by Shari Arnold
I look away because I have no answer to that. Especially when this is all my fault. I’m the one who invited Meyer.
About twenty minutes later Grant finally emerges. It’s my turn to visit Sheila. The walk to her room takes longer than it should. My feet weigh about a thousand pounds. I take a seat in the chair that has been moved next to her bed and I stare at my sleeping friend. She looks younger, and so fragile. I’ve never seen Sheila look fragile before tonight, and it scares me. Even back at the party when she was drunk and confessing her true feelings about me she looked brave. She didn’t care how it would affect me, she just wanted me to know she cared.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I’m such a horrible friend.” The emotion I’ve been holding back for the last few hours threatens to spill down my cheeks, but I fight it off. I won’t cry over her like she’s dying. Because she’s not.
“Your mother called,” Sheila’s mom says from the doorway. “I told her what happened.”
“Thank you,” I say without turning around. Sheila’s mom doesn’t ask why I wasn’t the one to tell her in the first place. But I can tell from her expression, she does wonder. She remembers how close we used to be, even if it seems as though my mother has forgotten.
“I said you might be staying the night, which you’re welcome to.”
“That would be nice.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No. Not for a while.”
“The cafeteria is closed but there’s a vending machine down the hall.”
When I stand up she walks into the room, hovering over Sheila’s bed.
“Do you want something?” I ask, and she shakes her head no. She continues to stare down at Sheila like she’s never seen her before, probably noticing, like I am, how her eyelashes are dark against her pale skin and how the bandage wrapped around her forehead hides most of her beautiful blonde hair.
“She’ll still be here tomorrow?” I whisper, still not quite believing it.
“Yes. They want to keep her a day or two for observation,” she answers. But that wasn’t what I was asking.
“She’s lucky,” I choke out.
“That’s what the doctors say.”
“Lucky and brave,” I say.
Sheila’s mom smiles. “That’s funny,” she tells me. “That’s what she always says about you.”
I have exactly three dollars on me, not much in the way of a vending machine meal, but it’s something. After staring at my options for about five minutes through rather blurry eyes I decide on a bag of chocolate chip cookies and a Vitamin Water. I’m just taking a sip when someone emerges from the staircase down the hall. I wouldn’t normally notice the comings and goings of the hospital staff but this person isn’t staff, nor is he unfamiliar. He doesn’t look at me, even though we are the only two people in the hallway. Instead he moves quickly in the opposite direction. But I don’t need to see his face to know who he is.
“James,” I call out.
“James,” I say a bit louder. Still no response.
I cap my drink and decide to follow him, eating my cookies as I go. If he’s looking for me he’s certainly not doing a very good job. Visiting hours are long over so it doesn’t make any sense for him to be wandering the halls, unless he has family here. Or a close friend. Yes, that would make sense. But what doesn’t make sense is this tightness building inside my chest. I feel anxious as I follow him down the hall. The faster he moves the worse I feel. My heart is racing, but I’m not sure why. It might have something to do with the fact that I sense he knows I’m following him, and if that is true, where is he leading me?
“James!” I call out one last time, just before he moves through the double doors of the children’s wing. I know he’s heard me. There’s no way he couldn’t have. And yet he still doesn’t turn around.
My hands are cold as they hold onto my Vitamin Water, the rest of my cookies forgotten at the bottom of the bag. My breathing is quick, uneven and unusually loud in my head as I hurry down the quiet hallway. I tell myself it’s the residual shock from witnessing Sheila’s fall earlier this evening. It’s normal to feel nervous after you experience shock. I know this. Same goes with fear. But this desperate feeling in the pit of my stomach is something altogether different. It sickens me, nearly bringing up what I’ve just eaten.
The hallways are dark and quiet in the children’s wing. The only sounds come from the nurse’s station where three nurses are sitting at a long desk, talking in hushed tones. I slip past them with my head down and they don’t stop me. This isn’t the first time I’ve shown up in the middle of the night. But I am curious to know how James managed to slip by.
