I rush over, not even kicking off my dirty running shoes first. “Grandma, are you okay?” I sit down next to her and put a hand on her leg. I hope she’ll comment on my sitting on the couch in sweaty clothes, but instead she turns and her vacant stare shows no recognition of my clothes or my face.
“She’s had another one of her spells,” Rose says, rubbing Grandma’s shoulder.
“What’s that all about?” I point at the shouting match.
“That Susan...” Rose shakes her head. “When we arrived, Connie was still in her nightgown. Susan claims she just arrived and there was supposed to be another nurse here. It’s the second time this has happened. All this change is very unsettling for your grandmother.”
I nod.
“Susan said something about a family emergency. I feel for her, but Connie needs consistency.”
More tears fall from Grandma’s eyes, and Rose gives her a squeeze. “We have to think about Connie’s well-being. She seems fine a lot of the time, but I know your father’s death is taking a toll.” Rose tilts her head in that sad, apologetic way and reaches for my hand. “She was looking for your mother when we arrived today.”
I let go of Rose’s hand and pat Grandma’s leg again. I steady myself with a deep breath and stand. I walk over to the table to get Grandma’s iced tea. She loves her afternoon tea. Maybe that will make her feel better.
Susan barks a rebuke of something one of the bridge ladies says, and this gets Grandma’s attention. “Alice? Is that you? Alice, where’s Peter? Where’s Peter?” Her shrill cry sets off Grandma’s friends. Their voices elevate, and when Susan’s sharp words mix in with more of Grandma’s shrieks, I stumble a little and lean on the table because it brings me back to the day Callie and her mom took me to the hospital to see Mom.
It was the same cacophonous volley of voices shouting that day when I arrived at the hospital with Callie and her mom after the attack. We rushed into the ER, into a vortex of activity. All the bombing victims had been transported to this hospital that looked more like Grand Central Station on that day we were there on our family vacation to New York City. Blue and green-clothed men and women flew past each other from one side of the entrance area to the other, shouting orders. Mixed in were the shrill cries and sobs of all the relatives. Mr. and Mrs. Maguire left us to find out where my mom was while Callie waited next to me and held my hand. We were still as statues as activity swirled all around us. Eventually, a nurse put us in two empty chairs.
Callie’s parents finally learned the information about my mom. When they found us and pointed to the curtain where my mom lay awaiting surgery, I leaped out of my seat. I cut off a few hospital workers in my dash to Mom but was stopped by a nurse before I could part the curtain. I screamed about that being my mom in there, but the nurse wouldn’t let me see her. I don’t even remember any of the words she said, just that they were soft and gentle. But they were no match for my screams and tears. Finally, a combination of Mrs. Maguire, the nurse, and those soft, gentle words calmed me. I stepped away but just as far as was required. I wouldn’t sit in the only empty seat halfway across the room. I stood and waited, ready for the moment I’d be able to see her.
I didn’t have to wait long because suddenly a discordant yelp from one of Mom’s machines shot into the waiting area. My body jerked forward, but Callie’s mom restrained me. Green and blue bodies dashed into my mom’s curtained room. A woman’s voice shouted, “Code blue,” and more nurses swooped in. Within seconds, the curtain flew open and the wheeled bed emerged, surrounded by bodies and tubes. Callie’s mom gasped, “Alice!” and took a step forward. But I was frozen in place, rooted to the ground. And as they wheeled my mom past me, I looked away.
I looked away.
I didn’t know what I’d see. There was so much anguish in all the voices, I knew it wasn’t good. What if this was the last time I’d see Mom? I didn’t want her colorless face or mangled features to be the lasting image in my mind. I wanted to remember her the way she smiled at me on her way out the door that day saying, “Last chance, Emma.” I should have rushed to my mom’s side when they wheeled her out. She needed me, and I should have been there. But I was more concerned with my own memories. I turned away from my mom because I was selfish.
“Alice?” Grandma’s cry brings me back to the present.
