by Paula Garner
“It’s great to meet you,” Luke said to my mom, ushering us in the front door. “My mom’s so glad you could come.”
She stammered out a response as we followed Luke up the stairs.
When we approached the master bedroom, Luke held up a finger to us in a wait one sec gesture and peeked into the room. After a few soft exchanges, he opened the door for us.
Flowers filled the room — they were everywhere, all kinds, almost too cheery, too bright. Mima watched us from the bed, her face completely washed of color. Her concave chest rose in staccato short breaths. A machine fed her oxygen through tubes into her nose.
Buddy turned from fixing her covers and gave us a tired smile. He hugged me, then quietly introduced himself to my mom.
I looked toward Mima, who lifted a hand to gesture me over. I approached her carefully, afraid I’d cry, afraid I’d do something wrong. She was so gaunt. I reminded myself that she was still Mima, the woman who had loved and taken care of me. I tried to slip my arms around her to hug her, carefully avoiding the tubes.
“Jules.” She smiled at me through cracked lips. “You’re a . . . sight for sore eyes.” Her speech was punctuated by short breaths, and it sent a chill through me. She glanced behind me. “And this is . . . your mother?”
I turned to make way for my mother to approach, but she didn’t step forward. She stood there, lips trembling, then pressed both hands to her face and started to silently cry.
I was mortified, even as it pierced my heart. I stepped over to her and put an arm around her shaking shoulders, coaching her in a whisper. “It’s okay. Shhh.” And finally, “Mom, pull yourself together — please.”
She dropped her hands and shuffled forward, still sniffling and trying to contain herself.
Mima patted the bed beside her, and my mom perched on the edge. Between my mom’s hiccup-y breaths and Mima’s intermittent and sudden shallow ones, I felt like I was suffocating.
Mima glanced up at us with a smile. “Give us . . . a minute?”
I nodded, my eyes connecting briefly with my mom’s, which were full of terror.
Luke and I stepped into the hall, swinging the door almost closed. “Come on,” he whispered, leading me down the hallway to his room.
He sat on his bed, which was unmade, and dropped his face into his hands. I sat down next to him, struggling to know how to comfort him, what the parameters were. I rested a tentative hand on his back. He startled me by turning to me and hugging me, his forehead pressed into my shoulder.
I held him, stroking his back softly. I whispered meaningless phrases of comfort, helpless to do anything that could make a real difference. He clung to me, and I was elated with the feeling of his needing me, of wanting to get closer, but also hated myself for taking any pleasure when what compelled him to cleave to me in this moment was a deep well of pain.
“I’m not ready for this,” he whispered. “I don’t want her to die.”
“I know.”
“I know I’m all grown up, but . . . she’s my mom. You know?”
“I know.”
“She won’t be at my wedding. My kids won’t have their grandmother.”
My eyes filled at all the terrible things he was beginning to realize.
“She should have been a grandmother,” he said. “She’d be the best grandmother a kid could ever have.”
“Yes.”
“And my dad . . . he’ll be all alone.” At this, his voice tore into ragged sobs. I held him tighter as he shook under my arms.
After a moment, he pulled back and wiped his face. The light streaming through the window lit his eyes a bright green.
“How long can you stay?” he asked. He sounded like a little boy, and I realized in some ways, that’s what he was. A little boy who was about to lose his mother.
“I don’t know,” I said, wiping away my own tears. “I imagine my mom is going to want to head back pretty quick.”
He wrapped his hands tightly around mine. “If I drive you home tomorrow, would you stay the night?”
I blinked. “Really? You — you want me to stay?” My heart soared.
He glanced down. “I don’t want to be alone. Besides . . .” He looked up at me. “She was your mother, too. You should be here with her. With us.”
I looked at that beautiful face, so open and raw. “Of course I’ll stay.” I pulled him into a hug without even hesitating.
I jumped at a rap at the door. I quickly pulled away from Luke as Buddy pushed the door partway open. “Mom’s just about spent,” he said. “Probably should wrap it up.”
