Alive

by Chandler Baker

  “Dr. Belkin said it was fine.” The red marker lies in the garbage can beside my nightstand. With the yellow, I’ve colored a bright sun on today’s date to mark my return. At last, I think, unable to suppress a smile. My skin practically crawls with longing to get out of this house. Four weeks ago I’d have said I had cabin fever. By now it’s escalated to full-on cooped-up pneumonia.

  “Fine.” She stirs her coffee with a miniature spoon and concentrates on the cream swirling into milky brown. “But that doesn’t mean advisable.”

  “I was ready to go back weeks ago.” I tie a ribbon around the base of my ponytail and admire my reflection in the mirror. On my last visit to Dr. Belkin, I’d petitioned for a clean bill of health, but he’d sentenced me to another seven days. I would have invoked the rules of the Geneva Convention if I’d thought it’d convince anyone that I deserved an early release. But I waited. Patiently. So that no one would question my judgment the moment I was cut loose.

  My recovery hasn’t exactly been a straight line. There’ve been side effects. Painful ones. In the mirror the remnants of dark, bruise-like circles peek through the concealer underneath my eyes. Bones protrude from my thin wrists. I keep these things hidden from my mom. They’re only distractions. I’m lucky she can’t see the worst of it. My chest has been feeding me a raw, incessant ache ever since I returned home from the hospital. Sometimes I peek underneath my shirt, certain that I’ll find pus oozing out of the wound. I never do. That’s the thing about pain: it’s invisible.

  “What are the rules?” she asks.

  I sigh, retucking my shirt. “Wash my hands frequently. Maintain a bland diet. Don’t elevate my heart rate unless I want to malfunction. Happy?” I say, grabbing my bag off my bed.

  “I’d prefer not to think about my daughter malfunctioning.” She trails me down the hall toward the entryway.

  “I figured it sounded nicer than the real word—dead.” I stop at the front door and turn to face her. The corners of her eyes crinkle like tissue paper under her wire-frame glasses. “Mom.” I try to sound firm, adult. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  My mom’s cheeks cave as she purses her lips. “Another week at home wouldn’t kill you.”

  I push open the door, letting in a burst of fresh air, which isn’t steeped in sun like I’d imagined, but slick and soggy. I breathe in a heaping mouthful and smile. “No, Mom. It would.”

  Seven o’clock. I push the lock button one more time on the keys to my black Jetta before looking up at the school I never thought I’d see again. It’s already been in session for six weeks. The late September air’s filled with a million crystallized droplets so minuscule they seem to hang suspended rather than fall. They clog up my pores and pull at the strands in the hair-sprayed ponytail I spent fifteen minutes combing this morning.

  Everything’s deadly quiet here. The gravel parking lot’s empty and the sky is still gray, making outlines fuzzy and out of focus. The oak trees, portables, and the American flag that droops limply from the pole all loom in the murky air like abandoned carnival rides. It’s my favorite time, these stolen minutes in a place normally teeming with people.

  I take a sip of coffee from a silver travel mug, and as if in response, my heart performs a kick. I rub at the spot on the outside of my chest where it feels as if my new heart may have left a bruised rib. I push on one of the bones to feel it. The muted pain spreads up my breast and I knead it with my fingertips.

  Relax, I tell it. First-day jitters. I trudge through the parking lot to the mist-soaked grass alongside the library’s edge. Through the fog I see someone cut across my path. His figure is obscured by the gray dripping from the sky, but sharpens as our trajectories converge. He’s tall, with hands shoved into his pockets as he walks briskly in the opposite direction.

  “’Morning,” I mutter when we’re only a few feet apart. His head tilts and he nods before brushing by without a sound.

  I take another swig from my coffee mug and resist the urge to glance back. Our school is two redbrick buildings with cement trim framing a grassy quadrangle that’s dotted with picnic tables and black-and-white checkered benches. An arched covered walkway connects them, and portables lie on the outskirts like shantytowns for student body overflow. The school itself backs up against a thick stand of pine trees that Duwamish High students call simply The Woods. Where lazy prep school boys in wrinkled polos cut out to smoke cigarettes between classes and sneak their hands up the plaid skirt of any girl who’s willing.

