Wish You Were Here

by Barbara Shoup

  I glance across the classroom at her now. She’s sitting, fiddling with her mirror earrings so that they catch the sun and make little rainbows on the wall beside her. I think of what she said that first night we were together.

  “Hold me. Brady used to do that.”

  And I see for the first time how truly stupid I’ve been.

  “Hey, man, we’ll get this apartment, get laid,” Brady said. And all the time he was screwing Stephanie. No wonder she was so freaked out when he disappeared. For all I know, the reason he ran away was that he started feeling trapped, like I do now.

  Suddenly it all makes sense: the way she tricked me into coming over to her house alone that night after the game, the way she had the condoms right there, handy. “We need each other,” she said.

  Yeah, she needed me all right. Brady’s replacement.

  I feel like I’ve been hit. The two of them; it’s perfect. Two perfect disasters. Oh, boy, it would’ve been just great if Brady and I had gotten the apartment. Christ, I’d’ve ended up living with Steph in that case. I’d’ve spent every night listening to the two of them screwing in the next room. It’s probably why he wanted the apartment in the first place, to be with her.

  He used me; she’s using me now. And I’m so stupid, I let them. It makes me feel sick inside. Yeah, what a great person I am, what a prince, what a moron. Stephanie loves you; the decent thing is to try to love her back. I can’t believe I gave up on any chance that things might work out with Amanda when it turns out that all I really was to Steph was the next best thing to Brady.

  I cut out of school just before lunch and drive around and around the interstate loop with my stereo blaring. I pass exits for highways that would take me east, west, north, or south, the whole time thinking what am I going to do? It only pisses me off more to realize that if Brady were here, he’d tell me the same thing he must’ve told himself the day he left. To hell with Steph. Do what you want. I suppose if I had the guts, I’d take off on one of those highways, like he did. But it’s getting dark; Dad’s expecting me. So I exit near the hospital and head over to see him.

  “Yo, Jackson!” he says.

  “Yo,” I say, and slump into a chair. While he flirts with the nurse who’s attending to him, I look at the valentines on his tray table. There’s one from Kim, along with a basket of fruit and high-energy snacks. There’s a huge one that all the nurses on the floor have signed. There’s even one from Layla. Dad winks at me when he sees I’m noticing the little shreds of what is surely pot taped inside. Then he squints and gives me a weird look.

  “Hey, what’s up, pal?” he says when the nurse leaves. “You look like shit.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess Steph’s kind of driving me crazy.”

  “Uh-oh,” he says. “What’s the deal?”

  I start off, telling him what it’s like picking her up for school in the morning. She gets in my bus, carrying a big mug of coffee, sloshing it everywhere. She reaches up and turns the rearview mirror toward her so she can fix her hair, all the while talking, updating me on whatever she and her mom fought about the night before, whatever crappy thing her stepfather said or did. She moans about school, about the state of the world, about the weather, about the way her hair looks.

  Dad laughs. “Congratulations,” he says. “You’ve just learned the quintessential fact about women. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Hey, you learn to tune them out, that’s all.”

  I just sit there. I don’t know how to say, “No, it’s not all—not even close.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” he says. “It just takes time. And experience. But, Jesus, Jackson—meanwhile, can’t you just relax and enjoy the—” He grins at me. “You know, process?”

  I look at him, all strung up to the traction bar and think, I could just take a pair of scissors and snap one of those ropes, you asshole. I imagine his bandaged legs bouncing down onto the iron rail of the bed. You screw her, I feel like saying. You relax and enjoy the process. The sad thing is, he probably would.

  “I don’t have time to relax and enjoy anything,” I mutter.

  “Then take the time,” Dad says, his voice suddenly gentle. “You’re seventeen years old. Give yourself a break, will you? You’re not going to marry the girl; you’re just dating her. You’re not responsible for anybody but yourself.”

  But I feel responsible for her, even knowing what I know.

  She breezes in around suppertime like I knew she would. She has a valentine balloon for Dad and a box of those awful little candy hearts with messages on them. She beams at me and offers me one that says “I love you.”

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  I just sit there looking out the window at all the cars leaving the parking lot, while Dad and Steph talk. She’s flirting with him, really. The two of them have been flirting with each other all along; I just hadn’t seen it until now. Would Dad screw her if he had the chance? I tell myself that this line of thought is totally absurd. Dad is weird, but he’s not that weird. And he’s not stupid. Still, I imagine what might happen if the two of them found themselves suddenly alone. Steph would be the one to start it. That’s what kills me. I know she would. She’d convince herself she was doing good, like screwing Dad was a way of nursing him. It would make him feel better.

  The way it made me feel better. No, the way it made me not feel at all.

  That’s what I want to do now: not feel. I don’t want to feel humiliated by how stupid I’ve been. I don’t want to feel angry at Dad—it’s not his fault. I don’t want to feel jealous, but I do. I don’t want to be with Steph, but I don’t want her to enjoy herself with anyone else, especially my dad. I feel like a fifth wheel sitting here, listening to the two of them talking and laughing.