I lose him somewhere between the staircase and the nurse’s station, and I panic, wondering if I’m too late and then wonder, Too late for what?
I quicken my pace to a run, not caring how loud I sound as I come to the end of the hallway — a hallway that seems to go on forever.
Just before I turn the corner my feet slide out from underneath me and I hit the ground. My Vitamin Water does too. It rolls down the hall and comes to a stop mere feet from James who is now standing directly outside of Sammy’s room.
“James,” I choke out, clamoring to my feet. But he doesn’t even acknowledge me. His light-colored eyes stare into Sammy’s room, and then slowly, he enters his room.
No! my mind screams as I hurry down the hallway. I’m still not sure why I’m so afraid. But whatever is happening can’t be right. It definitely doesn’t feel right. I peek into the room and find him sitting on the edge of Sammy’s bed. His back is straight and his hands are in his lap. He is watching Sammy sleep. He’s dressed all in black, from his pants to his raincoat, and he stands out in a room bathed in white.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper. “Why are you in Sammy’s room?”
But it isn’t James who answers.
“Livy?” Sammy calls out. His big dark eyes blink up at me, barely awake. He looks so small in his bed. It makes me want to crawl in beside him so that I can keep the bed from swallowing him up.
I fight the urge to run to his side. Even if James is menacing enough to smell fear, I don’t want him to see it on me. I enter the room, slowly at first. My shoes squeak upon the floor.
“Visiting hours are over, Livy,” James tells me without turning around. “You shouldn’t be here.” He reaches his hand out, brushing Sammy’s hair back off his forehead and the gesture is so familiar, so comfortable, it’s clear he’s done it many times before. Sammy nuzzles back into his blankets, his face turned toward the wall. Is he sleeping? How can he be sleeping when I feel like I’m in the middle of a nightmare?
“Did you follow me here?”
“I don’t have to follow you to know what you’re up to.” He tucks the blankets in close to Sammy and Sammy lets out a sigh.
“Goodnight, Livy,” Sammy whispers. And then his breathing evens out as he slips back into sleep.
“What are you—”
“Shh,” James says. His finger is pressed to his lips as he rises from the bed. His light eyes pin me to my spot on the floor. “Let him sleep.” And then he brushes past me.
I pause long enough to drop a soft kiss on Sammy’s forehead before I hurry after James.
“Wait,” I call out once we’re in the hallway. “I don’t understand. How do you know him?”
James turns, giving me all but one second before he continues on his way toward the elevators.
“Go home, Livy,” he tells me as he pushes the elevator button. “You spend too much time away from your family. And way too much time here.”
We stare at each other until the elevator doors close between us. No goodbye, no have a good night. Just nothing.
I check on Sammy one more time before I make my way to Jilly’s room. My eyes are so heavy, my body limp, for all I know this is just a bad dream. I curl up beside Jilly, breathing in the smell of her favorite strawberry scented shampoo, and she turns to me in her sleep. Her eyes
open only long enough to see that it is me, and then her little hand reaches for my face.
“Love you, Livy,” she says, leaning her forehead close to mine. Her fingertips barely brush against my cheek. She doesn’t know what those words do to me. She doesn’t see it in my tired expression.
“I love you too,” I whisper, right as my eyes shut.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The call comes the following Friday.
I’m home alone when Dr. Lerner’s office reaches me. Everything changes the moment they say those three little words: “You’re a match.”
“How soon?” my mom asks when I call to tell her.
“They think they can make it happen next week,” I answer.
My mother’s response is silence.
“I’ll tell your father,” she says finally, her voice hushed as though she’s afraid he could be listening nearby.
“Okay.” She won’t get any arguments from me. I’d pretty much agree to anything right about now.
“This is it, right Olivia?” she says before she ends the call. “After this… we’re done, right? No more tests?”
I don’t know why I hesitate.
“Olivia?”