  It’s early still. Too early to head to class. The main entrance will be locked while the teachers try to enjoy their last few minutes of peace and quiet. But the janitor always props open the back door of the west-side building, the one closest to the woods and, conveniently, nearest to my locker. That’s where I head.

  Inside, the hallway smells as damp and musky as the outdoors. My shoes squeal against the linoleum. My locker’s close enough to the open door that the early fall breeze plays with my hair.

  The halls are silent except for the faint trickle of music from a teacher’s radio. In front of my locker, I slide off my book bag and plop down cross-legged on the ground. I’ve packed a copy of The Awakening, a book I was supposed to have finished the last week I was in the hospital. I almost did, but my life got pretty busy what with twice-daily naps and finishing up that last season of The Bachelor. It’s funny how the more time you have, the more nothingness there is to swallow it up.

  I turn to the dog-eared page near the back of the book. I’m not sure what to make of this Edna character. She’s very whiney for someone who’s had three lovers in the past two hundred pages.

  I lick my finger and flip the page, trying to see Edna’s life the way she sees it. I’m about to finish the chapter when a strong gust blows in and ruffles the pages. I rub my hands together and blow into them, cold. The wind howls as it sweeps through the long hall. I trace the direction it traveled with my eyes.

  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Reluctantly, I cast my eyes around, twisting my neck without moving. A creepy sensation inches its way up my spine. My fingernail finds the fleshy part of my forearm and I scratch into the smooth surface. Not enough to leave a scab, but the line stings like a mouthful of Listerine.

  The feeling that I’m not alone makes me want to bolt. I peer down the hallway to the point where I can’t see around the corner. Someone’s watching me. Maybe I should leave.

  No, I’m being silly. I force myself to settle down by rubbing my fingertip against the skinned patch on my arm. I push down. The stinging flares. Eventually, though, it calms me and I take a deep breath and return my attention to the book.

  I pick back up with Edna, who can’t understand why Robert doesn’t love her. As far as I can tell, it’d be a lot easier if Edna just asked him. People in old books don’t communicate well.

  But then there it is again. The watched feeling.

  This time goose pimples spring up on my forearms. There’s a squeak—the sound of sneakers on a basketball court.

  I tuck my heels in and slowly rise to my feet, new heart thumping. I tiptoe to the end of the row of lockers and peer around. Nothing.

  A loud thump comes from behind me and my heart leaps clear into my mouth. I whirl around, hand clawing at my chest.

  “Holy shit.” The words rush out in one long whoosh of air. A mangy Siamese cat peeps its head out of a trash can and stares at me with blank eyes as colorless as melted snow. I let my head droop, trying to catch my breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say out loud. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  The cat hooks a bony limb over the top of the trash can and pulls itself onto the rim, balancing. Its cream-colored fur is both greasy and matted. The cat tosses its head and a puff of fleas—or maybe dander—flies from the ridges of its back, its skin pulled taut over a scrawny skeleton. Usually I love animals, but this one smells foul and looks diseased. It blinks at me once, slowly, before pouncing and slinking out the door to the woods. I
breathe a deep sigh of relief but am compelled to check my pulse just like Dr. Belkin instructed. It’s fast. Faster than it should be, but not so fast as to tax my new heart in a serious way.

  Brushing dust off the back of my pants, I stuff The Awakening back in my bag and swing it over one shoulder when I hear—

  “So?” The voice is low but chipper. “How do you feel?” I jump at the sound of his voice and spin around.

  Henry’s head is tilted slightly to the side. He’s wearing his stained Washington Huskies hat with the ripped brim and his curly brown hair pokes out underneath. He’s not laughing hysterically at me, so he must have missed the whole cat incident. Small blessings, as Mom would say.

  I tuck my hair behind one ear and swallow hard, trying to steady myself. “Well, I feel like I’ve got about a zillion weeks of class to catch up on and an AP Euro exam next week that’s going to kick my ass.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you were Stella, but you must be the Grinch, here to steal all of the first-day-back cheer.” Henry leans a skinny shoulder against my locker. There’s an awkwardness that lingers between us. I know since he didn’t hug me right away. I haven’t given him an answer, not since my surgery. Not since there became a future to speak of, one that I could actually plan. Back then I couldn’t talk future anything. I couldn’t even think about what Henry and I could be when he asked. But now everything’s changed. I just need to catch up.