I nodded and stood up. When I stepped into the hall, Buddy offered me a weak smile. “How’s our girl?” he asked.
I was unable to answer. Instead I teared up and nodded. He patted my back as we walked down the hall, Luke following behind.
My mom emerged from Mima’s room carrying a paper bag. She looked a little shell-shocked, but she wasn’t crying anymore.
“What’s that?” I asked softly, eyeing the bag.
“Pictures and home movies.” She took my arm before I could follow Buddy and Luke into Mima’s room. “Can we go? Please.”
I winced. “Luke asked me to stay with him. He’ll drive me home tomorrow.” Watching her process that, I felt terrible. “Will you be okay?”
She nodded, but I wasn’t convinced.
“Are you sure? I could tell Luke I can’t —”
“No, it’s fine. If I’m struggling, I’ll go to a meeting. Or maybe see my friend.” She glanced toward the bedroom door. “Tell Luke and his dad thank you.”
“Will you message me when you get home? Right away?”
She nodded and started to move away, but then she turned back for a hug.
“You did good,” I whispered.
She squeezed me a little tighter. When she headed down the stairs, I was not at all sure she was going to be okay, and I almost called after her to wait, that I’d go with her. But I’d told Luke I’d stay with him, and this was probably the last time I’d ever see Mima.
My mom would have to take care of herself.
I tiptoed in and sat next to Mima, whose eyes were drooping. She saw me and moved her lips, but nothing came out.
“It’s okay,” I said, squeezing her hand. It was bony, cool to the touch. “You don’t have to say anything.”
But there were things I wanted to say — things I needed to say. There was no way I could do this without crying. I didn’t even bother to hold it back. “The way you took care of me . . . The love you gave me — it’s why I’m okay. It’s part of who I am. I’ll carry it with me the rest of my life. I love you, Mima.” The words felt awkward but important.
She swallowed with effort. Her lips were so dry and cracked it was hard to look at them. She nodded, mostly with her eyes, somehow. “I love you, Jules.” Her eyes fluttered closed.
Buddy patted me on the shoulder kindly, cuing me that I should let her sleep. When I glanced up at him, his chin quivered slightly — a sight so terrible I wished I hadn’t seen it. As he adjusted her sheets, I slipped out.
“Do you have any fours?”
Luke and I had been playing card games for over an hour — part distraction, part reliving lost childhood, I supposed.
Luke squinted at me, leaning back against his bed. “You’re cheating.”
I snorted. “How would I cheat? What, do you think I have mirrors set up or something?”
He threw his cards down. “I forfeit. I don’t play with witches.”
I actually laughed — which felt amazing but also completely inappropriate. But when I risked a glance at Luke, he was smiling.
I picked his cards up off the rug and put the deck back together. “Okay, but you owe me seven cents.”
“Man, you’re brutal.” He stood up. “I’m not sure I would have survived an entire life with you as my sister.” He went over and picked through a mug of change on his desk. He turned and handed me a nickel and two pennies. “Don’t spend it a
ll in one place.”
I grinned and slipped the coins into my front pocket.
He glanced toward the door. “I’m gonna go check. I’ll be right back.”
I nodded, the smile falling from my face. When he left, I stood up and shook out my leg — my foot was asleep. As I set the cards on his dresser, I spotted a photo — a small one in a silver frame. I picked it up. It was Luke and a girl. Not just any girl, but a beautiful redhead — possibly the one who kissed him after his recital. She was in a red dress, and both her arms were around Luke, who was in a suit. She smiled into the camera like she owned the world. His eyes were on her.
“Makayla.”
I jumped, glancing up. “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” I said, setting the photo down where I found it. “I wasn’t snooping —”
“It’s fine; it’s just a picture.” He walked over and shoved his fingers into his jeans pockets.
I swept my hair out of my face, flustered. “How is she?”
He had his eyes fixed on mine, and it made me forget what universe I lived in. “She’s sleeping. The nurse is here. Dad handed me some money and told me to go get us some dinner.” He smiled. “You’re hungry, right?”
