We Are All That's Left

by Carrie Arcos

  July 12

  I GO BACK to the hospital, again, this time for a look at how my back is coming along. The swelling has gone down, so I’m hoping the stitches can be removed today.

  “This looks good, Zara,” the nurse tells me.

  “So, today?”

  “Yep. Most of the cuts weren’t too deep, so I can do it right now, if you like.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She leaves, and I adjust the papery shirt so that it’s covering the front of me a little better. When she returns, I lie down on my stomach. I feel her get to work.

  Snip. Tug. Pull.

  It doesn’t hurt as much as it feels totally weird.

  “You’re healing nicely,” she says. “Now, it’ll still be a little raw. Have you been using the A and E ointment?”

  “Yes. Sometimes my brother helps me with the spots I can’t reach when my dad isn’t home.”

  “Good. No wonder you’re recovering so quickly.”

  “I thought a week was a long time for stitches.”

  “Not at all. And since yours cover a larger area, up to two weeks is the norm. You don’t want to leave sutures in too long, or else severe scarring can occur.”

  She helps me sit up.

  “Scarring, huh?”

  She looks at me with kindness. “Even with removing these on time, there will be a scar, but you won’t know what it’ll look like until it matures. And of course, putting the balm on it and continuing to be careful with your movements for a little while will help.”

  “Okay. Thank you. Oh, um, one more thing.” I feel weird asking her, but I need to. “Can you take my picture?” I want to see my back more clearly. Document how it’s healing. Christine seemed to think this kind of thing could help her in some way. Maybe it could help me too.

  “Um, yeah, sure. If you’d like.”

  I hand the nurse my camera and turn around, facing away.

  “You can take a couple,” I say, and she does.

  After she leaves the room and I’ve put my shirt back on, I look at the pictures. There are three jagged raised red lines that cross my back. I don’t look so much like a freak because the stitches are out. But I don’t look like I used to. Forget wearing a bikini again.

  I don’t know if I ever will.

  * * *

  ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  Back in Mom’s room, it’s a little cold, so I cover her with the extra blanket I find. I sit in a chair close to the window, bathed in shafts of light. Her eyes open. Her pupils take a moment to adjust. They look around the room, not stopping and settling until they spy me.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say.

  I’m not sure if she recognizes me, so I get up and walk over to her. “It’s me, Zara. How are you feeling?”

  She doesn’t respond, but I keep talking to her, like the nurse said I should.

  “Gramma and Vovo are still here. Everyone’s pulling for you.”

  Her eyes are clear. They lock on me with an intense hunger, more focused than last time. And then her hand moves toward mine.

  “Mom,” I say, “that’s so good! You moved your hand.”

  I hold it, firmly but gently. There are tears now, welling up in her eyes and starting to drip down her face. I wipe them away with my free hand.

  “It’s okay, Mom. You’re going to be okay.”

  I text Dad and tell him to come right away.

  Her mouth moves, but I can’t hear what she’s saying, so I bend close.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  Her words are slurred and then her face is blurry because now I’m crying too. I can’t help it.

  “No, Mom. Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Zara.” It’s all she’s able to say. And though it comes out more like Sara, I’ve never been so relieved to hear her say my name.

  * * *

  ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  My grandparents and Benny and Aunt Evelyn come to the hospital, and we spend the day with Mom. She cries again when she sees Benny.

  It’s difficult seeing her try to talk. Her words are slurred, almost as if she’s had a stroke. And what little she’s speaking is more Bosnian than English—the accent she’s tried to hide for years now out in the open.

  Dad is so happy. He says that each day, she’ll get stronger. Each day she’ll come back to us a little more. Bit by bit.

  I’m so relieved Mom is awake, but I feel nervous around her too. A little uncertain of how to act, because this is completely new ground. I stand at the edge of her bed, smiling when she looks at me. Her eyes seem to go in and out of focus. Does she notice I’m wearing her prayer beads?

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  What’re you up to later?

  It’s Joseph.

  This.

  I send him a picture of my family in the hospital room.

  She’s awake! Amazing!

  Thanks. Not sure yet. What are you up to?

  I wanted to see if you wanted to go to Shakespeare in the park with me

  I don’t understand the question, so I send him a question mark.

  Shakespeare in the park.

  What’s that?

  Shakespeare performed in the park.

  Haha.

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  Oh, he’s serious.

  When?

  Later, like 6

  I ask Dad if it’s okay, and he nods. I probably could have asked him for a thousand dollars and he would have agreed.

  Sure

  I’ll pick you up at your house.

  Just send me your address.

  We stay with Mom until early afternoon, when she begins to get tired. Dad suggests we let her sleep. The mood on the ride home is one of sober relief. It looks like it’s going to be a long way back for Mom, but we’re all just glad that she’s here.

  At home, I head straight to my room to get ready for my date with Joseph.

  July 12

  “WOW, SO YOU really meant a park,” I say as Joseph pulls his dad’s car along the side of the road next to a small park in downtown Providence.

