10 Things I Can See from Here

by Carrie Mac

  “I’m so s-s-sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “How are you coping, Maeve? I know it must’ve been very upsetting. I can only imagine.”

  I was not coping. I was terrible. I kept seeing her dead body over and over again. I kept hearing that soap opera, and in my head it was always even louder than it actually was. It was deafening. I love you! No, no! Don’t leave!

  “I am so, so s-s-sorry,” I whispered.

  We stood out of the way for the movers to go back in.

  “You know, we told her to get one of those buttons she could wear around her neck, to call for help if she fell or if she was sick,” he said. “There were a few times that she was almost unconscious from the diabetes. But she always said that when her time came, she didn’t want to miss it.”

  Diabetes?

  She died from sugar? Not from my wishing anything on anyone?

  Diabetes killed more people each year than breast cancer and AIDS combined. I knew that much. Insulin. Glucose. Something about carbs and proteins.

  “Diabetes?”

  “Yes. There is a history in our family.”

  I could feel a shift.

  “It had gotten much worse lately,” he said. “She might have had many more years if she had agreed to get one of those buttons.”

  “That’s what happened?” I felt lighter all of a sudden. “That’s how she died?”

  I gripped the railing with both hands. I was so weightless that I could float away. I could soar overhead and look down and everything would look tidy and perfect from above. And it would be. I hadn’t killed Mrs. Patel. Of course I hadn’t killed her. Ruthie would’ve been the one to stop all of this from happening in the first place. If I’d been able to talk to her, she would’ve made me realize what a stupid idea it was. Science. It’s always about science. Empirical evidence, Maeve.

  Science or superstition, it didn’t matter.

  I hadn’t killed her. That was all that mattered.

  —

  A mover came out with Mrs. Patel’s recliner on his back. He probably had no idea that that chair had held her while her sugars plummeted, and her heart beat valiantly along, until it couldn’t anymore.

  “Could I ask a favor?” Bandhu said.

  I wanted to laugh. There went the chair, bobbing through the courtyard, bright and absurd, a greasy patch at the top where her head had rested. But not at the very end, I wanted to say, as if it were a punch line. Mrs. Patel’s head had rested on her chin instead, vomit trailing down. Bam! Pow! Cue the applause. I hadn’t killed her, and now everything seemed a bit too hilarious. Of course I hadn’t conjured a heart attack. I wanted to laugh and laugh, because it was such a stupid idea. Ridiculous!

  Bandhu was still talking. “I have to pick up my uncle from the airport. Would you mind keeping an eye on the movers? I’ve already paid, including tip. And I’ll give you twenty dollars for your time.”

  “You don’t need to pay me.” I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing. “I’m happy to help.”

  And so absolutely, deliriously happy that I hadn’t killed Mrs. Patel.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “We’ll be there.”

  “My mother would like that.” He pressed the twenty-dollar bill into my hand anyway, and then he said goodbye and left, just in time so that he wouldn’t see the smile I couldn’t hold back any longer.

  —

  When the movers were done, the one who’d carried the yellow chair on his back returned to walk me through the empty rooms so that I could sign the form saying they hadn’t damaged any walls or doorways.

  “You need to come inside,” he said when I balked at the door.

  “I can’t, sorry. I’ll sign now.”

  “Eyes inside. Contract says so.”

  “But I can’t. She died in there. She was my friend.”

  “Sorry for your loss. She’s not in there now, and I need a signature.”

  So I followed him in. He pointed out a gouge in the wall, a piece of missing baseboard, a crack in the bedroom door.

  “Those were all here already. I can show you the pictures we took.” His voice echoed, and the walls looked dirty, and the linoleum was sticky underfoot, which seemed so odd. Mrs. Patel had been a meticulous housekeeper, but her furniture and her pictures and her shelves of books and china teacups had hidden years of grime underneath.

  “Where do I sign?” I said. “I have to go.”

