he has a secret tunnel, too. It’s like a superhero hideout but with art. It’s the most magical place I’ve ever been, but I’m not supposed to tell anyone about it, I don’t think.”
I sneak a glance at Finn. He’s leaning forward, head in hands, looking at the floor, and blushing something fierce.
I gently turn over Alice’s hand, holding the palm open.
“What’s your message to the world today?” I ask Finn.
“You are here,” he replies.
His words remind me of raising my hand in class during attendance, saying “Here,” of the map near the information desk at the mall, marking your location in the middle of all the neon lights and window displays, of the poem I nearly used for my valedictorian speech, one from Walt Whitman I had to memorize for English class: “That you are here—that life exists and identity / That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
Finn is here, next to me, waiting.
With my index finger, I slowly trace a Y on Alice’s palm and then an O. She closes her eyes as I do, her breathing steady and even, and I keep tracing, talking to her in a low, steady voice.
“You’re here,” I say, as much to myself and Finn as to her. “You are here.”
Forty-One
“PARK THERE,” I SAY to Finn, pointing to the empty meter we’ve just passed. He jerks the truck to a stop, earning a deserved honk from the driver of the BMW behind us, who then screeches around us, giving us the finger.
Finn laughs under his breath, putting his arm on the back of my seat and craning his head around, parallel parking in the spot.
Just as he turns off the ignition, the sky opens up in sheets of rain.
“Come on,” I say. “We can run.”
The two of us wait in the truck ca
bin for a break in traffic on Delta Avenue, and as soon as I see one, I yell, “Go!”
We tear out of the truck, doors slamming behind us, and run across the street in the downpour. I hunch into myself the whole way, trying to make myself smaller and not get so wet.
We burst into Zip’s like an entire army is after us, earning a shocked look from the waitress.
We’re drenched.
Finn wipes his wet sneakers in the entryway, his T-shirt clinging to his chest.
I wring out my hair. “Sorry,” I say as the water runs off us in rivulets.
“It’s fine. Y’all are brave to venture out today,” the waitress says, hands on her hips, watching us both. “Two drowned rats, I swear. Just a minute.”
My wet skin and hair feel chilly in the air-conditioning, and Finn doesn’t look much warmer. But the waitress comes back with two pink sweatshirts, a Zip’s logo emblazoned across the fronts.
“Left over from when we sponsored the Flying Pig Marathon,” she says, handing them to us. “Sorry about the color.”
Finn shrugs, pulling his on, and I giggle when I see him.
“What?”
“It’s a far cry from Alice in Chains,” I say, pulling mine on too. It smells musty, like it’s been shoved in a box in the back of an attic, but it’s dry and warm. “Thanks,” I say to the waitress.
“Sit anywhere you want,” she replies, heading back to the kitchen. Since it’s only a little after eleven thirty, there are tables to be found, and I grab a booth on the side.
“I’ve never been here,” Finn says to me, taking in the surroundings.
I try to see Zip’s through his eyes, like I haven’t been going here once a month for as long as I can remember. It’s cozy and dark in the rain, the Reds away game playing on the TV in the corner, the toy train that circles the top of the main room chugging merrily along its track.
“My favorite part when I was a kid,” I say, seeing Finn notice it.
“Nice,” he says.
As soon as we sit in the booth, Finn grimaces. “Do you like baseball?”
“Eh, it’s okay,” I say. “Why?”
“Big talk?”
I nod.
“If I sit in this seat, the television is over your shoulder and I’m going to watch it the whole time, no matter how much I want to watch you. Switch?”
I’m grateful it’s dark enough that Finn doesn’t see me blush, so we stand, shuffle awkwardly around each other, and settle on the opposite sides of the booth.
The waitress comes over, hands us menus.
“What’s good here?” Finn asks, scanning the laminated menus.
“Burgers. You have to get a burger. That’s what they’re known for. That’s what I’ll have,” I say, turning to the waitress. “A Zip’s Burger and fries and a Diet Coke.”
“Same thing,” Finn adds. “But a regular Coke.”
My eyes dart to the game on the television screen behind him. The Reds are currently winning.
When I look back, Finn’s watching me—I see his eyes moving from my hair to my cheekbones, to my lips, to my eyes.
“Do I have something on my face?” I ask, reflexively wiping my lips.
“No, not at all,” he says. I blush. Again.
“What’s the deal with this place?” he asks.
“It’s been here since the 1920s. My great-grandpa first met my great-grandma here. It was before he left for overseas service, and he said this whole family of beautiful girls came in from church, all dressed up in hats. My great-grandmother was the youngest of five sisters. My great-grandpa originally had a crush on her older sister Irene, but when he came back from his time overseas, my great-grandma was all grown up, and he realized she was the sister for him. My mom loves telling that story about her grandparents.”
Finn nods, fiddling with the napkin in front of him, suddenly quiet.
“But it’s no Anchor Grill, you know?” I tease.
He doesn’t respond, and we sit there quietly, and I’m about to ask him what just happened, why he got so quiet, when he mutters something.
“What?” I say.
“Alice is lucky to have you,” he says, slightly louder.