“Yes, mom. Just Jilly.”
But that night when I visit the hospital I’m not sure I can keep that promise. There are so many kids who need something. And I’m more than willing to give what I can, even if it means I read to them for the rest of my life. I have to do it. Do something. Jenna would want me to.
I don’t usually read to the kids on Fridays but the girl who does called in sick and I was here visiting Jilly anyway, so why not? It’s not like I have anything else going on. Sheila is hanging out with Grant tonight. When I told her my plans for the evening she rolled her eyes and said, “Typical.” But she was easily appeased once I agreed to hang out with them tomorrow. She knows I’m trying, and that’s something at least.
Jilly’s actually out of bed and in the activity center playing with the collection of dolls Jenna left her. Every few minutes or so she checks on me as if she’s afraid it’s all a dream and she’s going to wake up to find she’s still waiting for the chance of a miracle. Her grandma has yet to stop crying.
I’m sitting in the middle of the floor with Sammy and Brown the Bear on my lap. Tonight’s story is Robin Hood. When it’s time to turn the page Sammy places Brown’s paw against the book so it appears that the bear is the one turning the pages. The children laugh every time. Sammy’s mother is the only one not smiling. She’s watching Sammy with a look I recognize. I’ve seen it before. She is already mourning the loss of him. She’s watching each smile, each laugh, memorizing each movement. Like she’s preparing to give up.
Sammy’s face is a bit thinner than the last time I saw him and it’s harder for him to grip the pages — like he can’t convince his hand to do what he wants. But he’s still laughing. When he glances up at me his smile grows and I squeeze him a little tighter. He feels smaller in my arms, more fragile than normal. He still sounds like Sammy, his giggle more hiccup than laugh. And his eyes still shine. That has to be a good sign.
Once the story ends Sammy closes the book with a snap and struggles to his feet. I watch him make his way over to his mother, who kisses his head and holds him close, while Brown the Bear dangles, half in and half out of their embrace.
I hate this place sometimes. I hate that there is even a need for a children’s hospital. There should be a rule universally accepted when it comes to kids, like an age restriction. Nothing and no one should harm a child during the time they are too young to fend for themselves. I get that life isn’t fair. But it’s far worse when you don’t understand what is happening to you. When you’re too young to even make sense of it. The death of a child goes beyond unfair. It feels like a punishment.
Over near the doorway a shadow emerges. It catches my eye, drawing my attention away from Sammy and his mother. I don’t know how long Meyer has been standing there, but it seems as though he’s waiting for me.
“Hey Livy,” he whispers once I’m in front of him. “I was hoping you’d be here tonight. I’ve been looking for you.”
It’s been seven days since Sheila’s accident — seven days since I last saw Meyer — and yet it feels like years. He’s wearing a black sweater today and dark jeans that match my own. His hair is slightly mussed, enough that I want to smooth it down around his ears, but we’re no longer on a touch-each-other basis. Not after that night.
Standing under the bright lights of the hospital’s activity center I realize I’ve never seen him so well lit before. Because of this I catch myself studying his face, how his nose is sun-kissed like mine except his freckles are darker, like three beauty marks purposefully placed around the bridge of his nose. And then there’s his impossibly long eyelashes. They make his eyes appear innocent when he wants, but dangerous as well. I turn away when he starts to smile, hating myself for wanting to look at him. How silly of me to think I’d be able to move on.
There is activity all around us as the nurses and parents hurry the kids off to bed. Their voices move down the hall, and then the hallways fall silent. I don’t want to look at him again, and yet I’m not leaving. I’m waiting for something, and perhaps so is he. I finally give in and meet his eyes.
“I choose pain,” he says, once he has my attention. His words strike like lightning.
Honestly I never imagined he’d give me this kind of opening. It feels like a gift or at the very least a step in the right direction.
“You mean… I get to ask you a question?” I ask in disbelief.
“And I must answer with honesty,” he says, completely resolute.
