Something to Believe In

by Jenny B. Jones

“Then why lie about where you were?”

  “I don’t know.” He runs a hand over his smooth jaw. “I didn’t want you to think the worst.”

  “Like now?”

  “Yes, and I didn’t want another fight. I understand if you’re mad. Working with the DZs is a requirement, and I wasn’t sure you’d understand. And you do have a lot going on. I didn’t want one more thing to worry you.”

  Scanning the crowd, I see Riley near the DJ. She catches my eye, then suddenly looks away. “Where were you really?”

  “The Delta Zeta house.”

  “With other people or just the two of you?” I can tell from his face I’ve hit a critical artery.

  “Initially with others. But then everyone started flaking out, and it was the two of us.”

  “Until midnight.”

  Tate takes my plate, sets it back on the table, then grabs my hands. “I swear to you, nothing happened. We made calls for hours.”

  “Why couldn’t you tell me that?”

  “I should have.” He runs his hand through his blond hair. “It’s just that we haven’t been getting along so great lately, and I didn’t want to rock the boat even more, you know?”

  Before I can respond, the music stops, and someone takes over the DJs microphone. “Good evening, Up Sigs and Delta Zetas! Welcome to Fall Formal!”

  I hold my empty glass beneath the punch fountain as the room erupts into cheers. Tate claps beside me like someone just scored a game-winning touchdown. I take a sip of punch then frown. “The punch is spiked.”

  “Oh, yeah. Avoid it. Grab a water.”

  Just like that. No big deal.

  An hour later, the meal’s done, and a decadent dessert’s been served. Riley and her date sit at the table beside us. When the fraternity president got up and performed a ten minute stand-up bit on Greek life, I noticed Riley and Tate catch one another’s eye and laugh at punchlines that completely alluded me. I never was a fan of had-to-be there jokes.

  Chin in my hand, I barely catch myself as my lids flutter closed.

  “Hey, wake up.” Tate nudges me with an elbow. “Are you okay?”

  Gah, so sick of that question. “Great.”

  “Let’s go dance.”

  I blink, grounding myself in the moment and making sure I’m not truly asleep. “What?”

  “Yeah.” He nods toward the floor. “Come on.”

  Who is this guy? The end-of-summer party at my house was the only time Tate’s ever danced, and that was only because he lost a bet. “I’m tired, Tate. I should probably get back so I can call and check on my mom.”

  “Later.” He tugs on my hand. “It’s one night. Please?”

  “You understand those people are dancing out there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like moving arms and legs to a rhythm in intervals of two to three minutes?”

  He smiles. “I’ve YouTubed this dancing thing. I think I’m ready to try it again.”

  “Okay.” I accept his outstretched hand and let him pull me toward the throng of people, though my instinct says I should stay closer to the food table.

  An hour later, my hair’s gone wild, my armpits are sweaty, and I’ve shaken every body part the good Lord gave me. The crowd around us gets closer as the night stretches on, and the smell of alcohol gets stronger.

  “I’ll be right back,” Tate calls for the third time, excusing himself to go talk to some fraternity dignitary I’m supposed to know.

  A familiar slow song comes on, and like a handful of others, I clear the floor. Grabbing a water from my table, I venture out onto a terrace, grateful for the evening breeze.

  “It’s hot in there, isn’t it?” A girl with enviable olive skin swirls the ice in her cup as she joins me at the railing.

  “Yeah.”

  “Not your scene?”

  “No, I like my scenes onstage. My boyfriend’s an Up Sig.”

  “Mine too. Are you a theater major?”

  “Yeah. Freshman.”

  Her smile seems genuine. “Welcome to Hendrix. I’m Corina Hernandez.”

  “Katie Parker Scott.”

  “I’m a junior theater minor.”

  A warm gust of air flits over my heated skin. “I didn’t see you in auditions.”

  “I work in production. Set design is my thing.”

  “I’m wondering if I should consider backstage as well.”

  “Audition didn’t go well?”

  “The audition went well. The results didn’t.”