  “Yep. You’ve never been to one of these?”

  “No. But after you said it, I did remember a teacher in ninth grade talking about it. I didn’t know it was still a thing.”

  I get out of the car, but then I hesitate. There is a large group of people already on the grass, sitting in chairs and on blankets. Joseph pulls two small beach chairs and a blanket out of the trunk. He starts to walk in, but I’m not ready to follow. When he turns and sees that I’m still standing by the car, he stops.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Um, yeah, it’s just . . . the crowd.” I really don’t want to freak out on him like I did with my friends.

  Joseph walks back to me and sets the stuff down on the ground.

  “We can leave if you want.”

  I take a breath. “No.” I have to be able to be out in public with people. I can’t live my life in fear.

  He leans against the car, next to me, and we watch as people mingle, set up their seats. Some are having a little picnic before the show.

  One more deep breath. “Let’s do it,” I say. “But it might be good to have an escape plan. Just in case.”

  “Okay. How about we find a spot that’s close to the car and not in the middle,” he says. “That way if you want to leave, we’ll have clear access.”

  I nod. “That sounds good.” And the space is pretty open. Since the park is in the middle of the city, if anything did happen, I’m sure response time would be quick.

  I scan for buildings that can fall, but all I can find is a small stage and scattered trees.

  “Ready?” Joseph asks.

  I play with the beads at my neck
and try to push the fear away. “Yeah,” I say, and walk in.

  We find a spot along the edge of the crowd with the car in our line of sight. Joseph opens up a red blanket and lays it down before setting up the chairs. I sit down and take off my flip-flops, stretch out my legs in front of me.

  “Be right back,” he says. He runs down to the stage and speaks with someone behind a table. Joseph looks like he could be one of the actors—handsome and compelling even from a distance. He’s wearing jeans and a formfitting gray T-shirt, and clearly he must work out. I wonder if he plays sports or what he likes on his pizza or what his favorite movie is. It occurs to me that I hardly know anything about him except that he’s kind, which is important and, right now, feels like enough.

  I scan the crowd for anyone I know, but no one looks familiar. No one looks suspicious either. I try and calm my heart. I tell myself that it’s okay. I’ll be okay.

  Just then, one of the female performers comes out from the side of the stage and rushes at Joseph from behind. He turns and picks her up. She’s beautiful, black and petite with long black hair down her back, the other half up with a crown of flowers. He holds her in front of him, and she twirls a little to show off her beautiful white gown with a purple sash.

  My cheeks feel hot, especially the scraped-up one. They’re either good friends or together. Not that it’s my business, but I’m hoping it’s the first. Because taking me to his girlfriend’s production and not even telling me is just rude.

  Joseph bounds back through the crowd and plops a program down in my lap. It’s got the title of tonight’s production on the front with a full close-up of the beautiful girl he was just hanging all over a few moments ago.

  “She’s pretty,” I say.

  “Yeah. Don’t tell her that.”

  “Um, how do you know her?” I ask.

  “She’s my sister, Cassandra.”

  “Your sister?” I immediately feel stupid.

  “She’s studying theater at Brown. Tonight she’s Hermia, and that’s very important, according to her. I’ll introduce you afterward.”

  “Are your parents here too?” I ask, hoping that they aren’t, because having to meet his sister is one thing. His parents would be something else entirely. I don’t want to meet them like this. Scarface and all.

  “No, they’re coming tomorrow night and then we’re headed down to Dorchester for a couple of days. Hey, you okay?”

  “Yeah, of course.” But I feel so exposed. I open the program and bury myself in reading it, thankful to have something to do other than try to make small talk with Joseph.

  I study the headshots in the program and read a little about the play in a short synopsis, but it already sounds complicated. Lots of gender disguises and names to keep track of.

  “Have you seen this before?” I ask.

  “Nope.” Joseph opens a bag of chips. He offers me one.

  “Thanks,” I say. Salt and vinegar. “My favorite.”

  “Mine too.”

  He smiles and I smile back, but look away. Joseph has a habit of making me nervous.

  “All I know is there’s some love triangle, mistaken identities, fighting, lots of monologues, your basic Shakespeare,” he says.

  “Any witches?” I ask.

  He thinks for a minute, midchew.

  “Actually, no. Fairies in this one.”

  “When I was little, I used to pretend fireflies were actually tiny fairies. I’d chase them around my yard during the summer, you know, catch them in a glass jar. I remember this one time I made them a little house out of twigs and leaves with a bed and . . .” I falter because he’s lying down on his side watching me like I’m the most interesting thing here. It’s unnerving.

  “And?” he asks.

  “And, well, this is kind of gross. But I gave them dead bees as pets.”

  “How’d you collect dead bees?”

  “I’d spray bug killer on them.”

  I sound ridiculous. I push three chips in my mouth so I’ll stop talking.

  “Awesome,” he says, and laughs.

  Then an actor steps onto the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin. Please take your seats. We ask that there be no flash photography during the show, but afterward, our actors will be available for close-ups and selfies. And now we present to you A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  We all clap, and the play begins.