So many questions spring to mind. I can’t seem to hold onto just one. There’s so much I want to know — like how he knew my mom was looking for me or how he always seems to know where I’ll be before I do. There are so many details I’d pay to know about his life, but the question that seems to plague me the most is how he saved us that night on the Ferris wheel.
I clamp my lips together. If I ask my question I’m allowing the game to continue, and I don’t want it to, right? This is over. We’re over.
But if I don’t ask now I’ll always wonder.
“What happened that night? On the Ferris wheel? You told me you’d tell me one day. I want to know now.”
“You mean, how did I save you?” His smile is wicked, his eyes bright. I’ve willingly walked into his trap, and we both know it. “If you really want your answer you have to come with me, Livy.” He shifts closer and I catch a faint scent of burning leaves and autumn wind. Man, I love the fall. It’s completely unfair that Meyer smells like my favorite season. When I hesitate he adds, “I promise you’ll be safe.”
“You can’t make that promise, Meyer. Not to me.”
Meyer’s smile slips from his face, replaced by frustration.
“I’m not going anywhere with you tonight,” I tell him. “Not until I have my answer.”
“If truth is what you want from me, you have to take the risk.” His eyes are lit with a challenge. He holds out his hand for me to grasp.
I cross my arms and wait. He won’t bully me into it this time.
“Alright,” he says, smiling as though I’ve pleased him somehow. “What are you asking me, exactly?”
“You know,” I say, lowering my voice. I look past him down the hall. We’re alone for now, but there are always people near. I peek down the hall again and then lean close. “I want to know if —”
“If I can fly?” His voice isn’t nearly as soft as mine, which causes me to gasp out loud.
“Shush! Are you crazy?” I grab him by the arm and drag him back into the activity center. “What if someone hears you?”
Meyer shrugs as though this is no big deal. “Whether they hear me or not is none of my concern. Do you want your answer or are you too afraid to ask?”
“Of course I want my answer! I just don’t want anyone to hear us. They’ll think we’re crazy. Tha
t I’m crazy.”
“What if you are, Livy?” he says, staring at me with wide eyes. “What if you’re just imagining all of this? What if you’ve imagined me?” He makes a face and then bursts out laughing. To him this is all a joke. Everything is, apparently.
“I’ve actually considered it,” I tell him, completely serious.
“Well you’re not,” he says, moving so close his face is next to mine. “So go ahead, ask away.”
I close my eyes for a second in an attempt to calm down. To return to the game.
We are completely alone in the activity center. With most of the lights off no one would think to come in. And yet when I ask him my question I lower my voice.
“Can you really fly, Meyer? And if so, how?”
“I don’t know how.” He answers as though we’re talking about something trivial like walking or chewing gum. “I’ve always been able to fly.” He shrugs his shoulders and shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “It’s just something I’ve always been able to do.”
I stare at him unbelieving. It isn’t possible, right? No one can fly, and yet we did survive that night. Somehow he got us safely to the ground. And haven’t I been carrying around the possibility? Thinking it’s the only thing that makes sense?
“It’s not possible,” I whisper. I shake my head, completely in denial, while Meyer watches from behind hooded eyes.
“So you have your answer,” he says, crossing his arms. He leans forward, his face so close I draw myself back. “It’s your turn now.”
“What? What do you want?” I know I’ve asked the wrong question when his smile turns up a bit more and he lets out a faint laugh.
He doesn’t answer me right away, just continues to study me until I can’t take it any longer. I squirm under those heavy green eyes —he has to realize what he does to me, right? Meyer’s mouth turns up with amusement as though I’ve asked the question out loud. Yes, of course he does. But let’s hope for my sake, it isn’t part of the game.
Out in the hall I hear the nurses talking and the occasional ding when the elevator doors open or close. I should check in on Jilly and Sammy, grab my coat and go home. And yet here I stand. The two of us so close we’re nearly touching in a large and empty room.