August and Everything After

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  “Hey.” His voice is gravelly.

  I step beside him.

  “Hey. What are you doing up at way-too-early o’clock?”

  “I like watching the sunrise, knowing I made it through one more day. It’s a habit that started when I had to give up the old one. That and smoking.”

  “Did you sleep at all?”

  One corner of his mouth turns up. “Better than I usually do. I’m a bit of an insomniac.”

  “Guess I must be the cure for insomnia. It’s either me or this fuzzy blanket. Or the combination.”

  Malcolm puts his arm around me and I stop babbling. He laughs a little to himself.

  “What?”

  “Quinn in a blanket,” he jokes.

  I bump his hip with mine. “Hey! It’s no joke. I’m replacing Tylenol PM.”

  He laughs again. “Where did you come from Cat’s Eye?” he says, pushing my glasses up on my nose.

  After that, neither of us says anything as we watch the golden sun lift the shade on the darkness as it climbs higher into the sky.

  “You know the sunrise is only an illusion,” Malcolm says. “Atmospheric refraction makes it look like we’re seeing the sun when it’s actually still below the horizon for about another eight minutes.”

  I look at him and raise my eyebrows.

  “What? It’s true. I saw it on Cosmos. Insomniacs watch a lot of TV. And read a lot of books.”

  “That reminds me, I loved the book you gave me.”

  “It’s one of my favorites.”

  “I keep forgetting to give it back to you.”

  “Keep it. It was meant to be a gift.”

  “Thank you.”

  We should be talking about more than optical illusions and gifted books. I wrack my brain for the right way to bring up the pills he asked me to hold, the reason I wanted to see him after work last night. But instead we stand together, wordless, as the katydids sing their song and the bay waves lap against the dock below.

  “Travis is back from Atlanta,” Malcolm says finally.

  I recognize the name from one of the articles I read about the accident. He’s the bassist for his old band, Gatsby.

  “I heard the news from someone else. He never even called me,” he says.

  Could that be what’s bothering him?

  I squeeze his hand and he keeps talking, answering questions I’ve had for a while but never asked him.

  “Travis was riding shotgun that day. During the tour, we rotated our seats in the van so everyone had a chance to sleep in the back rows. After that last gig, everyone was exhausted but I was pumped up on adrenaline, you know? I offered to take Jack’s shift and drive. He thought he got lucky.” Malcolm laughs bitterly. “Lucky. Travis and I were the only ones wearing seat belts.”

  I don’t know what to say about the cruel randomness that took the lives of his bandmates. The ever-present guilt over how I caused my own best friend’s death stirs and threatens to taunt me. In Lynn’s case, the cruel randomness was her befriending me. I put my arms around Malcolm’s waist and hold him tight, laying my head on his chest. He keeps talking.

  “I wanted the pain to stop. Some days, I wanted everything to stop.”

  I think about the cuff bracelet on my wrist and what it hides. I didn’t want the pain to stop. I wanted to hurt more. To punish myself for what I did.

  He pulls back a little and looks down at me. “What are you doing tonight?”

  I try to lighten the mood. “Tonight, as in fourteen hours from now? So far I have no plans. Why?”

  “I thought maybe you could stay over again. We’ll watch Pulp Fiction from the beginning. Maybe go for a night swim.”

  I know Auntsie’s probably already fuming, and yet I hear myself say, “Sure. But I have to leave early to go to the shelter with my aunt.”

  Malcolm smiles. “We’ll watch the sunrise again.”

  “Perfect,” I say, even though I know it’s not completely true.

  TWENTY-ONE

  When I get home, the back door is open and I smell fresh coffee, but Auntsie’s bedroom door is closed. I walk through the kitchen and make enough noise on the steps to let her know I’m here, then wait a few seconds on the upstairs landing to see if her bedroom door opens. It doesn’t, so I step into my room and throw my stuff on the bed. I have a little over an hour before I have to be at the Ben Franklin.

