Love Over Matter

by Maggie Bloom

  She U-turns for the Bunny Mobile and I meander into the kitchen, where I start fixing a snack plate of peanut butter and marshmallow cracker-sandwiches.

  The screen door bangs shut upon Rosie’s return, her bouncy steps rattling the mini-blinds in the kitchen windows. “This thing was pretty grungy,” she declares from behind me, “so I took it home and put it through the wash.”

  A string of marshmallow stretches from the jar to the butter knife. I rescue it with my tongue, then lick the blade clean. “Oh, yeah?” I say, not yet realizing what she’s referring to.

  “I would’ve done it with the linens,” she tells me in an apologetic tone, “but I didn’t see it until they were already in the dryer.”

  Rosie’s always performing extra tasks, going above and beyond what anyone would expect a cleaning lady to do. “Okay. Thanks,” I say.

  She presses George’s hoodie into my peripheral vision. No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no, I silently screech. Not that. Please, God.

  “It was awful smelly,” she continues, “so I had to go all Dear Heloise on it. FYI, baking soda is your friend. Cleans anything.”

  I have never had a panic attack, not even when I got the call from George’s mother about the accident. But there’s a first time for everything, I guess, because right now, at the sight of that freshly laundered hoodie (seriously, the thing is so clean it has morphed from its normal greenish gray to a vibrant teal), rushing waves of prickly heat roll through me, accompanied by the sensation that I will soon regurgitate my stomach (not just its contents, but my actual stomach) and then promptly die.

  The knife drops out of my hand, swan dives off the counter and skids across the floor. I can’t bend down to retrieve it or I’ll faint.

  Rosie chuckles. “I’ll get that.” She passes me the hoodie, which feels wrong in my hands. “Are you all right?” she asks, the knife now resting safely in the sink.

  It’s too late; she’s already wrecked my life. “I think I’m catching something,” I lie. “Or my allergies are acting up.” I try conjuring an upbeat smile, but my mouth refuses to play along.

  She starts rearranging items on the counter, clearing surface area for a wipe down. “Want me to run to the store? Get you some meds?”

  “Nah. I’m fine,” I say. “If my mother asks, I went to bed.”

  Now it’s Rosie’s turn to practice facial contortion, her expression bordering on a concerned/perplexed scowl. “Okay,” she agrees, reluctance in her voice. “I’ll let her know. You get better.”

  “Sure thing.”

  chapter 6

  My room is in its usual state of controlled chaos (I swear, I can find anything at a moment’s notice without instigating an archeological dig) when I scuff in.

  Morose. Glum. Dejected. All apt descriptions of my state of mind over what I’ll refer to as the “hoodie situation.” Lest anyone think I’m overreacting to Rosie’s not-so-helpful gesture, I’d like to point out that this garment once possessed not only George’s sweet, earthy scent but also his life history (he wore the thing every day for three years) and his DNA.

  But not anymore.

  I sling my backpack onto my bed. From his perch by the windows, Clive barks, “BWAAH! BWAAH!”

  “Right back atcha,” I retort, immediately sorry for subjecting a blameless bird to my irrationality.

  The hoodie is ruined, but I slip in on anyway, hoping against hope that a trace—a suggestion of a hint of an echo—of George remains.

  But it isn’t so. What once felt like a warm hug from beyond the grave now caresses my skin with the coolness of cotton and fabric softener.

  I shove a mound of discarded clothing (Rosie’s not allowed to clean my room, making the whole “hoodie situation” that much more upsetting) away from the built-in cubby in the corner and tug my hiding spot open.

  Sprawled on my stomach, I plumb the depths of the cubby until, edged between a box of moth balls and a long-forgotten package of Christmas tree lights, I find George’s birth certificate, which I’ve guarded since that sunny day in June. I pry the document from its lair and pop the cabinet closed with my knee.

  From nowhere, Clive blurts, “Poke a stick!” or “Smoke a snitch!”

  I curl up on the rug below his cage, spread the birth certificate across my knees and give it a fresh once-over. “Good boy,” I say in hopes of quieting my bird-friend, who’s stuck on the same few syllables: smoke a stick; poke a snitch. Thanks to my dad’s BBC habit, Clive’s voice once had the sound, however faint, of a born-and-bred Londoner. But the distinction has faded.

