Silent Alarm

by Jennifer Banash

  After I wipe down my violin and put it away, Grace and I sit drinking tea, as is our custom at the end of every lesson, the fragrant steam curling from the delicate china cups, gilt edging around the rims. Today it is chamomile, which always smells, inexplicably, like hay to me. I pull my hair back more securely with a hair band, hating the feel of the sweaty strands against my skin.

  “The audition is a little over a month away.” Grace returns her cup to the saucer, sitting back in her big puffy chair and resting her feet on the ottoman.

  May 30. One week after prom. As if I could forget.

  “I’m not ready,” I say quickly, a feeling of panic rushing over me. Because I’m nowhere near ready—I’m not even in the same zip code as ready. The realization makes me feel like just giving up completely, going home and crawling into bed, never getting out.

  “You will just have to do your best,” Grace says with a shrug, like it’s no big deal.

  “What if it isn’t good enough?” I ask, staring at the gold liquid in my cup, tiny flecks of leaves swirling to the bottom.

  “Then you will do what you can.” Grace leans forward, resting her hands on her knees, peering at me intently. I can feel the gravity of her gaze, of her words, even though I don’t look up. The way she examines my face, taking in everything I’m feeling, everything I cannot say. “That is all you can do, Alys. That is all any of us can do.”

  “It just seems so . . . unimportant now. Like it doesn’t matter.”

  Grace is quiet for a minute, carefully weighing her words, then speaks slowly, deliberately.

  “It will matter as much as you want it to, Alys. As much as you are willing to let it.”

  I think about what she’s said for a moment before responding, placing the cup down on the table.

  “I just feel like I don’t have the . . . right to want anything anymore. For myself.”

  When the words leave my mouth, I hear how tentative they sound, how unsure. I think of Jesse Davis, a senior Luke shot, lying in a hospital bed, unconscious. What did he want in his future? What did he dream about? I think of his parents waiting at his bedside for him to wake up and rejoin the living, to climb out of the tangle of white sheets and sit up, walk back into the world. Valedictorian. Scholarship. He must’ve thought it was all a sure thing.

  Grace nods, picking up her cup with deft fingers. She settles in her chair and drains her tea, staring at me pensively, her blue eyes softening at the edges. When she speaks, her voice is low, urgent.

  “You have the right to live, Alys. You always have the right to do that.” She places the cup in its saucer with a clink of finality. “But only you can decide, no?”

  “Yes,” I manage to say, my voice barely audible. It is hard to believe that I have the power to decide anything about my life anymore. But even so, Grace’s words stick to me, lodging themselves in the dark corners of my brain.

  When I leave, she stops me at the door, squeezing my hand in hers, kissing me once on each cheek, as is her way. She hesitates for a moment, placing a hand on my shoulder, her grip tight and sure. “You will be all right, Alys,” she says quietly. “Even if you do not think so now. Even if it feels very far away.”

  I can smell the flowery perfume she always wears, the one that smells like lily of the valley, bourbon, and dark tilled earth, her touch lingering on my skin long after I walk down the porch steps, creaking slightly beneath the pulse and heft of my body, and drive away.

  TEN

  On Monday, after school, I drive distractedly toward the center of town, cutting a trail through the rain that pelts the windshield. Soon lawns will be an endless carpet of green, the air alive with the sinuous hiss of sprinklers. This used to be my time to practice or, on rare afternoons where I’d slack off, hang out with D, popping peanut M&M’s into each other’s mouths, feet entangled on the couch. She loved those waxy, long, red ropes of licorice, would wind them around my wrists like jewelry. Now, even after I finish my homework, I’m aware of how much time there is left to fill before I can crawl into bed and try to sleep, the stars like handfuls of glitter hurled at the sky.

  You have the right to live, Alys . . .