  I know Auntsie wants to talk, so I leave my door open and lay back on my bed expecting to hear her footfalls on the stairs. As the moments tick by, I grow more anxious. Maybe I should go downstairs and knock on her door? Nah. She knows I’m here. She’s making me sweat.

  I sit up and grab my phone to search for information about opioid addiction and recovery. I skim an article called “Supporting Those Recovering from Addiction” and see a sentence that stops my heart. Recovering addicts should avoid all alcohol. Mixing any amount of booze with an opioid could result in an overdose. It gets worse. The article says that even a small amount of an opioid could prove fatal to someone who has recently recovered and no longer has a tolerance for the drug. How recent is recent? There’s so much I don’t know. I reach into my pocket and clutch the bag with the pills.

  What if I hadn’t run into drunk Malcolm on the boardwalk that night? Or been in the garage when Tamara stopped by?

  The article advises asking a doctor to prescribe Narcan. It can save the life of someone who has overdosed, but can’t be self-administered. Does Malcolm carry Narcan? What good is it if he lives alone? I’m even more scared for him going on a solo tour now. Where are his parents? What do they think about all this?

  I lie back down and close my eyes.

  “Rough night?” I don’t hear Auntsie come in.

  I lay my phone facedown and nod. “Malcolm’s going through some stuff.”

  “So are you.”

  “It’s different for me. His old bassist is back in town. It’s dredging up bad memories and guilt.”

  Auntsie sits on the foot of my bed. “Quinn, baby. Malcolm’s problems aren’t yours to solve.”

  “I care about him. What am I supposed to do, walk away?”

  “I’m not telling you to walk away. I’m telling you to open your eyes and keep them open.”

  She’s right. I know she’s right. I nod my head slowly.

  “I’m sorry I forgot to text you last night.”

  She pats my leg. “I remember what it was like to be so caught up in something or someone that no one else mattered.”

  “Auntsie, you matter.”

  “I matter like an aunt, not like a mom or a boyfriend.”

  “Auntsie…”

  She shakes her head. “This isn’t about me, it’s about you. I’m trusting you to do the right thing. But know that if I see you making bad choices, I’m not going to stand by like some schmo and let it happen. I’m going to step in.”

  This is probably not the right time to tell Auntsie about Malcolm’s past or that I’m staying at his house again tonight.

  “Okay,” I say instead. “I get it.”

  In the shower, I try not to think about accidental overdoses, the illusion of sunrise, or the way I feel when I lay my head against Malcolm’s chest and fall asleep. Instead, I think about Auntsie. She’s funny, and smart, and pretty, and much hipper than most women her age. Why isn’t she someone’s most important person? I wonder not only for Auntsie, but for myself. After years of being compared to her, it makes me believe that her destiny might be my own.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “So what’s the story between you and Caleb?” I ask Auntsie as I brush through some tangles in Reggie’s fur.

  Auntsie bathes a Chow mix recently brought in by elderly owners who were going to assisted living and couldn’t keep him. Poor Mr. Chow. I can’t stand the sadness in his deep-set, black eyes.

&nb
sp; “He’s an old friend. End of story.”

  Auntsie’s pissed at me for staying over at Malcolm’s again last night. I don’t blame her. I didn’t exactly ask permission. I took the coward’s way out and waited until she was at work to text that I wouldn’t be coming home. Hope you know what you’re doing was her unnerving reply. I would have preferred if she called and screamed at me. Thank goodness for satellite radio and “’90s on 9” during the car ride to Shore Paws Shelter this morning. The only other sounds were Auntsie and I breathing. She breathes very loudly when she’s angry.

  I keep trying.

  “Old friend from high school, from college? Where did you guys meet?”

  “What’s with all the questions?” Auntsie turns around and places her sudsy hands on her hips. Freed from Auntsie’s grip, Mr. Chow decides to give himself a nice, vigorous shake. Suds and water spray Auntsie’s back and the floor. I wince. She glares.

  “I’ll take Reggie for a walk,” I say.