“I assume that’s a rhetorical question,” I said, a slight blush warming my cheeks.
“That’s my girl.” His smile melted me.
My phone dinged. I grabbed it from my purse on the floor. “My mom, probably.”
It was. She was home, grabbing a bite, and heading to a meeting.
I glanced up at Luke. “She’s okay, apparently.” I quickly typed, Good — thanks for letting me know. <3
He tilted his head. “You were worried that she might . . .”
I hesitated, feeling caught out. I didn’t want to imply my mother was unstable, that this was a thing I needed to worry about.
He stepped closer. “Jules. You know you can’t be responsible . . .”
“I know.” I wanted to touch him, to let him know I appreciated his concern, but everything I wanted to do seemed like maybe too much.
“Okay.” He nodded. “So? Dinner. Does Mexican sound good?”
“I love Mexican. If it sounds good to you, it sounds good to me.” I picked up my purse and slung it over my shoulder. “Su casa es mi casa.”
He laughed softly and shook his head. I loved that. I loved that I could make him laugh.
In the car on the way to the restaurant, I took in one of my favorite sights: Luke behind the wheel, relaxed. His beautiful hands, his lean thighs, his command of the vehicle. The doubt surfaced in my mind that Gab ever looked at Daniel this way, but the comparison suffered. They were actually related. And they had always known each other. Was it so weird that things felt not exactly like that with Luke?
“Hey, how are you at driving?” he asked, glancing at me.
“Well, I haven’t driven through any storefronts or mowed down any pedestrians yet.”
He grinned. “Good enough for me. Will you drive home? I could really go for a margarita. Or three.”
“Oh! Sure, no problem.” But I was immediately nervous that I’d drive like a dolt and embarrass myself.
Luke pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall and found a space in front of a place called Juanita’s Cantina. Though bland on the outside, the interior was warm and awash with colors. Mariachi music played, which I detested, but I’d listen to fingernails on a chalkboard accompanied by dental drills if I could do it in Luke’s company.
We were seated in a booth near the back, a candle flickering on the table. I settled in and opened my menu. “What’s good here?”
“I have a thing for the veggie enchiladas.” He leaned forward and pointed to them on my menu. “They have spinach and they’re in a cream sauce.”
“Yum.” I sat back as a busboy set a basket of chips and salsa in front of us.
“But they also have this insanely spicy shrimp thing. It’s in this red sauce with smoked chilies, and it is seriously hot.”
I closed the menu. “There can’t be anything on this menu that sounds as good as those two things. Get both and share?”
He closed his menu. “Girl after my own heart.”
Well, yes. I was, in fact. Any way I could get it.
After he’d ordered a jumbo margarita (with salt, on the rocks), guacamole, and the entrées, we talked about everything but Mima and, man, did it feel good. It wasn’t as if we could forget about it, but to be able to distract each other, safe in the knowledge that neither of us was truly forgetting . . . we had cried enough that day, and we’d no doubt cry tomorrow. This was a precious time-out from life.
So we talked about college. About childhood. About Gab and Leila. Music. Religion. Where we’d like to travel. If it were a date, it would be the best date I’d ever had — and probably the best I ever would have. It was meaningful; it had depth. We clicked. It was such a rare thing for me, this kind of connection. He was so right for me in so many ways. And yet so tragically wrong.
Luke was the best example of a boy, of a man, I’d ever encountered. He was sweet and thoughtful and respectful and gentle. God, he was so fucking appealing. Why did he have to be so much what I had always wanted and never found? Why did he have to be so perfect?
When we finished eating, Luke ordered a burrito to bring home to his dad and finished the last of his jumbo margarita. His second jumbo margarita. They weren’t kidding about “jumbo”: they looked like small fishbowls on stems.
While we waited on the burrito, he tipped his head to the side, regarding me. I would have given anything to know what he was thinking. Did he find me attractive? Or was he marveling at how grown up his little sister was? Or simply having second thoughts about entrusting me behind the wheel?