  Grace’s face swims up in front of my eyes, and I blink it away, my lashes beating rapidly. Every time I think about the audition, my stomach churns with guilt and apprehension. Because of what it means. The future. That, in spite of everything, I might have one. I don’t know if I deserve it after what Luke has done, all of that spilled blood staining my hands. Even though I know I should go home and practice, I turn onto Main Street and, before I know what I’m doing, pull into the hospital parking lot, winding through the garage until I find a space next to a bright yellow Datsun. I turn off the engine and listen to the car shut down, the hushed rattling noises as it quiets. The hospital is a giant white brick building outside my window, and I watch it warily, as if it might get up and come after me. I think of the people trapped inside, covered by sheets and blankets, hooked up to beeping machines. Jesse Davis is one of them.

  I get out of the car, trying to act like I know where I’m going, even though I don’t really have a clue. My hands are trembling, and I look down and glare at them fiercely, willing them to quiet. In the main lobby, the elderly woman sitting behind the information desk has a long, sharp face and bright red hair that borders on magenta. But her face is kind, and her eyes, when she looks up at me, are welcoming, heavily creased along the edges.

  “Can I help you?” she asks tentatively, as if she’s scared she’ll frighten me away by speaking too much, or too loudly.

  “I don’t know,” I begin, my eyes darting from side to side. I feel hunted. Like a criminal. “I’m looking for a friend?”

  Jesse Davis was not my friend. Not even close. Nor would he be now if he knew what Luke did to him. But even though I never really knew Jesse, he always smiled at me in the halls, no matter how in a rush he was. He was that type of guy.

  “What’s your friend’s name, honey?” She types a few strokes on her computer and looks up at me expectantly.

  “Jesse Davis,” I say, my cheeks burning. She punches a few more keys, her fingers hitting the keys firmly, authoritatively.

  “He’s upstairs in room two twenty-one. They just moved him out of the ICU a few days ago. Take elevator A at the end of the hall to the second floor and turn right. His room is the third door on the left.”

  “Is he . . .” I don’t know how to find the words, how to ask what I need to know. “Has he woken up yet?”

  She punches the keys again, her hands moving like a hummingbird.

  “You’ll have to ask one of the nurses when you get upstairs, honey. I can’t tell from here.” She points at the screen apologetically, as if she wishes she could do more. For all she knows, I’m his girlfriend, or maybe even his debate partner. A classmate. Not the sister of the boy who put him here.

  I nod, thanking her, and make my way to the elevator before I lose what’s left of my nerve.

  • • •

  Outside his room, I hesitate, watching as nurses walk past in a sea of light blue scrubs, the scent of antiseptic wash mingling with the smell of food from the impending dinner service. What am I doing here? What can I possibly say that will make up for what my brother has done? I lean against the wall, trying to take deep breaths, to compose myself when all I want is to hightail it back to the parking lot and lock myself in my car, where I’ll be safe again.

  “Are you all right?”

  A nurse stops in front of me, holding a stack of charts, his dark hair receding on top.

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly, straightening up and clearing my throat. “I was just looking for my friend’s room. Jesse Davis,” I say, panic flooding my body, my pulse racing.

  “Well, this must be your lucky day.” He smiles at me, taking me loosely by the arm and turning me around. “You’re right in front of his room.�
�

  “Oh!” I exclaim, feigning surprise and enthusiasm. “Great!”

  “He can have visitors, but just don’t stay for too long, okay?”

  “Is he still . . .” I stop and look at the nurse, hoping the look on my face can fill in the missing words, tell him what he needs to know.

  “He’s still in a coma, yes.” He says this gently, as if this information hurts him more than it may hurt me.

  “Will he . . . wake up?”

  “We don’t know. We certainly hope so.” He tucks the charts under his arm and looks at me intently now, his eyes searching my face. “Talk to him,” he says urgently. “Coma patients can hear everything we say, even if they don’t always remember it when they regain consciousness again. Some even say it helps to bring them back.” He walks off down the hall, his shoes squeaking noisily against the linoleum. Over the loudspeaker, a Dr. Singh is being paged incessantly, and from inside Jesse’s room, I can hear the beep and rattle of machines, the synchronized hiss of breathing.

