by A. E. Radley
“Are you alright? I’m sorry I didn’t call you,” she said. “I would’ve, but we’ve been so busy since it happened.”
I dropped my gym bag full of gear on her welcome mat. Mondays were my busiest days — clients from six in the morning until six at night, with barely enough time for lunch in between. It was unlikely that I would get my own workout in today, but I consoled myself with the thought that schlepping all the equipment I needed from client to client had to count for something.
Functional weight training, I thought wryly.
“Why would I not be alright?” I asked, confused. Had Karen told Mel about our fight? But no. Karen and Melody weren’t friends.
“You didn’t hear?” she said. “About the shooting on Saturday night?”
Shooting on Saturday night…
I flashed back to the tail end of the story I’d heard on NPR that morning.
“The concert shooting?” I said. “I think I heard something about it on the radio. Why?”
“Oh. You don’t know,” Melody said.
“Know what?”
“Jules… that was Hope’s concert. She was shot.”
A wave of vertigo struck me, and for a brief instant, I thought I was going to be sick. The world spun; I reached out for something to grab onto but found only air.
Mel put a steadying hand on my shoulder. “She’s alright. But she almost bled to death before they could get her to the hospital. And the doctors say she would have, too, if the bullet had hit the artery in her leg.”
I needed to sit down. I still thought I might throw up.
“I stopped calling her,” I said faintly. I wasn’t sure if I was talking to myself, Melody, or someone else. “We were talking again for a few weeks. And then she found out about Karen…”
“I know,” Mel said. “That was my fault.”
“…and she stopped calling after that. And I tried to call her, but she didn’t call me back and… I stopped calling her.” I looked up at Mel. “The femoral artery,” I said. “That’s the big one in the leg. Right up against our thigh bone.”
Melody squeezed my shoulder.
“The last conversation we’d had was about how all the squats and lunges her trainer was having her do.” I let out a shallow laugh that sounded more like a gasp for air. “That could’ve been the last conversation I ever had with her. About squats and lunges. I stopped calling her.”
“It’s not all your fault. Hope’s stubborn. And you didn’t know what was going to happen,” Mel said. “Come in and sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water or something.”
Dinner with Karen was a quiet affair, the absence of conversation underscored by the scraping of utensils against plates. My thoughts weren’t in the kitchen; they were in a hospital room in Chicago, where the girl who’d once been my best friend and my first love lay recovering.
With uncanny timing, Karen said: “I assume you heard about what happened to Hope? I saw them interviewing people on the news today.”
Her tone was wary. But Hope was a topic that had always engendered wariness from Karen.
I nodded, patting my mouth with a napkin as I looked up. “Melody told me when I was over there this evening. Terrible.”
“Did you call her? Hope, I mean?”
I shook my head and looked back down at my food. “No.”
Technically, I hadn’t called, so I wasn’t lying. What Karen didn’t need to know that Mel called Hope while I sat anxiously on the couch, that Mel handed the phone to me, that Hope perked up at the sound of my voice, but that she was so drugged she probably wouldn’t remember our brief conversation.
“How are you?” I’d asked, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
“Better now that you’re here,” Hope had slurred. It was the half-joking, half-sincere answer to “how are you” that we’d given each other for years.
Karen and I had been together for five years — almost exactly the same time Hope’s music got really big and the two of us stopped talking. I’d cried on Karen’s shoulder more than once about what Hope had put me through during college — cheating on me with not one but two different people — then the way we’d tried to get back together but failed because of Hope’s career, then how we’d slept together on and off over the years, almost every time she’d come home to Calvin for a visit.
Until five years ago, when I finally put my foot down and told her she either needed to commit to me once and for all or quit me cold turkey. Hope chose the cold turkey. I met Karen a few weeks later.
I didn’t know why I even picked up the phone when I saw Hope’s name on caller ID a few months ago. I should’ve known she would stay in touch for a few weeks, then disappear on me again.
Across the table, I could feel Karen studying me. I concentrated on my food and tried to put Hope out of my mind.
“How was work?” I asked without looking up.
“Good. Busy, but good.” There was a pause. “Are you sure you’re okay about this whole Hope thing?”
Of course I’m not okay, I thought. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“I heard her bodyguard died trying to save her,” Karen said.
Mel hadn’t told me that, and the news came like a punch in the gut. I knew how much Charles had meant to Hope.
“I hadn’t heard that,” I said evenly.
“My coworker told me the shooter had been stalking Hope for months. Sending her death threats and stuff. Even showed up backstage at one of her concerts over the summer and had to be hauled off by security staff.” She shook her head. “It’s bizarre that they even let him into the concert in the first place.”
“Yeah. Bizarre.”
All I wanted to do was be at her side. The thought was like a fishhook in my gut, and I could feel Hope reeling me in from her hospital bed in Chicago.
She needs me.
Some rational part of my brain questioned the thought — “Hope’s got plenty of people taking care of her. She doesn’t need you.” But the thought wouldn’t go away, and I knew it was the truth. It pressed against my heart, creating a dull ache there.