  Auntsie turns back to the tub. “Make it a long one.” She tosses the words over her shoulder like a bucketful of hot water. Ouch.

  On my way out of the shelter I run into Ben, one of the shelter managers. He’s an older guy, like fifty, with a graying goatee, hip glasses, and a tribal band tat around his left bicep. This morning, I take special note of his left hand. No ring.

  “Hey, Ben!” I say.

  “Hey, Quinn. Where’s your compadre?”

  “Giving a bath to an unruly Chow mix. She could use some help. I would have given her a hand, but Reggie here really has to go.”

  “Then don’t let me hold you up,” he laughs. “I’ll check on Annie and the Chow.”

  “Thanks!”

  Reggie walks along the sidewalk with such a happy swagger—his little Chihuahua butt swaying, his pink tongue hanging from his nearly toothless mouth. I hate that he’ll be going back to his cage. I take Auntsie’s advice, snarky as it was, and make his walk an extra long one, giving him all the time he needs to smell all the smells and mark his territory. And maybe giving Auntsie and Ben some time to bond over the Chow.

  I take a deep breath and enjoy the summer morning with my partially blind, awesomely ugly canine companion. The sky is a hazeless robin’s egg blue and the air is warm but dry. A perfect beach day for people like Evie. I should take advantage of living a few blocks from the ocean before summer’s over. By the time Reggie and I return to the shelter, my mind’s made up. I don’t care if she’s not talking to me—Auntsie and I are going to the beach.

  “I can’t believe you got me out here before five,” Auntsie says. “I’m melting.”

  We’re sitting side by side under a red Panama Jack umbrella. I’m reading Beloved by Toni Morrison, and Auntsie is complaining about the sun. Our lunch at the Ocean Bay Diner was almost as silent as our car ride, so I was surprised when Auntsie agreed to come to the beach with me.

  “Maybe you should take off some of those layers?” I offer.

  Auntsie’s wearing a Mets cap and a long sleeve rash guard, the kind the kids wear for boogie boarding.

  “And fade my ink? Are you crazy?”

  I put down my book. “Want to walk to the water with me? Cool off?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m good.”

  I trudge across the hot sand, weaving my way between camps of day-trippers and vacationers with elaborate setups, including coolers on wheels, beach tents, and baby pools. The ocean kabooms against the surf, muffling the laughter of swimmers as they dive under foamy whitecaps and emerge with just enough time to dive under the next one. I stand at the edge of all the excitement, letting the water pool around my feet as I sink into the wet sand.

  I look back toward our umbrella to see Auntsie making her way down the sloping sand toward me. When she arrives at my side, she stares out at the water without looking my way, but I can tell she’s got something on her mind.

  “Ben is gay, you know.” Auntsie says finally.

  I shrug. “Just thought you could use some help with the Chow. I didn’t think you were going to marry him.” I’m practically yelling to be heard over the ocean’s roar.

  “Don’t feel like you need to set me up with someone now that you’re with Malcolm.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but Auntsie cuts me off.

  “You’re with Malcolm. And it’s not lost on me that your mother forbade it.”

  “She doesn’t even know him.”

  “No, but thanks to me, she knows the type.”

  I wait for more.

  “Me and Caleb. I sort of lost my head over him. He was a local guy in an up-and-coming band that was generating a lot of buzz and attention from record labels. I was the same nerd girl back then that I am now, maybe nerdier. But I interviewed him for my zine and we clicked, you know? We were together for a year.”

  “What happened?”

  “His band blew up. He got signed to a major label, recorded an album, and went on the road to promote it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I stayed here and dealt with an unplanned pregnancy.”

  The world goes still. The cacophony surrounding us fades to a whirr as I try to process what Auntsie said.

  “Did you? I mean, I understand if you—”

  Auntsie shakes her head. “I miscarried. I know it sounds crazy, but I was sure the baby heard my thoughts. Knew I wasn’t ready to be a mother. That I couldn’t handle it.” She stares at the horizon and keeps talking. “I broke up with Caleb during one of his calls home. He never knew why, still doesn’t. At any rate, he didn’t try very hard to stop me.”