  He’s lying in bed, the sheets drawn up to his chest, which rises and falls around the tubes taped to his mouth, snaking down the length of his torso. From the doorway, he could be sleeping, his body relaxed and drowsy. When I get closer, I see the bandage that wraps around one side of his head, the lacerations on his face where he must’ve fallen, bruises changing from purple to green and yellow along the edges. Before he was

  (shot)

  Jesse was kind of a gym rat, but now he looks small, almost invisible, swallowed by white sheets.

  There’s a chair next to the bed, and I sit down gingerly, as if it might break under my weight. Jesse’s breathing is heavy and regular, and I watch him for a while, my eyes drawn to the bandage covering the bullet hole in his head. I try to imagine what it must’ve been like, the roar of the gun blocking out the sound of his own screams, a blinding pain, the world cracked open, then darkness. Or maybe not. I know from watching stupid medical shows on A&E that sometimes, in rare cases, people remain conscious after being shot in the head, stumbling around blindly, lucid and alive, but not exactly functioning at full capacity. I hope, for Jesse’s sake, that he went out immediately, that he didn’t have to endure what must’ve been unimaginable pain, or see my brother looming over his fallen body, triumph written all over his face.

  Jesse’s arms are arranged over the covers, and I stare at his fingers, the short-clipped nails, and, without thinking about it or second-guessing myself, I take his hand in mine. The warmth of his skin is shocking against my palm, and as I curl my fingers around his loose, pliant digits, I can’t help thinking that any minute he might wake up, open his eyes, and blink uncomprehendingly at the stark white walls, the tubes running through his body, the kaleidoscope of my face, so familiar and so strange all at once.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” I whisper, and even though I’m careful to be quiet, my voice echoes a bit in the mostly empty room. The silence is soothing rather than unnerving, a hush, and I feel for some reason like I’m in church, the bed an altar, that it wouldn’t be totally out of place for me to ask for forgiveness, even if none is coming any time soon. If I had my violin with me, I would play in the fractured light coming through the window, the shafts of sun warming my fingers. The music would fill the room with the force of a spell finally broken, waking Jesse from his slumber like a prince in a fairy tale. “Ever since Luke died, I feel like all I do is apologize to everyone, all the time.” Jesse’s eyes are still closed. If he’s listening, there’s no sign of it. “But I am sorry, so sorry my brother . . . did this to you.”

  I look around the room, at the blinds, at the vases of flowers wilting on their stems, sad-looking bouquets of daffodils, stalks of freesia, and baby-blue carnations. When I look back at Jesse, his left eyelid twitches, and I wonder if he can hear me or if it’s just a reflex, an involuntary movement, no more meaningful than scratching extremities in your sleep. I kneel down by the side of the bed, the floor hurting my bones, and rest my forehead on the mattress, my face cooled by the thin white sheets, which smell of bleach and strong detergent, Jesse’s hand still in mine. The tears flow from my eyes, hot and fast, soaking the sheet. I hold on to Jesse’s hand more tightly, and my nose begins to run. I am making deep, guttural sounds that come from someplace inside me that’s been sealed off from the light, a place I’ve been afraid to examine too closely, or even acknowledge at all.

  “He wasn’t all bad, Jesse.” I am mumbling into the sheets, my lips thick and swollen. “He wasn’t. No matter what people tell you when you wake up . . .

  (if you wake up)

  “I miss him sometimes.” I swallow hard, lifting my head to wipe my eyes with the back of one hand. “And I feel like shit for missing him, like I shouldn’t bother because of what he’s done. Because he hurt so many people. But I can’t help it. He was my brother.”

  My brother.