She needs me. Under the table, I clenched a fist until my nails bit half-moons into my palm, as if somehow the gesture would relieve the pressure on my heart.
“I had a busy day, too,” I said lightly in an attempt to change the subject. “Picked up a new client, so on Mondays now I’m seeing eight people.”
“That’s good,” Karen said. But she didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. And in her next question, I heard the beginnings of a fresh argument. “How much money is that, with eight clients in a day?”
Here is the money that I owe you
Yes so you can pay the bills
I will give you more
When I get paid again
MID-NOVEMBER: KID CUDI, “PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS”
“How was physical therapy today?” I asked. I glanced at the navigation on my phone, put my left turn signal on.
“Not bad,” Hope said, her voice filling the car. But even through the tinny Bluetooth I could detect her discouragement. “She said I don’t have to use crutches anymore.”
“That’s progress,” I said brightly. “Make sure you keep doing whatever exercises she gave you to do. Don’t skip a day.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
I made my left turn. “What’s wrong? You sound more like someone who’s been told they’ll never walk again than someone who just got off her crutches.”
“I didn’t say anything was wrong,” she said.
“You didn’t have to.”
There was a pause. “You know me too well.”
I waited in silence. It took another few seconds for Hope to answer my question.
“I can’t stop thinking of them,” she said at last. “All the people who died at my concert.”
“I hope you aren’t blaming yourself again,” I said.
“I’m not. Or at least, intellectually, I know it wasn’t my fault. But it feels lik
e it was my fault, you know? Especially Charles.”
“It wasn’t your fault. And you didn’t kill Charles. That man did.”
“But Charles was — ”
“Was doing what anyone who loved you would have done,” I finished for her. “I would’ve rushed onto that stage to get you, too. And if the situation had been reversed, you would’ve done it for him. Or for me.”
There was a long silence on the other end.
“That makes it sound like the inevitable result of love is death,” she said.
“That’s definitely not what I said.”
“It just seems so pointless, Jules.”
My brow furrowed. I didn’t like what I was hearing. “What seems pointless?”
“Right now, everything seems pointless,” Hope said. “But dying at a concert… that seems especially pointless. People’s deaths should mean something. If they get shot, it should be because they were fighting for something important. Not because they went to a stupid, meaningless pop music concert.”
I wanted to argue her out of her funk, but I knew it wasn’t what she needed right now. She just needed someone to listen. So I held my tongue, gave her space.
“I feel like I used them all,” Hope said. “I used them to make money and be famous, and they paid me with their lives. That’s what’s pointless.”
“Hope… ”
“Money is pointless,” she said, not letting me interject. “Being famous is pointless. I don’t even have any real friends anymore. Thirteen people died because I thought getting rich and famous would make me happy.”
“Have you thought about seeing anyone? A grief counselor?”
“I don’t need a grief counselor,” she said.
“Are you sure about that?”
“I don’t need a grief counselor,” she said again, more sharply this time.
“But you don’t sound like you’re very happy.”
“Maybe not, but you know what? I don’t think I’ve been happy in years. Not really. The shooting just made everything worse.” She sighed heavily. “Now I can’t even pretend like I’m doing this for a good reason.”
I parked my car in my client’s driveway and turned off the engine. I leaned back against the headrest.
“I think you should come home for a while,” I said. “Stay with Mel until you feel better.”
“No. I can’t be around her and the kids like this.”
“Then come stay with me and Karen,” I said, and I regretted it the instant it came out of my mouth.
“I don’t want to meet your girlfriend.”
“So stay with me because you want to meet Wilson and Spalding,” I said, trying to turn it into a joke. “They’re good dogs.”
“I can’t stay with you,” Hope said. “You know I can’t. And I don’t want to meet anyone.”
She wasn’t talking about the dogs, of course.
“Yeah,” I said. “I get it.”
Without needing to discuss it, we both knew that Hope and Karen in the same room as each other would lead to absolutely nothing good.
“It’s eleven,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I have to go see my client now.”
“Alright,” Hope said. The word was heavy with disappointment. “Will you call me when you’re finished? Please?”
“Of course I will.”
And I did call her as soon as I got back in the car, but she didn’t pick up. I left her a message and put Pandora on instead, switching from my 90s alternative station to one of my hip hop stations. Kid Cudi’s “Pursuit of Happiness” came on, and for some reason the words made me think about Hope.
Tell me what you know about dreamin' (dreamin')
You ain't really know bout nothin' (nothin')
Tell me what you know about the night terrors every night
5 A-M cold sweats, waking up to the sky
Tell me what you know about dreams (dreams)
Tell me what you know about night terrors nothin'
You don't really care about the trials of tomorrow,
Rather lay awake in the bed full of sorrow
I'm on the pursuit of happiness and I know
Everything that's shine ain't always gonna be gold (hey)
I'll be fine once I get it, I'll be good
THANKSGIVING EVE
It was late on the night before Thanksgiving when I got the text from Melody. I was lying on the couch, Spalding draped between my knees and a bowl of popcorn balanced on my stomach. When the phone buzzed, I reached carefully towards the coffee table where it rested, trying hard not to spill the popcorn or startle the dog.