The argument continues as all of Grandma’s friends are now over by the couch, trying to calm her. She’s sobbing, confused about where my mom and dad are and also now wondering when Grandpa will be home. My body urges flight once more, and before my mind can stop it, I mumble something about going to the car.
I escape to the porch, but the fresh air is like oxygen to the smoldering tears that live permanently in my eyes. I stare at the clear evening sky and hold them back. Another outcry from inside, and my legs take over. They carry me out to the sidewalk, and I run as fast as I can—away from the sadness and from Grandma—turning my back once again.
Chapter 8
I’ve settled into a rhythm at school these past few weeks. Classes aren’t so bad, and I’ve even befriended a couple of girls in English. Not best friend status, but friendly in the kind of way where we’ll choose each other for partners when we’re forced to work on a group project. They even motioned for me to sit with them at lunch one day. But when I called Mari over to join us, their darting eyes told me they weren’t too thrilled. So ever since, I’ve stuck to my planter edge where Mari joins me every day.
“Hey,” I say loudly as I head over to our spot where Mari is already eating her usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
She waves and points to her full mouth. I move her backpack to the ground and drop mine next to it so I can sit on her good side.
“How’d you do on your Spanish test?” I ask, unwrapping my chicken sandwich. At some point I’m going to have to start packing a lunch. I’m actually getting a little sick of Chick-fil-A.
She swallows. “Pretty good. I think. Although I still forgot the difference between por and para.”
We studied at the library after cross-country practice yesterday. I wasn’t much help because I’m taking French, but I quizzed her since her mom was down with a migraine and she had no one else to help her.
“Was your grandma okay yesterday?” Mari asks.
“Yeah. She seems okay.” It’s been several weeks since the episode on bridge day, but Susan has been there consistently and Grandma has only had a few minor bouts of forgetfulness. I finally broke down and told Mari everything about my situation. I felt bad lying to her, and it actually was sort of a relief to let go of a few of the secrets I’m carrying.
“Do you think he’ll make us run the long sprints at practice today?” Mari asks.
I swallow a bite of my sandwich. “I hope not. My legs are still a little sore from my weekend run.”
“Yeah, how’s that going? Didn’t you say your first race is coming up?” Mari crumples her brown bag into a ball.
“It’s in about a month, in early November.”
“Yikes!” She stands and walks to a nearby trash can. Turning back, she says, “Thirteen miles. That’s a lot. Will you be able to do it?”
“I hope so.” I’m really not sure I’ll be ready, but if I don’t start soon, there’s no way I’ll be able to get in four races by Memorial Day.
“What do you hope for, Loukas?” says a guy’s voice from behind us.
Ryan steps in front of us with an open bag of potato chips. I have only seen him a few times at the shelter, but we worked another shift together last week. Now, when I see him in the hall between second and third periods, he walks with me to Calculus even though his class seems to be in the opposite direction.
“Hey,” I say. This is the first I’ve seen him at lunch.
“Were you hoping I’d come and say ‘hi’?” He smiles his easy grin.
“Ha ha. Yeah.” His eyes travel over to Mari. “Oh hey, do you know Mari? Sorry, I assume you guys all know each other.”
�
��Look, the marigold blooms from secret roots,” he says and winks at her.
Mari blushes and her chin drops to her chest. My eyes move from Mari to Ryan. I don’t think he’s teasing her because he seems like a pretty nice guy. But I’m confused. “I don’t get it,” I say.
“Elementary school drama club,” Ryan says. “We all had to recite a poem from memory, and I thought it was so cool that she had like her own personal poem.”
Mari looks up. “How do you even remember that? The poem, I mean.” Her eyes and nose form one confused line on her face.
Ryan laughs. “Those aren’t the exact words. But I remember the poem. I guess some things just stick.”
“I didn’t know that was your full name,” I say to Mari, finally figuring it out.
“Yep. My name is Marigold.” She says it in the way someone would admit relation to Hitler or Osama bin Laden. “And it’s been a super fun name to have.” She points at her hair. “Super fun.”