  Jesse sleeps on, oblivious, his mouth open slightly. I let go of his hand and drop to the floor, scooting backward so that I’m sitting against the hard white wall. I wait for a feeling of lightness to overtake me, a sense of forgiveness that will lift me back up into the land of the living. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait to feel something, anything that will let me know I’ve been heard, that I’m not alone. I’m straining with every pore of my skin, reaching toward the white light of absolution. I can hear the carts rolling in the hallway outside, delivering dinner, my own heart pounding away in my chest. But as hard as I try, nothing comes, so after a few minutes, I open my eyes. The room is the same, the IV dripping some clear chemical potion into Jesse’s left arm, the dusty venetian blinds covering the window, the TV with its blank, dead screen hanging from the ceiling.

  I wait, my eyes locked on Jesse’s motionless form inside the metal cage of the bed, the waning sun setting his hair alight. I watch as it makes its way down his chest and begins to slip farther across the floor, the room darkening as the sun fades in a haze of pink, tangerine, and violet, and night, with its stealthy black wings, spreads slowly, inevitably over the room, the universe, our still, waiting bodies.

  ELEVEN

  A few nights later, I’m startled awake by a loud thumping sound coming from downstairs. I sit up in bed, pulling the covers around me, my heart sick with fear. I throw on a bathrobe over the old T-shirt and shorts I’m wearing, pulling the sash tight, the cloth around my waist steadying me. When I open my bedroom door, there is a crack of light, a yellow slice beckoning from the first floor of the house. I creep downstairs like I’m trespassing, my feet almost soundless, but for the creak of the last step. A light is on in the kitchen, and standing in the hallway, I can hear the opening and closing of the refrigerator door, the sound of a zipper being pulled, a chair scraped back from the table. I sniff the air, searching for the rotted stink of dead blossoms, the electric heat of ozone, but find only the faint, lingering odor of last night’s dinner, a gluey mix of mashed potatoes and broiled turkey meat loaf.

  When I walk into the kitchen, my father is bent over the kitchen table, his shoulders bunched up around his ears. When he turns around, I see a duffel bag lying on top of the dark wood, stuffed to the seams with what I know, without even asking, are his clothes—the few he’s taking with him. I stare at the bag as if it’s to blame, my mouth open. He’s dressed in jeans and a Windbreaker, running shoes on his feet, the jacket zipped as if he was, moments before I entered the room, just about to head out the door.

  His eyes are wide with fear, his hair brushed neatly back, cheeks clean shaven, and I know that if he could flee, just open the back door and run out breathless into the endless night, he would. The intermittent hum of the refrigerator punctuates the silence, a buzzing sensation I can feel through the soles of my bare feet each time the compressor clicks on, then off.

  “Alys. It’s late. What are you doing up?”

  I stare at him uncomprehendingly, crossing my arms over my chest.

  �
��I could ask you the same question.”

  He drops his eyes, the same dark brown as Luke’s, and lets out a long sigh. He can’t look at me.

  “It’s three a.m., Dad. Where are you going?”

  My voice cracks a bit on the last word. My mouth is dry, and I lick the corners, wetting them with my tongue.

  He mumbles something unintelligible, still staring at his shoes, and I fight the urge to walk over and shake him until the fog clears from his eyes.

  “What?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice. Things are spinning too fast, the kitchen, the house, the room upstairs where I know Luke waits for me, his ear pressed to the floor, eyes glowing with an otherworldly beauty.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, as if it’s been years since the shooting. His voice is so low, I have to strain to hear him.

  “Do what?” I ask, fighting to keep my composure. “What can’t you do anymore? Act like you care? Talk to us?” He reels back slightly, a pained look on his face.

  “I can’t be here anymore, Alys.” He walks over to the window, looking out into the darkened yard. “I’ve tried—God knows I’ve tried. But everything here reminds me of Luke, of . . . what he did.”

  What he did. As if Luke forgot to wash the car, or return his books to the library on time. Not shot and killed fifteen people in cold blood, people he knew, people he grew up with and sat next to in class every day of his life, people he

  (loved)

  “Even Mom? Even me?”

  I know, even as I ask, that the answer will be something I don’t want to hear, that the question, once it escapes my lips, is not only pointless, but something I should never have asked in the first place.

  “Yes,” he whispers. “Every time I look at you, I see his face.”