I know this is late notice, but what are you and
Karen doing for Thanksgiving tomorrow? Are
you in town?
I am, I wrote back.
Karen decided to go to Augusta to spend the
weekend with her mom, dad, and brother.
Come to our house tomorrow, Mel texted back immediately.
The pressure worked. She came home.
My heart flip-flopped. Mel didn’t need to say who “she” was; we’d both been working on Hope for weeks to get her to come to Calvin for Thanksgiving. The latest I’d heard was that Hope was going to a “Friendsgiving” that her personal assistant was putting on. I liked Nigel; I’d gotten to know him in the weeks since the shooting, but he wasn’t family. And I didn’t care how many times Hope argued that Los Angeles was home; it wasn’t. Calvin was.
We’re trying to convince her to stay longer.
I could use your help.
What time do you want me there?
And should I bring a side?
Karen wasn’t going to be happy that I was spending Thanksgiving Day with Hope and her family. But I would deal with that later.
THANKSGIVING DAY: “THANKSGIVING THEME,” VINCE GUARALDI TRIO
Hope’s eyes went wide with shock when she saw me standing on the porch.
“Hi,” I said. I held up my paper Whole Foods bag. “I brought some… uh…” I peered inside the bag. “I think it’s wild rice and edamame.”
Her face split into a grin and she snorted out a laugh. “Edamame? You brought edamame for Thanksgiving?”
I felt a blush creep into my cheeks. “I figured Mel would have all the traditional stuff covered,” I said. “Plus I, uh, kinda picked it up at the last minute yesterday night before they closed. It was all they had left.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she said.
“I know.”
Our eyes met; I instantly felt the familiar old electricity crackle between us. How was it possible for that spark to still be there? — after growing apart, after five years of silence, after we’d both moved on to other people, not once or twice but several times?
Yet it was undeniable. Talking to her over the phone was one thing. Seeing her in person? The connection, the attraction, the bond; it was all still there. It was like we’d made a fire together, and it burned us up, but it left one small ember behind. And that ember had been waiting for only the smallest encouragement to reignite.
Karen, I reminded myself.
“I should probably heat this up,” I mumbled, staring into the Whole Foods bag as if it held something far more interesting, complex, and confusing than an edamame and wild rice side salad.
“Is it actually supposed to be served hot?” Hope asked.
When I looked back up, I saw that Hope was avoiding my eyes. Did that mean she’d felt it, too? Probably. That one gaze we’d shared had held a whole tsunami of history, emotion, and possibility. A better question would’ve been how could she have not felt it?
“It’s, uh…” A nervous giggle escaped me. “Maybe you’re right, actually. I think it’s supposed to be served cold.”
She arched an eyebrow, smirked. “I’m always right.” She stepped out of the doorway and moved aside for me to enter. “Come on. Let’s find a dish for it.”
I followed Hope into the kitchen, observing her gait and the way she favored her left side. I wanted
to ask her how the leg felt, but thankfully I stopped myself. It was too soon to bring it up. Too soon to tell her about the scheme Mel and I had hatched about having me take over her physical therapy and rehab so that she could stay in Calvin longer.
One thing at a time. First we had to convince her to stay.
Once the table had been cleared, the leftovers had been put away, and all the dishes were done, Andrew took Aunt Tina back to the assisted living facility and Mel, Hope, and I settled in on the screened in back porch with our drinks. Inside, the three kids all settled down to watch “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving;” I could hear the familiar jazzy piano music and cartoon voices through the window that overlooked the porch.
Melody lit a large scented candle on the glass table in the center of the porch, filling the air with a sweet, cloying smell of cinnamon.
“Another Thanksgiving. Here and gone,” she said as she dropped into a chair across from us. “Next thing you know, it’ll be New Year’s.”
Hope and I sat on opposite ends of a wicker porch sofa, about as far away from each other as we could sit while still being on the same piece of furniture. And when she sat down, Hope had piled the two throw pillows on her side of the sofa between us like a barrier.
“I still can’t get used to seeing Aunt Tina here without Uncle Billy,” Hope said wistfully.
I nodded. Uncle Billy, whom Hope once told me was her second favorite person in the world after me, had died unexpectedly of a heart attack just before Thanksgiving two years earlier. Ever since the shooting, I’d found myself wishing that he was still alive. If anyone could’ve helped Hope get out of the dark space she was in, it would have been him.
We sipped our drinks in relaxed silence; I listened to the Charlie Brown special in the background.
“Come on, Charlie Brown,” I heard Lucy say. “I’ll hold the ball and you kick it.”
“Hold it? Ha!” said Charlie Brown. “You’ll pull it away and I’ll land flat on my back and kill myself.”
“But Charlie Brown, it’s Thanksgiving,” Lucy said.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
I glanced at Hope out of the corner of my eye. I wondered if she was listening, too, or if she was lost in thought about Uncle Billy.