  Here it is, I think, studying the birth certificate. George’s life reduced to a few splotches of ink and a slice of dead tree: Anatoly Dawson. No middle name. Born January 21, 1995 at 11:55 p.m. at the Sloane Hospital for Women in New York City. Son of Ruth Elizabeth Dawson of 77-21 1/2 66th Drive, Queens, NY. Father unknown.

  I wiggle my foot under my bed and nudge Haley’s black box within reach. Then I stretch for my nightstand, which I yank open with a groan (from the furniture, not me). My hand dips inside the drawer, hooks the crystal pendant I scored on eBay from a genuine Native American shaman.

  If you’d just talk to me, I tell George silently, attempting to muzzle the frustration rising in my thoughts, I wouldn’t have to do all of this.

  Reluctantly, I unpack the box: skateboard wheel, voodoo doll, igloo photo, quartz-veined rock, map, cell phone, and obituary. Side by side on the floor, I line up the birth certificate and the obit. From cradle to grave, I think. Dust to dust.

  I unevenly tower the items, capping the stack with the infamous cell phone and reserving the crystal pendant for its starring role. “Nice,” I say once the mound stops teetering.

  “BWAAH! BWAAH! BWAAH!” squeals Clive.

  I struggle to my feet and unlatch his cage, letting him hippity hop onto my arm. “You’re a fan of my work, huh?” I say, setting him beside the mountain of memory rubble. He struts around and issues his bird-peck seal of approval.

  I realize I’ve forgotten some crucial elements of my plan, so I slip over to the windows and draw the shades, then unplug my alarm clock in favor of the white noise machine that hogs the better part of my narrow dresser. (Note to self: appliances purchased at yard sales are much bigger than modern versions of the same exact thing.)

  With a crank of its gouged plastic dial, I tune the sound-therapy system (technically, white noise is only one of its settings) to “rainfall” and let it rip, bathing the room in the soft tink of water on sand. When I plop back down on the rug, I get a jab in the rear from the one thing that may signal George’s return: the knotted Funyuns bag, which, for the time being, lives in my back pocket. “Good one,” I say with a skyward glance and a chuckle. I wait for a reply, but if there is one, it’s lost in the rain.

  Here goes nothin’, I think.

  I settle at the edge of the rug, dangle the pendant by its silk cord and close my eyes. From the gentle prick of claws on my thigh, I know Clive has joined me.

  With effort, I still my body and then my mind. The crystal stops swaying, and I pull a chant from my belly. “Omm . . . omm . . . omm . . .” The rain takes over and I open my senses, erasing the boundary (or so I hope) between the possible and impossible, betwixt life and death. “Omm . . . omm . . . omm . . .”

  On the backs of my eyelids, I try to conjure the road leading from George to me, known in psychic circles as the Bridge of Souls. Truth be told, this is where my efforts usually flounder. If I could just convince that rainbow to appear, I know George would be strolling across it in no time, an easy smile in his eyes, a golden glow rolling off him in shimmery waves. “Omm . . . omm . . . omm . . .” I continue, the yellow streaks in my vision encouraging me. If only they’d arrange in a layered pattern and invite their colorful friends along, I’d be in business. “Omm . . . omm . . . omm . . .” I offer once again, disappointed by the tightness of my voice. The key to accessing the mystic realm (or so I’ve read) is achieving a state of altered consciousness, a r
elaxed mind-space bordering on numbness.

  But my voice is not numb and my arm is sore from holding the crystal in a fixed position for so long, further proof that I am undeniably rooted to the physical world, the detachment of the spiritual realm eluding me.

  I lower my arm and let out a sigh. The frustrating part of communing with the dead is the unpredictability; there’s no surefire method of contacting a specific ghost on a given day—which, although it’s little comfort, at least explains my repeated failures.

  And also makes it time for plan B.

  “This message is for George Alfred Brooks, formerly of Lancelot Way in the Willow Crest neighborhood of Milbridge, Vermont, from Cassandra Belle McCoy,” I say, just loudly enough to overcome the pitter-patter of the rain. “If you can hear me, George, I want to tell you that you are the meanest person I ever knew. I hated you every minute of every day, and I couldn’t be happier that you died. I never think of you, because you meant nothing to me and never will. If you kissed me, I would vomit. Please know that my life is better without you, and I wish you were never born. I swear to God, if you tried to contact me, I wouldn’t answer, so don’t bother wasting your time.”