“Oh,” I say.
The waitress comes with our food, and the burger bun is glistening with butter on the top, the fries golden, and my stomach gives a loud embarrassing growl.
We eat in silence, until I get the courage to say what I’ve been mulling over since the night at the airport.
“I’ve been thinking about your bruises, and I wonder if maybe you should take a break from boxing. Have a doctor check them out, you know?”
“Parker.”
“I just think getting hurt like that over and over can’t be good for your body. Maybe your coach should take it easier when you’re practicing.”
“It’s not even all from boxing,” he snaps, then immediately looks like he wants to take it back.
“What do you mean it’s not all from boxing?”
Finn lets out a loud sigh. “Johnny and I got in a fight last week.”
“What?” The question comes out as a strangled little shriek.
“It’s fine.”
“Your brother did that? That’s not fine!”
“Seriously, it was just a fight, okay? Brothers fight.”
“God, why do you put up with him, Finn?” I ask. “He’s dangerous.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. He hit you!”
Finn shrugs. “I hit him back.”
“But he’s dealing, too, isn’t he?”
Finn doesn’t deny it.
“You don’t owe him anything. He’s not a good person.”
He scoffs. “You don’t even know him. What gives you the right to judge?”
“Tell me, then. Tell me how he’s not all bad.”
Finn rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “One of the first things I remember growing up was Johnny talking about our mom. He had all these cassette tapes she used to love and her old Walkman. He listened to them all the time. You remember the Walkman, right?”
I nod, thinking of the careful way Finn showed it to me that first day, how he wrapped it in a sweatshirt in his backpack every day after school, tucking it carefully inside.
“Johnny loved those tapes. He listened to them for hours every day. But as I got older, I got mad because he’d never share them with me. So I stole the Walkman. I had it for a few months before he saw you that day on the playground.”
Finn’s face tightens. “Johnny was upset it broke. He said it was all my fault.” His mouth clenches shut.
“What happened?”
“When Dad came home that night, he found Johnny whaling on me. So he started beating the crap out of Johnny.”
I hold my breath, afraid to say anything, not wanting him to stop but scared to hear what will come next.
“Dad was hitting Johnny so hard, I thought he was going to kill him. So I went to the neighbors, who called 911. And when the police got there, they found Dad’s meth lab in the garage. Fast-forward a few weeks later, Dad’s in jail and his auto body shop is permanently closed, and we’re at Carla’s, in a new school district.”
“That’s why you were so mad at me when you came back to school,” I say.
He shakes his head hard. “I was never mad at you. It was all my fault.”
“Finn.”
He looks at me, shoulders sharp. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“I told you already. I don’t need saving, Parker.”
“But . . .”
“But nothing. It’s just how it was. How it is.”
“None of that was your fault. You were just a kid. Your dad should have never hit Johnny. Johnny should have never hit you. That’s not right.”
He sucks in his breath, leans back, his eyes meeting mine evenly.
I realize then that for the first time since I met him, Finn is mad. Beyond mad—he’s furious. This must be what he loo
ks like when he fights, all his angles getting sharper, his hollows emptier, his face harder.
“You don’t know me,” Finn says, each word a hit. “You don’t know my family.”
I flinch. “I guess I don’t.”
I sit back, emptied out from the morning, and look out the window, realizing Finn’s family isn’t the only one I don’t know.
I can’t even make things right with my own brother.
But the longer I sit there, stewing in the silence between Finn and me, an idea starts to take root, small and careful, a seed of hope.
If I can’t help Finn, maybe, just maybe, I can help Alice.
Forty-Two
I’M AT MY DESK, clicking through different travel websites, researching the costs of flights between Cincinnati and Austin, trying not to look at my phone.
But then I give in and check.
No message.
Even though it’s been a little more than twenty-four hours since I last saw Finn and I doubt he’d text even if he did want to talk, I can’t stop hoping he’ll reach out. After our spat about his brother at Zip’s, we didn’t talk much, other than my insistence that I’d get the bill since he drove me (a proposition he didn’t appreciate), and then his gruff “Sorry” when he dropped me off.
I hear Ruby’s laugh from the backyard, and a quick glance out the window next to me confirms it: She and Charlie are approaching the giant hammock under my bedroom window.
I wonder if Charlie told her he knows my secret about the internship.
This morning, at breakfast, I was pretty sure the jig was up.
Dad was reading the paper while Charlie and I were doing our best to ignore each other’s existence, when out of the blue, Mom asked me how things were going with Henry.
All the blood rushed from my face. “You know?” My spoon clattered in the bowl as I turned to Charlie. “I thought we had a deal! You weren’t going to tell them!”
“Tell us what?” Mom asked.
“No, Parker,” Charlie said, purposefully shooting meaningful eyes at me. “You told them about the new patient, remember?”
Relief made me dizzy. Of course. I had told them about the “new patient” Henry.
“Oh, Henry! That Henry. Sorry! Clearly I’m not entirely awake today yet. He’s good. He’s made some friends—Harriet and Peggy and Lorna—and I think it helped him feel a little less alone.”