Ryan hangs his head and holds out his chip bag to her. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Peace chip?”
Mari smiles. “No, thanks. And I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
I point to my own hair, particularly unruly today and squished back into a headband. “Hey, I know the feeling.”
“I like your hair,” Ryan says. When I look over at him, his cheeks are sort of flushed. “Both of you, I mean,” he adds quickly.
Mari doesn’t seem to hear him and exhales loudly. “I know parents think they’re all cool when they choose weird names for their kids, but what they fail to remember is that it’s the kid who has to go through life being Marigold or Apple or North or Sir.”
Ryan and I snort out a laugh. I immediately look at Mari and am relieved when I see she’s joining in. “Yours is way better than Sir. And you left out Blanket.” We make a few more jokes about celebrity names, and when those jokes peter out, an awkward silence settles on our little group.
Thankfully it doesn’t last long because Ryan’s basketball buddies find him and call him over. As he leaves, he winks and says, “New beginnings come from those secret roots,” which I assume is another line from the poem.
“That’s the first he’s spoken to me, I think, since elementary school,” Mari says when he’s gone.
“Is he a jerk? I really only know him from working at the animal shelter.”
“He works at an animal shelter?” Mari’s eyes grow wide.
“Yeah. The Seaside Humane Society.”
“I mean, it surprises me because he’s a jock, but then again, it really doesn’t surprise me,” she says.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s not like a lot of them. Or at least he doesn’t seem to be. He bought pizzas for all the students who camped out for seats before the cross-town rival game last year. And he’s like wicked smart.”
I nod.
“And from what I can see, I’m pretty sure he likes you.”
I wrinkle my nose at her. “I think that’s a stretch. We hardly know each other.” Still, I can’t help feeling a little flutter of something inside my chest.
Mari shrugs. “Go read the poem. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t only for me.”
The bell rings, and I tell Mari she’s crazy before we head off in separate directions.
When I get home after cross-country practice, there’s a young Asian woman I don’t recognize dusting the tables in the living room. Her long ponytailed head bobs up and down. I spot a black cord coming out of her back jeans pocket and follow it to the earbuds nestled inside each ear.
“Hello?” I shout to get her attention. It doesn’t work, so I walk over to her side and wave my hand in front of her.
She jumps back and puts a hand to her chest. She pulls out an earbud. “Oh, hi.”
“Where’s Susan? Are you...? Are... who are you? And where’s my grandmother?”
She smacks her gum. “I’m Alicia. I’m only here for the day. Susan had something today... I don’t know, a family thing or something.” She smacks her gum again. “Your grandma’s in the bedroom taking a nap.” She puts the earbud back in signaling the end of our conversation.
I sigh angrily. Change isn’t good for Grandma, and things have been going so well. I leave my backpack and cross-country bag by the armchair and tiptoe to the bedroom. I peek inside and see Grandma asleep on one side of the bed. Her bright blue polka dot pants don’t match the green plaid shirt she’s wearing. She is always dressed impeccably, even when we’re lounging around on a Saturday. Maybe these are work clothes because she was cleaning the garage like she always says she’s going to. I hope for this and close the door.
I walk back to the kitchen to fix a snack, and I’m greeted by a disturbing sight. Grandma’s morning pills are still resting on the counter next to a glass of water. I march into the living room where the nurse is rocking out to the rap music that thumps out of her earbuds.
“Hey!” I get right next to her and yell.
She rolls her eyes and pulls out one of the earbuds.
“Why are my grandmother’s pills still out on the counter?” I demand.
She squints as if she doesn’t understand what I’m saying.
“My grandmother’s pills? The ones she’s supposed to take every morning for her dementia and her blood pressure, and her calcium and multivitamin.” I asked Susan one day what all the pills were for. I thought I should know, and now I’m glad I do.
A light clicks on in the nurse’s head. “Oh yeah, she was pretty upset and adamant that she didn’t want to take her pills. She said she’d take them later, so I left them out on the counter. I thought she’d taken them a few hours ago.”