  “Sometimes, it’s hard to transition from high school theater. But also know freshmen rarely get cast.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Believe it.” She takes a sip of whatever she’s drinking. “If you want to get on Dr. Maddox’s radar, volunteer for everything. Set crew always needs help, costume folks often need errands run. Learn every aspect of the shows.”

  Yeah, it makes sense, but it also sounds completely overwhelming. “I don’t have time for that right now.”

  “When you do, get more involved. But also appreciate where you’re at. There’s value at every level. Respect the fact that this isn’t your season to be the star. It’s someone else’s.”

  “Good advice.”

  Corina laughs. “You don’t believe that, but trust me, you’ll see it one day.”

  Loud whoops of college shenanigans come from inside, turning my head. “How long have you been an Up Sig’s girlfriend?”

  “Two years.”

  “Does it get any easier?”

  “They only have a few formals a year.”

  “I mean all the events. I never see my boyfriend, Tate. It’s something every night. Even when we think we have a night to hang out, he gets called to the frat house for some spontaneous activity.”

  Twin lines form between her brow. “That doesn’t sound quite right.”

  I step closer. “Tate says it’s because he’s a freshman and they’re still sort of testing them.”

  Corina shakes her head, and her thick, dark hair waves across her shoulders. “The Up Sigs are one of the strictest fraternities there is. Very academically oriented. They don’t want any of their guys burned out or overextended.”

  “So…if I told you Tate says they have something almost every night?”

  She tosses her cup in a nearby trashcan. “I’d say you need to talk to this boyfriend.”

  Ten minutes later, my new friend Corina is gone, and I’m alone on the terrace with my bubbling anger, not sure what to do with my new information. Just as I’m midway through a plan to get Tate to take me home, my phone buzzes in my hand.

  “Hello?”

  “Katie?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Jackie, the night nurse at Stafford County Hospital.”

  Fear pours over me, and I reach for the nearby railing. Is this it? Is this the call I’ve had nightmares about, the one I’ve known would come?

  “I wanted to let you know your mom’s not doing well.”

  My hand shakes as I press it closer to my ear. “Worse than this morning?”

  “Hon, she’s fading. We don’t expect her to make it through the night.”

  There are no words to adequately describe getting a call like this. If I’d been an artist, there would be no paint so dark, no brush with so fine a stroke to convey the anguish, the shock to the system, the immediate punch of sorrow. And, to top it off, the timer has been set, the hourglass turned over. I have to get to the hospital before the sand runs out. “I’m on my way. Tell her I’m on my way.”

  “On your way, where?”

  I turn at Tate’s voice and find him mere feet behind me, his eyebrows knit together in a frown.

  “To the hospital. They don’t think my mom’s got much longer.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  I shake my head, instantly rejecting this idea. “I want to go alone.”

  “Katie—”

  “This is mine to deal with.”

  He opens his
mouth to argue, then seems to reconsider. “At least let me call your parents.”

  “No. I’ll update them later. I need to get going, Tate.”

  “Can I drive you? Please. I’ll stay in the car. We’ll handle this however you want, but at least let me drive.”

  “No.” I’m not inviting anyone into Mom’s handcuffed world and her last moments. “But thank you.”

  “You’ve gotta let me take you back to the dorm.”

  “I can walk there faster.” I nod toward the drifting music. “You stay here and have fun.”

  “There won’t be any fun without you.”

  I doubt that. I reach up and give him a quick peck on the cheek.

  Tate grabs my hand, holding me captive for a few seconds more, his eyes intense on mine. “I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”

  “No.” I give his fingers a squeeze, thinking about what Corina Hernandez said.

  “I wish you wouldn’t shut me out.”

  I walk away, thinking I could say the same.

  At some point, I have to deal with what Tate and I have become.

  But tonight isn’t the time.