  “Sorry, this is the first time in almost a month I’ve had to wake up pre-ten A.M. Be warned. Plus I barely made it out of the house without my mom forcing a surgical mask on me. Honestly, you’d have thought I was marching off into a nuclear war zone.”

  Henry’s cheek dimples when he smiles. “I’ve always thought that’s what our uniforms were missing—surgical masks.” Without thinking, I touch the collar of my white polo, conscious again of the angry scar that runs up the entire length of my torso. It’s the first time in almost ten years I’ve been thankful to go to a school where uniforms are required.

  “You know Ms. Johnson would probably give you an extension on that exam if you asked.” He’s not going to press the issue. He’s not going to rush me, I realize, and relax.

  “Um, let me stop you right there. No.” I peer up at him, curling my thumbs under the padded strap of my book bag. “I absolutely can’t fall any farther behind than I am now. Not if I want to graduate with you guys.” I’d decided before any of this that—if I lived—I wasn’t going to finish my high school career with the lowly juniors below us. No way. “Plus, anytime my parents take a break from pill patrol, they switch right over to hyperscientific grade analysis. I’m not joking. There’s a chart where my mom has calculated how many more points I’ll need on my SAT to offset the fact I’ll no longer be recruited for swim team so that I can still get into Stanford. It’s frightening.”

  “What about the Replacement Child? I thought she was occupying most of the free space on their mental hard drives.”

  “Elsie? She already has Stanford onesies, socks, and matching hair bows. Trust me, she’s a shoo-in.”

  “Well, don’t count yourself out of the running just yet. You may have a better shot than you think. I”—he scoots back, knocking at my locker door—“have a present for you. Open up.”

  I glance sideways at Henry. “Okay, weirdo.” I spin my combination lock. “You didn’t have to get all mushy on me.” What if he’s planned some grand romantic gesture for my return? I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

  He shrugs.

  Inside my locker is a new binder tied with wrinkly pink ribbon. I pull it out, cradling it with one arm. “Gee, thanks, school supplies. Can never have too many of these.” I drum my fingers on the white plastic. Okay, definitely not romantic.

  He rolls his eyes. “Look inside, Stel.” God, I hate when he calls me that.

  I tug at one end of the messy bow and stash the ribbon in my locker. Unfolding the binder, I peek. Scratchy handwriting is scrawled on pages of leaf paper. I immediately snap it shut. “It’s the homework I missed, isn’t it?” I squint up at him. I’ve always found Henry’s height comforting.

  He sighs. “Oh God. Please don’t make a big deal out of this. My new number’s in there, too. See?” He flips to the inside cover. “Had to get a new phone. So don’t”—he points at me in mock seriousness—“throw this away.”

  I stare at the cover. A binder full of all the work I need to make up. Of course it’s tempting. A fast track to senior-year fun. I shake my head, ignoring the devil on my left shoulder. I’ve come this far.

  “Henry…” I say, drawing out the word a little too long. “Thank you. Really.” I stretch up onto my tippy-toes and wrap my arms around his neck. My nose squishes into the rough fabric of his uniform and I’m caught up in the familiar fresh scent of Dove soap and Ralph Lauren cologne.

  He pushes away and holds me out at arm’s length. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  “Not to be that girl”—I curl my fingers into air quotes—“but I feel a little, I don’t know, icky, taking this. Like I’d be cheating.” My shoulders pinch up toward my ears.

  “Oh, come on, Stella.” He wraps his palms over the bill of his baseball cap, tugging it down over his eyes. “I knew you were going to do this. Weren’t you the one complaining that your incessant rule-following hadn’t gotten you anywhere? That was you before surgery, right?”

  “Yeah, but…” I bite my lip. He’s right. If I made it—and that was a big if—I’d promised myself I’d try not to be so uptight.