  Dad launches one of his favorite shticks: Great Rivalries in Rock and Roll. Elvis versus Pat Boone, the Beatles versus the Dave Clark Five, the Ronettes versus the Shirelles, American Bandstand versus The Lloyd Thaxton Show.

  “Lloyd who?” Steph says.

  “Tell her, Jackson,” Dad says, giving me this look like, don’t be such a drag.

  “Lloyd Thaxton,” I say. “He was this California guy trying to one-up Dick Clark.”

  “Yeah, go on,” Dad says, grinning.

  “His gimmick was the Lloyd Thaxton Sit-Down Dance,” I say. “It was stupid. Every day they’d do one song with everybody sitting on the bleachers, you know, dancing with just the top parts of their bodies—”

  I don’t tell the rest of what I remember: that Mom and Dad used to do the Lloyd Thaxton Sit-Down Dance when they were in a really silly mood. They’d sit on the couch, side by side, and flail around, laughing like maniacs, finally collapsing into each other’s arms.

  “Great for cripples,” Dad says now. “Though I have to admit it never occurred to me at the time.” He cranks up his bed, flips on his boom box, and starts sit-down dancing to “Twist and Shout.”

  “Will you be careful?” I say. “You’re going to get the traction cables out of whack.”

  He does a King Tut move with his free arm.

  “Dad,” I say. “Would you quit?” There’s no way to tell him that the memory, the way the memory hurts me, is the absolute last straw in one of the worst days of my life. But I swear to God, I can’t stand another second of it. “Dad, I mean it.”

  When he keeps it up and keeps it up, I stalk out of the room, a baby, a spoilsport. Jesus, what kind of person am I, anyway? Shouldn’t it please me to see Dad having a good time? Shouldn’t I be grateful every second of my life that he’s alive?

  I tell myself that maybe my real problem is this depressing place. Too many sad, sick people. Sorrow is contagious. Dad will be able to go home pretty soon, and things are bound to get better. But I know it’s not true. My real problem is what to do about Stephanie. I can’t avoid her forever. I have to make a plan.
>
  Just tell her. That would be the best thing. Say, “Steph, I know about you and Brady. We both know I really can’t replace him. In the long run, we’ll both be happier if I don’t try.”

  Not the whole truth, of course: that I love someone else. Why hurt her?

  But, as a matter of fact, I want to hurt her, and I’m afraid that once I’ve said the first word to her, I won’t be able to stop. So maybe I should just sneak out now, while I can. Maybe go home and write her a note that tells her the part of all this that I want her to know. I could get through tomorrow, avoiding the issue. Then when we go to her house after school, she’d open the door on her side of the bus and start to get out. She’d stop when she saw I wasn’t opening mine, and look back at me.

  That’s when I’d hand her the note. “Read this,” I’d say.

  It wouldn’t exactly be easy; she wouldn’t make it easy. She’d take the note, but I’d see on her face that she knew something was wrong. She’d say, “You’re not coming in?”

  I’d have to say no. But I could do that. I think I could do that.

  I’m halfway to the elevator when I hear her voice. “There you are,” she calls. “I’ve been hunting all over for you. Your dad fell asleep,” she says when she catches up with me. “So do you maybe want to go out and get something to eat?”

  “1 can’t,” I say. “I have homework. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “We can do homework at my house if you want. Order a pizza.”

  I just keep walking; she hurries along beside. “God, I just love your dad, Jackson,” she says when we get on the elevator. “He’s so cool. He doesn’t act, you know, old. I wish I could talk to my own dad the way I can talk to him. My dad, ha. All he cares about are Janeen and their darling little babies.”

  If she doesn’t shut up, I think—

  “Too bad for me I didn’t stay a baby, a cute little two-year-old baby, like Nicole.”

  “Fake it,” I say. “I think you could be fairly convincing.”

  She stops and raises a hand to her face as if I’ve slapped her.

  The elevator jolts to a stop and the door opens. I walk away from her, toward the parking lot. “Jax, what’s the matter with you?” she asks, catching up. “How come you left school today, anyhow? It totally freaked me out when I realized you were gone. Are you mad at me? What did I do?”

  I keep walking.

  “Jax?”

  “What?” I say. “Jesus, Steph, will you be quiet for one second? Please?”

  “You are mad at me. I knew it.” She grabs my arm, but I shrug her away. “Jax, why?”

  I stop so quickly she bumps into me, and I have to catch her to keep her from falling. “I’m not mad, okay? I’m just tired. I’m tired of this shit. This—” I wave my hand around, as if to include the entire hospital. “Would you just please leave me alone?”

  “But, Jax, I love you,” she says, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Well, don’t love me,” I say. “Because I can’t love you right now. I can’t love anybody.” I walk away from her, out the double doors into the parking lot. I don’t look back.

  thirty–five

  When the phone rings later that night, I’m sure it’s Steph calling to apologize for something she didn’t do and make me feel even worse. Mom answers it and yells up the stairs, “Jackson, for you.”

  “Goddamn it,” I mutter, and pick it up. “Yeah?”

  “Jackson?” The voice sounds small and far away. “Jackson, is that you? It’s Amanda.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah! It’s me. Amanda? Jeez, how are you?” I fall all over myself apologizing for not answering her letter.