I frown. The calcium and vitamin aren’t so important. But she needs to take her dementia medicine and blood pressure medicine at the same time every day.
“What did she do all day?” I ask, stopping her from putting her ear bud back in.
“I don’t know.” She smacks her gum again and this time adds an eyelash flutter. “She was agitated and wanted to go to the store, so I drove her. But then she didn’t know what she wanted when we got there. So we came home, and she’s been in her room ever since.”
I direct an exaggerated sigh at the nurse, one similar to what my parents would do when I’d take out the garbage but not the recycling because technically they had only asked me to take out the trash. Grandma will be so upset if she realizes she went in public looking like she does now. It will mortify her.
“Look,” the nurse lowers her dust rag, “I’m as unhappy as you are. Dementia patients, that’s not my thing. I’m only here because I drew the short straw.”
“Short straw?” My hand and my hip meet like two magnets drawn to each other and my chin juts out. “Excuse me, but my grandmother isn’t somebody’s ‘short straw.’”
Her eyes soften. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just frustrated.” She puts down her dust rag. “Let’s go wake your grandmother and have her take her pills.”
“No thanks.” My anger still boils. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Suit yourself.” She smacks her gum a couple more times and picks up the dust rag.
I roll my eyes and head to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water and a bowl of grapes. I carry them back to Grandma’s room. I have so much to do tonight: finish my math homework, study for a French quiz tomorrow, work on my college essay, and review more for the ACT in a few weeks. I need one more attempt to raise my score. It’s already pretty high, but I want more assurance for Ohio State.
Instead of doing any of that, though, I sit on the floor next to Grandma’s bed while she sleeps. I want to be here when she wakes up to be certain she’s okay. I need to be here for her.
Chapter 9
On Saturday morning, my alarm chirps at 5:00 a.m. I punch the snooze button and consider turning it off completely, but in my mind, “November 11” flashes, and I know I have to get up. I have a race in less than a month, and I need to get these long
runs in.
I roll out of bed and turn off my alarm. In the dark, I manage to find some shorts and a tank top to wear. I put my hair on lockdown and grab my iPhone, socks, and shoes. I double-check to make sure I didn’t put my tank top on backwards—I did that last week—and I’m out the door.
There’s not much light down at the beach at this time in the morning, so it’s just the whites of the crashing waves glowing under the moon. The start is always the toughest. I don’t know how my mom did it. She used to run in the early mornings, too. My legs are always creaky at the start, and today is no different. I feel like I’m running so fast, but when I check my watch, I can see that’s not true. I bought one of those fancy GPS running watches a few weeks ago. Since I’m training for 13.1 miles—and believe me, the .1 is important—I need to know how far I’m actually going during these practice runs. I have to run six today. Coach said if I can get to ten, I should be able to make it through a half-marathon.
Once I settle in and get past all the early wake-up agony, a peacefulness settles on me. At this point in the run, my iPhone volume is still low, so I can hear the methodical rhythm of the ocean crashing against the shore. It’s cool enough that even though I’m sweating already, the breaths still come easily, and there’s no real pain, only intermittent flutters and sparks.
The best part, though, is the feeling that I’m part of a secret club—the early morning risers. We own the darkness and the silence. I run by apartment buildings still asleep except for a lone light illuminated on an upper floor. I pass the dark silhouettes of beach houses—one after another—until I stumble upon a single lamp glowing in a window. I wonder what gets these people up so early in the morning. Is it insomnia? Maybe they’re chasing a dream, too. Or maybe they just enjoy the quiet stillness of the early mornings.
And it’s not only the people I don’t see who make me feel connected. I feel a real camaraderie with the two bikers and a couple other runners I see each weekend. I may be imagining it, but we have a bond, a shared connection at being in the same place at the same time each Saturday morning. After you pass someone every week for five or six weeks and there’s no one else around, you can’t help but notice each other.
The Brilliance of Fireflies Page 7