  “And besides, it’s not like anyone thinks you can’t do it on your own. You’re, like, number one in the class.”

  “Correction: was number one in our class.” I feel my lips curl into a scowl. Missing a couple hundred days of school doesn’t exactly work wonders for your academic record.

  “Whatever. You know what I mean. Everybody missed you. It’d be nice to actually get to see your face now that you’re back for real.”

  “Henry. Nobody missed me. I’ve been practically invisible in this school since, like, my diagnosis.”

  “I wouldn’t say nobody.”

  I stare up at him, trying to give him my best puppy-dog eyes. For good measure, I thrust out my lower lip, too. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I’m lame and I swear I’m going to change that, but…I just have to do this my way, okay?”

  Henry tilts his head back and stares up at the locker pod ceiling for a good five seconds. “You, Stella Cross, are too good for your own good.”

  “True,” I say, this time giving him a playful punch in the gut. “But that’s why I keep you around.”

  Just then, two clammy hands reeking of cocoa butter and chlorine cover my eyeballs. “Guess who-oo?”

  “Oh my God, Brynn!” I squeal, spinning to wrap her in a big hug, too. Brynn’s auburn hair is swept into a messy bun and she’s wearing a blue zip-up hoodie over her uniform. When Brynn and I were little, we’d once tried to count the freckles on her cheeks but kept losing track, so we decided she must have infinity freckles, which at the time didn’t make sense, but ended up being sort of true, since she seemed to keep getting more every summer. I haven’t seen her since post-op at the hospital. Once home, my parents had adopted the title of “Germ Nazis” and hadn’t allowed visitors.

  “You look ah-mazing!” She twirls me around. “Here I was thinking you’d be all like zombified with stringy hair and fingers falling off. But nope. Good as new.”

  As hard as I try to keep up—which until now hasn’t been very—Brynn continues to outpace me on everything, whether it’s rounding third base with the captain of the cross-country team or getting caught with a cigarette after last period. I really shouldn’t be surprised anymore when I come back from a long absence to find she’s not the same freckle-faced kid I knew growing up. For instance, she seems to have a new piercing every time I see her, and this time it’s her eyebrow, a neon-green barb that looks like it hurts, threaded through the skin above her right eye.

  “I thi
nk to be a zombie, I’d have to have been bitten by a zombie. You don’t just spontaneously become a zombie by dying and coming back to life.”

  “Not necessarily,” says Henry. “You could be Patient Zero. Like, you could have been the first person infected and the zombie disease was just lurking inside of you so that when you died and reanimated, you’d be total walking dead. Don’t you guys ever watch TV?”

  I stick my tongue out at him.

  “See?” Brynn crosses her arms. “For all we know, you could be about to start the apocalypse.”

  “Noted,” I say. “Then I guess you two better stay on my good side.”

  I spend the rest of the day fighting to keep my eyes open. Recovery is still exhausting, and there are several times when I have to creep along like an old woman. I try extra hard not to fall asleep in calc, and, in AP lit, and I finish reading The Awakening while the rest of the kids in my class take a quiz on All the King’s Men. By lunchtime, I’m so tired, I’m not even hungry. I’m seriously considering finding a picnic table to crawl under to nap. Ever since the surgery my appetite has shrunk to zilch, probably because I spend half the day worrying about the time I’ll be met with my next lightning-round burst of pains. If side effects were baseball cards, I’d have a half-million-dollar collection.

  I stayed late to talk to Dr. Schleifer, my government teacher, about my makeup work, and by now, I’ve missed the lunchtime crush of students. I walk down an empty hall where every classroom door has been sealed shut until the time when the next bell rings. Through the blinds of the classroom windows, I can make out the students, trapped inside, faces aimed at whiteboards, human specimens entombed inside a series of glassy terrarium tanks, all lined up one after another. I pass through a cold spot on the way to the cafeteria, a not-so-rare phenomenon in Seattle, where the coldest air seems to pool into invisible ice pockets—even indoors. I guess it happens because of the uneven amounts of moisture in the air, but when I was little, my neighbor told me that if you found yourself passing through a cold spot, it meant you’d just passed through a ghost. The image always stuck.