  “No, no,” she says. “Listen, I know about your dad, and—”

  “You do?”

  “Kristin wrote me. She’s so sweet; she’s so worried about you. I just got her letter today, and, oh, Jackson, I am so sorry. You must have totally freaked out when you got home and found out. Kristin said he was getting better, but is he? Is he really going to be all right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He’s still a mess, but, yeah, he’s getting better.”

  “Well, thank heavens,” she says. “Still, it must have been so awful for you—the fact that he might have died. I mean, are you okay? That’s what I really want to know.”

  No, is what I should say, and then tell her the truth about Steph. And just having talked to her for maybe twenty seconds, I remember that she’s more than the person I’m in love with. She’s also my friend; I could tell her what happened with Steph and she’d understand. But right now all I want to do is listen to her voice.

  “Jackson, are you?” she asks. “All right?”

  I feel myself smiling. “I wasn’t,” I say. “But I am now. I was really stupid not to call and tell you as soon as I found out—”

  “Don’t think about that,” Amanda says. “Just talk to me now. I want you to tell me everything.”

  We’re on the phone over an hour. I tell her about camping out in the hospital waiting room that first week, about Mom’s breakdown in the cafeteria. That makes her laugh. I tell her about Brady’s postcards, the fact that I’ve kept them a secret from everyone, even his mother.

  “You didn’t want her to know he’d written to you and not her,” Amanda says.

  “Yeah, I felt bad for Layla,” I say. “But I also felt like if I told anybody about the postcards, what would I say? To tell you the truth, every time I even think about them, I get pissed out of my mind. How would I explain that?”

  “It makes sense to me,” she says. “I mean, if someone’s your best friend, he ought to be there to help you when something awful happens. What’s the use of hearing from Brady if he can’t help? It only makes you feel worse. No wonder you’re angry.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I never would’ve thought of it that way, but, yeah, it makes sense. So, what are you, psychic? How come you know what I’m thinking when I don’t even know myself?”

  She laughs. “I have no idea,” she says. “It’s weird. This kind of thing has never happened to me before. I’ve never—”

  “What?” I say.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never been—listen, Jackson,” she says. “Do you still feel—”

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes. Do you?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Even more than I did. I miss you so much. It was so wonderful there, wasn’t it? So—easy.”

  “It was,” I say.

  “Do you think it would have kept on being so wonderful?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I do. Hey, maybe we should run away and find out for sure. We should, you know? Brady did it. Why can’t we?”

  She laughs again. “We definitely should,” she says. “We’ll run away and live on the beach. It’s a great plan. But meanwhile, write me, okay?”

  I promise her I will.

  When we hang up, I’m on track, full of purpose. Okay, I think. Do it now, before you chicken out. And I dial Steph’s number. I’m just going to break it off, plain and simple, and get it over with. “Hi, it’s me,” I say, when she answers.

  “Jax,” she says eagerly. “I—”

  “I’m sorry I was such an asshole,” I interrupt.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Really. I know you’re still upset about your dad and all—”

  “It’s not that,” I say. “Not only that.” I take a deep breath. “Listen, Steph, a lot of weird stuff has happened to me in the last months, you know? I think I need some time out. I can’t—”

  She says, “It’s okay if you don’t love me.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say. “It isn’t right what we’re doing if we don’t love each other. It’s not fair if you love me and I don’t love you back.”

  “I said you don’t have to love me, Jax. And I don’t lo
ve you. When I said that tonight I only meant, well—I just meant I want to be with you.” Her voice is wobbly. “So don’t freak out, okay? Don’t make a big deal about it. I mean, even you said we needed each other, that it was good for us being together. So what’s changed?”

  I don’t say anything. I tell myself she doesn’t really need to know about Amanda. It would only hurt her more. And there’s no way I’m going to make a bigger fool of myself by telling her what I figured out about her and Brady. What’s the point?

  “You are mad at me about something, aren’t you?” she says. “I knew it when you left today. I could feel it tonight. Why won’t you tell me what it is?”

  “I’m not mad,” I say. “I just—like I said, I need some time out. Plus, Dad’s getting out of the hospital—”

  “He is?” she says.

  “Probably sometime this week,” I say, even though I have no idea whether or not it’s true.

  “This week? God, Jax, no wonder you’re so freaked out. But, really, you don’t have to worry, you know, about you and me. I mean it. It’s okay—whatever you want. And I can help you with your dad—”

  “Well, maybe later,” I say. “But at first, he has to take it easy. Go easy on the visitors—”

  “I’m not exactly a visitor,” she says in a small voice.

  “No, no. Dad really likes you. It’s just—well, the doctor says at first it’ll take all his strength just to get around. And as for right now—like I said, I need some time out. I’ve got to move my stuff over to Dad’s and help Kim change the living room around so we can put the hospital bed there. Then I’ll have to help get Dad settled in.”

  “Sure,” Steph says. “Sure, Jax, I totally understand. No problem. You just call me if you need any help. If you want—”

  “I will,” I say. But we both know I won’t.