  “If you get cold,” Joseph whispers, his breath suddenly near my ear, “I brought this.” He points to a green-and-blue-checkered blanket folded next to him.

  “Thanks,” I say. I do have goose bumps, but I’m not at all cold.

  His sister walks out onstage. Joseph is immediately rapt with attention, and pretty soon I am too. Cassandra is wonderful and funny as a young woman in love. From what I can make of it, and having read the synopsis, it seems like she is in love with Lysander, but she’s supposed to marry Demetrius. And if she doesn’t marry Demetrius, she will be either killed or sent to a convent. When her dad tells her this, some of the people in the crowd gasp, making us laugh. Being a woman back in the day was no joke.

  As the play goes on, there’s all this drama and a play within the play. There’s fairy mischief and potions and a forest. Then Hermia thinks that Lysander has fallen in love with her friend Helena because Helena is tall. It’s so silly. But it makes me laugh. And it feels so good to just be out, having fun, doing something new.

  The actors do an incredible job of making the action and comedy accessible to the audience. Through their motions and how they say the words, it’s not too tricky to understand old Shakespearean English.

  It’s a long play, but it’s really good, surprisingly good. I can’t wait to tell Audrey about it. She’ll want all the details about Joseph. He’s been nothing but a gentleman. But for me, the real victory is that I’ve been able to be in a large crowd without freaking out. This is progress.

  After the play is over, we pick up the blanket and chairs and wait around to meet Cassandra.

  When she emerges from backstage, she smiles wide and brings me in for a hug. I try not to wince as her hands wrap around my back.

  “Hi, Zara. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m really glad you came.”

  “Me too. I loved it,” I tell her. And it’s true. “I’ve never been to one of these.”

  “They’re the best. Free. Outside. Fun time with friends. Though getting Joseph here is always tough,” she says.

  “You were great, Cassandra, really,” Joseph says.

  “Yeah, really incredible,” I say.

  “Thank you.”

  “I only noticed one line fudge,” he says with a teasing smile.

  “Shut up,” she says. “Although I did almost trip.”

  Both of them laugh, and I smile.

  “Okay, I don’t want to keep your fan base waiting too long,” Joseph says, referring to the small line of people waiting to speak with her.

  Cassandra smiles and slaps his shoulder. “Thanks for coming, guys. Zara, maybe I’ll see you again?”

  I nod and feel my cheeks flush. For a brief moment, I’m thankful one is bandaged.

  “Bye.” She waves us off and speaks to a woman who gushes about her performance.

  Joseph turns to me. “It’s still kind of early. Want to get something to drink?”

  I check the time. It’s not even ten yet. “Sure.”

  We pack up the car and walk downtown. But Joseph stops a few blocks in, in front of a new coffee shop.

  “Have you been here yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Pretty good. Standard.”

  He opens the door for me, and we get in line.

  “So what did you actually think of the play?” he asks me.

  “It was cool. I mean I didn’t catch everything, but the actors were so good
and funny. I didn’t expect it to be so funny.”

  “Me neither,” he says. “The last one I saw her in was Hamlet, and that one had no laughs. Or if it did, I don’t remember. Lots of talking about death and mothers.”

  Death and mothers. Why does it always come back to that? I wonder what Mom is up to now. Is she alone in her room? Asleep? Staring up at the ceiling? What’s she thinking about? Is she relieved to be awake, or afraid that she won’t fully recover? That she has lost a part of herself?

  I feel Joseph stiffen next to me, so I glance at him. He’s fidgeting with his hands and staring at the ground. I’m about to ask him if he’s okay when I notice an older couple who just ordered is standing off to the side and staring at him. The man puts his arm around the woman’s shoulders and turns her away. But she looks back over her shoulder at us. Joseph looks at her, and she stares at him. Hard.

  “Do you know—” But I don’t get to finish.

  “Hey, you know what, there’s a better place I forgot about.”

  And then he leaves the line, speeding out the front door. I have to run to catch up to him a little ways down the street.

  I want to ask him what’s going on, but his hands are shoved in his pockets and he’s walking so fast. He eventually turns around the corner and rests his back against a brick building. He takes out his phone and texts someone. Then he looks up at me and even though it’s dark, I can see his eyes are watery.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot that I have to do something. Do you mind if we just go home?”

  “No, not at all,” I say. But I’m a little weirded out by his behavior. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine,” he says, but we both know he’s lying.

  As he drives me home, he’s strangely quiet. The only side I know of Joseph is a talkative, vivacious one. I try to make a little small talk, but he just answers with one-word responses. So I stop and look out the window the rest of the drive. When we pull up to my house, I see my gramma pull back the curtains from the living room. Joseph idles in the driveway.

  “Thanks,” I say. I point to the well-lit room. “Gramma’s up and waiting.”

  I grab the handle on the door and am about to ask him again if everything is okay, but before I can, he just says, “I’ll see you later.”