  My mom is dying, and I just pray I make it in time.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My world moves in cinematic slow motion, while my mom’s surely spins far too quickly. The drive took two eternities and half of forever. I hit every red light. Slow cars hogged the passing lane without any care or regard for my urgent mission. The gas gauge flashed E for empty until I was forced to stop and fill up. The pump continued to reject my card, over and over, until I had to run in and throw what little cash I had at the red-eyed attendant holding court over a rack of scratch-offs and sports magazines.

  After parking at the hospital, I run up the stairs in my heels, foregoing the jalopy of an elevator, then race down the corridor to my mom. Though lights shine everywhere, night casts a dim pallor on each person and surface. There’s a hush to the floor that hasn’t been there before, and it seeps into my bones and wraps cold fingers around my heart.

  The on-duty cop handles the security clearance like a sloth, completely unaware of the fact that time is a luxury he’s stealing, procedure by painstaking procedure.

  Yes, throw away the water in my purse. No, I don’t care where you wave that wand. Yes, I can take off my clunky bracelets. No, I don’t know if it’s gonna rain.

  Finally, I open Bobbie Ann’s heavy wooden door and step inside. Pausing at the threshold, I just watch her, wanting to imprint this moment on my mind. She will never get up from her bed again. She will never talk to me again. My eyes will never see her again this side of heaven.

  Moving quietly inside, I’m surprised to find Chaplain Rashad standing beside her, his head bowed and his lips moving, as if filling the room with silent prayer.

  I approach the bed with a heavy hesitancy. The room smells like antiseptic, cleaning products, and musty hospital. I guess this is the scent of death.

  “Hi.” I clear my thickened throat. “Is she... ?” Forever gone. Never again, my mom.

  The chaplain gives me a serene, sympathetic smile. “Bobbie’s still with us, and she’s quite comfortable. I think she’s been waiting for you.”

  I move in closer, a little at odds with what to do. I’d love a script with stage directions and prefabricated lines. “Thank you.” I seem to be saying that a lot lately.

  “Feel free to talk to her.”

  About what? The weather? College? How I feel both guilt and resentment as my mother leaves this world?

  “I’ll give you two some time together.” Mr. Rashad pauses at the door. “Is there anything you need?”

  The question hangs in the air with expectancy, and all at once, I have a list of countless requests…and also nothing at all. “No.”

  His smile has probably comforted hundreds of mourners. “You let me know.”

  I settle into the stiff chair beside my mom’s bed. The machines do their thing, and I dread the moment the beeping stops, and the lines on the screen no longer climb. I guess we all get so many blips of a monitor, so many beats of a heart and inhales of breath. Tonight, my mom might use up her last reserve.

  I scoot my chair nearer and watch her. The rise and fall of her chest beneath the blanket is barely perceptible, and I wonder if she truly can hear me.

  Picking up Mom’s hand, I marvel at her fragile bird bones. This hand used to hold a death grip on a bottle. It also swung with power across my cheek. “Mom…” My voice sounds loud in the room, an intrusion in the muted stillness. “It’s, um…it’s Katie. I came to see you today. I’m in a dress you’d think is pretty frou-frou. I went to a banquet with Tate. I guess you know, fancy events aren’t my thing.” Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them away. My words feel hollow and meaningless. They’re a waste of space as they crowd out bigger, more important things that wait offstage to be said.

  “I want you to know that…I’m happy. I mean not at the present moment because you’re sick, and college is currently a dumpster fire with an endless supply of kerosene, but my life is good. Maybe you didn’t win any mother of the year awards, but thank you for…” I struggle to fill in the blank. “For the times you took care of me. I guess I’m glad you gave me your red hair.” Though thanks to the magic of highlights, I haven’t seen it in years. “I’m not so grateful you passed on your skin that won’t tan, but I’m ready to forgive you for that one.” I’m writing the world’s worst Mother’s Day card. “Our life wasn’t easy, was it? But it made me tougher. And more grateful for all that I have.”

  I give her hand a little squeeze, then set it back on her white blanket. “You can go now.” I choke on the words. “It’s time to rest. You’ve never had it easy, and that’s all about to change. I’m gonna be okay. And so are you. I promise you’re gonna be okay.” The words I love you and I forgive you push their way to the tip of my tongue, but I can’t say them. “I’m going to stay right here. You’re not alone, Mom.” The pressure of tears distorts my voice. “From this point on, you’ll never be alone.”