  I listen for a response, in hopes that my reverse talking has done the trick (occult sources suggest speaking to the dead backwards, by saying the opposite of what you mean). But like every other desperate measure I’ve invoked, the backwards speak has no identifiable effect. “It figures,” I mutter, my patience wearing thin. “Stupid crystal. Stupid fake, rip-off crystal.”

  Clive dances a figure eight around my leg, flutters his wings in a consoling fashion. I fight back a rush of tears, consider reciting The Lord’s Prayer, another known means of summoning the dead. Instead, I settle for a sappy, direct plea. “Fine,” I say. “You win; I surrender.” I draw a full breath and let it seep out. “I never had the guts to say this before, because, well, I just didn’t. But if you’re listening now, if there’s even the tiniest chance you can hear me, then you should know that you were the best friend I ever had; I woke up every day excited for what life would bring with you by my side and in my heart. And now that you’re gone—and I’m alone—the world has lost its light, its pulse, its magic. Do you hear me, George? I miss you. I love you. I hate it here without you, so . . . so you’ve gotta . . . Can’t you just give me something?”

  Clive does a clumsy leap off my knee and I open my eyes, the crystal feeling like betrayal personified in my clenched fist. “Goddamn useless garbage,” I mutter, hurling the pendant across the room.

  I abandon George’s possessions (should I just torch the stuff now and be done with it?) and retreat to bed, where I gather my blankets into a pile and slink under them, my heart as bruised as the day George died, my eyes stinging with helplessness.

  There’s nothing left for me to do, so I just stare at the popcorn ceiling, the corner of which is starting to slough off, and let the tears silently stream.

  * * *

  Ian’s voice is tense when he gets me on my cell. “Cass?”

  It’s Friday night, and instead of attending the spring fling dance, I’ve opted to loaf around the house in my pajamas with a giant bag of Funyuns and a 500-piece puzzle featuring a basketful of fuzzy kittens. “Oh, hey,” I say, hoping he’s not about to guilt me out of the house with a pity invite to the movies or for pizza.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  I click a tiny pink nose into place, completing the face of an orange tabby. “Eh, not much,” I admit. “Just having a snack”—I crunch one of the Funyuns in his ear—“and . . . studying?”

  “So you’re not, uh, busy?”

  My stomach starts twisting. “Uh-uh. Why?”

  “Think you can get a ride to St. Mary’s?”

  “What’s wrong?” The last time I had the misfortune of visiting St. Mary’s Hospital was the day after George’s accident, an hour or so before doctors unplugged his life support.

  After a heavy pause, Ian whispers, “He’s not gonna make it, Cass. He’s only got”—sniffle—“a few hours, maybe. Everything’s . . . shutting down.”

  I don’t want to believe Mr. Smith is dying, because it’s just too cruel. And Ian has been working so hard to stop it. “Where are you exactly?”

  “The third floor, in the ICU waiting room. I don’t know if they’ll let you in here, though.”

  “They will,” I say. “Don’t worry.” I check the LCD clock on the microwave and round up by half an hour. “Look for me around eight fifteen.”

  * * *

  Despite my objections, my father insists on accompanying me to Ian’s side, his sloppy track suit only slightly more presentable than the wrinkled, owl-themed pajamas I was too lazy (and depressed) to change out of. “Be prepared,” Dad tells me as we exit the elevator and scan the walls for directions. “If this is as serious as Ian says, it’s going to be very . . . difficult.”

  “Remember who you’re talking to?” I say. I spot the ICU sign and give his sleeve a tug. “C’mon. This way.”

  Dad can’t take a hint. “I’m just saying that you should brace yourself for the worst. You don’t want to fall apart when people are depending on you.”

  Okay, so he’s speaking from experience. I get that. But I’ve been through the wringer too. “I’m aware,” I say, with a bit too much snip in my voice.

  We come upon the double doors of the ICU, and Dad gives the wall switch a pop with his elbow, making the doors drift open (you’d think the things would zip apart at the speed of sound, given the critical state of the patients in this ward, but apparently not).