  I have no idea what to say, but it doesn’t matter because Auntsie keeps talking.

  “This isn’t meant to be a cautionary tale about falling in love with rockers and using backup birth control. I want you to know that I’m okay with the life I have. It’s the life I earned. I don’t need to be fixed up with the gay shelter manager or reunited with Caleb.”

  I put my arm around Auntsie and lay my head against her shoulder. She pats my hand. We stay like that for a while, watching the ocean and all the people excited by its power to lift them up and knock them down. Seems like Malcolm and I aren’t the only ones who know what it’s like to live with the guilt of not being careful enough with the precious lives entrusted to us.

  “You know your mother had to convince me to let you stay with me?”

  I’m shocked. I always thought Mom was the obstacle and Auntsie was completely on board.

  “But when I suggested it, Mom got all defensive and said she needed time to think about it,” I say.

  “That’s because she knew I’d need time to consider it. I’ve never cared for another living thing on my own before. I wasn’t sure I could handle it. Hell, I’ve been volunteering at that shelter for three years and still haven’t brought home a dog. Not even for a weekend.”

  I had wondered about that. What she told me explains a lot.

  “Any one of those pooches would be lucky to have you. I’m lucky to have you. You deserve to be happy, Auntsie.”

  “So do you, Quinn baby. Even if you believe you don’t.” It’s like Auntsie knows my thoughts and fears. “If Malcolm makes you happy, if you love him, embrace it. Enjoy every minute. But see your time together for what it is. Malcolm’s already told you he has no intention of staying put. You have to learn to be happy without him too. Because you might not be able to predict which night together will be your last.”

  Auntsie’s words bring on a slow realization.

  “When you called Caleb and you asked him to give me a job…”

  “It was the first time I spoke to him in twenty years.”

  It dawns on me what making that call cost Auntsie, and yet she was willing to dredge up her past for me. I take her hand and give it two quick squeezes. She knows I’m saying “thank you,
” like I know when she squeezes back it means “Anything for you, Quinn baby.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  That night at practice, everything gels, restoring equilibrium to my world after Auntsie threw it way off-kilter.

  Music rights my wrongs. It’s what I loved most about being in marching band, and now this band. Eventually all the jumbled pieces come together. Whether it’s a hundred band kids marching around in polyester uniforms or three misfits in a garage, there’s a moment when the music clicks, when all those quarter notes and half notes add up to a whole song. It’s in those moments that I feel most alive and forget how fucked up life can really be. How fucked up I can be.

  “Hey, how was the wedding?” I ask Liam as we’re wrapping up.

  He snaps his guitar case closed.

  “A lot like prom, only worse because you have to watch old drunk people dancing.”

  Malcolm laughs. I shrug.

  “I never went to prom,” I say.

  “Too cool for prom?” Liam asks.

  “No one asked.” They look at me with either shock or pity—it’s hard to tell. This prompts me to keep talking.

  “I asked a junior, Giovanni Rivoli. Gio. He played the bass drum in marching band. I didn’t like him or anything, I just figured… Anyway, he tells me, drummer to drummer, proms weren’t ‘his jam,’ then turns around and goes with Elody Myers, another senior girl from band who played the flute.”

  Elaborating doesn’t help with my loser image, but it’s too late now. My lameness is out there.

  “Pff. What kind of asshat would pick a flautist over a drummer?” Liam asks.

  “A blind one,” Malcolm says. “His loss.”

  “Totally,” Liam agrees.

  Having them jump to my defense brings sneaky tears to my eyes. I look down to blink them away.

  “Hey, so we have about ten days before we’re in the studio,” Malcolm says, switching gears and saving me from myself. “We need to cram in as much practice as possible.”

  “Just tell me when. I can be here any night I’m not at Keegan’s. I can also practice in the afternoon,” Liam says.