  For the next few hours, I talk. I update my mom on my senior year of high school. I tell her how hard it was to decide on a college and how I needed to get a high GPA these next few years if I wanted to transfer to my dream school. I admit James and Millie aren’t big on my idea of moving to New York, but they’re always supportive of my passion for theater.

  “I’m still dating Tate, but things are a little rocky. Not so much rocky, but not right. I think we’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. He wanted to come with me tonight, but I wouldn’t let him. I don’t even know that I can trust him right now.” I sniffle and reach for a tissue from a nearby box. “I wish Charlie were here. Is that crazy?”

  Mom doesn’t have any advice for that one. Picking the right man has never been her strong suit.

  “I’m sure my feelings for Charlie mean nothing.” I try not to notice the bits of grime on the arm of the chair. “He is a friend, after all. To be fair, I’d also like to see my best friend Frances. And if Maxine walked through your door, I wouldn’t send her away.” Plus, she’d probably sneak in snacks. “I can’t imagine life without you. You’ve always been around, in one way or another. I still had hopes you’d find your way and find some happiness. Despite all that’s happened, a girl never stops wanting her mom.” At least I haven’t. “Millie and James will take good care of me. I’m gonna be fine.” Picking up her hand again, I run my thumb over the soft, gossamer skin. “Now, it’s time for you to be okay, too.”

  I’m not positive my mom is bound for the Pearly Gates, but it seems a comfort to assume the best. I describe what I know and imagine of heaven. I’m convinced there will be dogs there. And calories won’t count. Surely Jesus will have an all-you-can-eat ice cream bar, open twenty-four-seven. I ask her to find out for certain who shot John F. Kennedy, to tell Prince he’s dearly missed, and to put in a good word with God because one day I’d like to have a Tony Award.

  Eventually, I run out of words.
r />   And my biological mother runs out of heartbeats and time.

  At half-past four, Bobbie Ann Parker slips away.

  A late-night partier to the very end.

  Chapter Twenty

  When I pull into my driveway in In Between three hours later, I’m not even sure how I got here. I drove most of the way on autopilot, my mind barely registering cars and highway lines.

  Life moves on as usual. Mr. Stephenson waters his lawn in his robe and shorts, his knobby knees peeking out as his dog runs circles, biting the spray. The birds chirp in the trees. The sun shines, already reporting for work. Cars zoom by, newspapers rest on doorsteps, and people go on with their day. As if nothing happened.

  It’s an insult to my senses and is only compounded when I go inside.

  Millie sips her coffee in the breakfast nook, and James pulls his head from the fridge, going about his morning routine.

  “Katie!” Millie jumps from the seat, her makeup fresh and her hair swept away from her face in a short ponytail. “What are you doing home?”

  I walk to my adopted mother, throw down my purse, and hug her with all I’ve got left.

  “Oh, sweetie.” She holds me together, her tight grip keeping my heart in my body, and my soul from tumbling to the floor.

  I want to dissolve into the tiles below, a pool of limbs and tears. But, instead, I simply rest in her embrace.

  James joins us, wrapping us even tighter.

  Somewhere a door opens and shuts, and I hear an off-key whistling that can only belong to Maxine.

  “Helllewww! Hey, where is everyone? I—” She catches sight of us and rushes our way. “Am I missing a group hug? Make room!”

  Soon we’re a party of four. A pastor, a theater owner, a retired showgirl, and an orphaned child who wonders who she is now. Crying would be a relief, a welcome release, but I’m dry-eyed this morning. The tears stopped the moment my mother drew her last breath. Maybe the grief’s jamming up the signals, and the water’s turned off.

  “Is Bobbie Ann gone?” Millie asks.

  I manage a weak nod.

  I wait for the questions. Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you let us sit with you? Why did you drive all the way to the hospital alone?