  Dad halts at the nursing station and gives the receptionist, a robust dude with a midlife paunch and an acne-cratered face, the lowdown, while I fiddle with the drawstring of my pajama bottoms.

  “Will do,” Dad says, agreeing to whatever instructions we’ve been given.

  As we round the corner for the waiting area, a thought occurs to me. “What’s gonna happen to Ian after this?” I ask, not necessarily expecting an answer.

  Dad clutches at the handrail, slows his roll and shakes his head. “That’s a tough one, Cassandra.” He sighs. “Very tough.”

  I pause adjacent to the waiting room door and steel my resolve. Then it dawns on me: college. Ian’s a senior and has been accepted to both Green Mountain College and Castleton State, the latter being his school of choice. And even though it’s no Middlebury (I mean, get real: we can’t all be as brainy as Rosie), it’s a good, safe place where he’ll receive food, shelter, and hopefully enough of an education to get by on when he hits the real world in four years.

  Dad lays a hand on my shoulder, and we cross into the mishmash of hope and despair that is every hospital waiting room, but especially those that cater to the loved ones of the critically ill. When I spot Ian hunched over his cell phone, my heart starts jackhammering. “Look,” I say, signaling the clock as he glances up at me. “Eight fourteen. Impressive, huh?” I could start off with a sincere, heartfelt consolation, but there’ll be plenty of time for that later.

  He cracks a smile. “Not bad,” he says, brandishing his phone, its display alive with colorful blocks arranged in jagged columns. “You got here just in time to witness me breaking the world record for consecutive losing games of Tetris.”

  I sink into the chair beside him, its cushioned seat flat and bounceless from the worried fidgeting of the masses who’ve occupied this spot before me. “Any change in . . . anything?” I ask.

  Dad gives us our space, wanders across the room and studies a rack of pamphlets on healthy eating, diabetes prevention, and organ donation.

  Ian shrugs. “He’s pretty out of it. The doctors said it’s just a matter of time now. Like before morning, they think.”

  How macabre. “I’m sorry.” My gaze bumps around the waiting room, which is predictably crowded with sorrow. “Are you alone? I mean, isn’t there someone else who should be here? Family or something? If you want me to, I can call—”

  “They’re o
n the way.”

  “Oh. They who?” While George was alive, Ian and I were more friends-in-law than actual friends; hence, I don’t know as much about him as I should.

  “I’ve got two aunts on my mother’s side. They’re coming from Baltimore.”

  I cringe at asking this, but I can’t stop myself. “What about her? Do you think she’ll . . . ? Or your sister?” This much I do know: when Mr. and Mrs. Smith divorced, they divided their children like most people divvy up china and flatware. Ten years later, Ian might as well be an orphan.

  “I doubt it,” he says.

  “That’s so . . .”

  “No kidding.”

  Dad loops back our way, shoots us a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. “How about a pick-me-up? The cafeteria has the best coconut cream pie you’ll ever eat.”

  It’s sad that my father knows this, but also sweet of him to offer. “Whadda ya think?” I ask Ian hopefully. “Can you take a break?”

  “Like I said, he’s out of it. Doesn’t even know I’m here. And the nurses have my cell number.”

  “That settles it then,” says Dad. And off we go.

  chapter 7

  The doctors were wrong about the time of Mr. Smith’s death by eleven hours, leaving Ian and me to bang around the hospital in virtual silence all night and into the early afternoon on Saturday. Out of necessity, Dad abandoned us at four a.m., since, as he put it, “The eggs won’t cook themselves.” (I wish he’d take my advice and hire a breakfast cook for The Moondancer already.)

  I won’t detail what happened in the last few hours of Mr. Smith’s life, because 1) mostly I tried to pretend I was lawn furniture, and 2) it’s way too sad, and I’ve witnessed enough dreariness for one lifetime.

  What I can say is that Ian held up well through the ordeal, all things considered. The day after his father’s funeral, he put his head down and plowed through the remaining weeks of high school, graduating to a cacophony of raucous cheers and yowling catcalls (not to mention a poorly executed, double-fingered whistlefest by none other than my dear ol’ dad).