After he paid the check, he helped me on with my coat, giving me a little hug from behind after my arms slid into the sleeves. I shivered, despite the added warmth.
Outside, a cool mist swirled and glittered like diamond dust under the sodium lights in the parking lot. We walked to the car, arm in arm, Luke making me laugh by singing a silly song about a mouse named Gerald and gingerbread men and a bike with a basket. He opened the driver’s-side door with a flourish, and I climbed in. A moment later, he tumbled into the passenger seat and laid his head on my shoulder. “Thank you,” he said.
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” I said softly, quietly inhaling his fragrant hair. I couldn’t resist.
“This is the best I’ve felt in days,” he mumbled. “I wish it could stay like this.”
Happiness swelled in me. “I know. It’s okay. Hey. We’ll go back, we’ll hang out, maybe have a beer, have some laughs. Tomorrow is for tomorrow. Tonight is still tonight.”
“Can I say something terrible?”
“Sure.”
“I wish we’d never lost you.”
My breath caught at those words. “That’s not terrible.”
“But it’s like wishing your mother never got you back. It is wishing that.”
“Yes, but . . .” I knew his wish wasn’t terrible, even if it had a dark side. After all, how many times had I wished the same thing? “It’s a wish born of love. I understand.” I let myself pet his head, just a little, but when he didn’t seem to mind, I kept going.
“We should go,” he finally said.
“Right,” I said, trying to keep the regret out of my voice. “Your dad’s burrito is getting cold.”
He sat up, his hair all flopping in the wrong direction.
“Seat belt,” I reminded him.
“Right.” He buckled up, and then, tiredly but cheerfully, he directed me home.
We pulled into the driveway and then traipsed up to the house arm and arm, both a little off-kilter for various reasons. Inside, he grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge. We tiptoed upstairs, and I went to Luke’s room while he brought his dad the burrito.
He was back in no time. “Dad’s asleep next to her with the TV on,” he whispered. “Hey, do you need something to sleep in?”
Well, yes, there was that. A shirt probably would be easy enough, but I was worried about the “bottoms” category. “What do you have that’s loose and comfy?”
He opened a dresser drawer and started tossing things at me. “My Derrick Rose shirt is huge. . . . These pajama bottoms are pretty big. But ugly.” He tossed me a pair of green-and-black plaid pants. I held them up. They did seem pretty big.
I disappeared to “my room” and changed. Chicago Bulls shirt and ugly plaid pants for the win.
I tapped lightly on Luke’s open door. He’d put on music while I was gone. He was propped up against his headboard, drinking his beer, nodding to the beat.
Luke glanced up at me and smiled. “There you are.”
“I look like a sporty Christmas tree,” I said.
He laughed.
I picked up the other beer off the floor and sucked back almost half of it, eyes closed against the burn, then sat on the bed next to him. “You should probably drink some water,” I said, worried he might end up with a hangover.
He tilted his head and watched me. “I’m so glad you found us,” he said. “I never want to lose you again.”
“I never want to lose you, either,” I said weakly, thrown off-balance by the seriousness of his statement.
“Listen.” He nodded in the direction of the speakers. “Listen to the lyrics.”
I leaned back against the headboard next to him and tuned in to the dreamy acoustic sounds.
“Great Lake Swimmers,” he said softly. “This is ‘Song for the Angels.’ It reminds me of you.”
The music, almost ethereal, filled the room, buoying me, rocking me. I could see why the lyrics reminded him of me — especially the chorus, which was about feeling someone there, even when you don’t see them or hear them. The idea that he had always been thinking of me made my chest feel full and warm. I finished my beer as I listened, then set the bottle on the floor.
I glanced at Luke. His eyes were closed. He must have been so overwhelmed, so exhausted. I watched his face, his relaxed mouth, the soft-looking lips whose draw confused me so badly. I thought about that good sweet heart of his, breaking inside him. It seemed that he lost every girl, every woman, he ever gave his heart to. And as much as I understood that meant the most important thing was my permanence, my stability, I struggled with the longing to be closer to him, the longing for more.