  He held the clipboard while I signed at the bottom, and then he left and I was alone. All the curtains and drapes were gone; the sun streamed in through the windows, the rectangles of light meeting in the middle of the room. I put my hand on the banister. I took the stairs one at a time, hesitating on each one, but ending up at the top nonetheless. There were divots in the carpet where Mrs. Patel’s furniture had been, and a grimy trail where she’d walked from the kitchen to her chair and back a million times or more. Someone had cleaned the spot where the piss and shit and vomit had been, but only just there. So the patch of carpet stuck out, cleaner than the rest, but still dirty. A broom leaned against the kitchen counter, beside a black garbage bag, half full. I swept the kitchen, and then I took the broom and the dustpan and the garbage bag downstairs and swept the linoleum by the door.

  The place still smelled of her. But it smelled of dusty furniture and musty books, too, and the cleanser that was used on the carpet where she died. Even though I was the only one there, it was a different kind of quiet. A garbage truck rumbled down the alley, and it was louder, like the noise came right in and bounced off the bare walls. I could hear the children in the park across the street. Mrs. Patel’s home was a sad, grimy, lonely place now. I shut the door and took a breath of fresh air in the courtyard. That was that.

  I composed about a million texts to Salix in my head and sent exactly none. Too much had happened. I’d messed it up. She would think I was a flake. Which, clearly, I was. Because who would believe for one minute that a person could conjure a heart attack that could actually kill someone?

  Someone who was crazy. That was who.

  I didn’t tell anyone about the heart attack. Not even as a joke. And I never would. Instead I carried on, looking after the boys, sketching, and feeling like I blew it with Salix. Three days after Mrs. Patel died, Claire and the boys and I went to the Hindu temple for Mrs. Patel’s service.

  “She’s been our neighbor for almost seven years!” Claire was on the phone with Dad as she fished in the dryer for a clean pair of underwear. I was in my room, brushing my hair and listening, brushing my hair and listening. “You should be there, Billy. Take a longer lunch. Explain it to Nigel; he’ll understand.” There was a pause, and then Claire slammed the dryer door. “I hope so, Billy. Because there’s no excuse not to be. She wasn’t just a neighbor. She was our friend. She was your friend.” Another pause. “It starts at two o’clock. You can meet us there.”

  Dad didn’t show up.

  Claire left me outside the temple to wait for him while everyone else filed in and she settled the boys inside.

  “Are you coming in?” It was Bandhu.

  “I will,” I said. “I’m just waiting for my dad.”

  I kept my eyes on the parking lot, but he never showed up. Finally I went inside too, and instead of concentrating on Mrs. Patel’s service, I sat and stewed in anger. Where the hell was he? What if he’d left work but hadn’t made it to the temple? What if he’d stopped to get drunk in the middle of the day? He wasn’t injured. He wasn’t dead. He was just an asshole.

  “This is inexcusable,” Claire whispered, about ten minutes into the service. She was as restless as the boys, as we all focused on a service in a language none of us understood.

  She put a hand on Corbin’s leg to stop him from bouncing.

  “Mom, Mom,” Owen whispered. “I don’t understand what they’re saying.”

  “I have to get out of here.” Claire gripped my wrist. “I can’t breathe.”

  I took
her arm and helped her up. The boys followed behind. People stared at us as we left, but Claire just doubled over a bit, holding her belly, as if that was the reason we were leaving. When we’d pushed through the doors and into the hot summer day, she straightened for a minute and took a deep breath.

  “What the hell is going on? Where the fuck is your father?”

  The three of us didn’t say a word as we followed her across the parking lot. She unlocked the van, got into the driver’s seat, and kicked off her sandals.

  “I’m going to find him.” She gripped the steering wheel. “I’m going to find him, and he is going to get the full wrath.”

  “What’s wrath?” Owen asked from the backseat.

  “Because if he thinks this is in any way acceptable, he is sorely mistaken.”

  She drove back to our neighborhood and—starting at the south end—stopped at every single bar and restaurant and pub and sent me in to check if he was there.

  He wasn’t.

  “I’m hungry!” Corbin hollered when we stopped at a place that sold beer and fish and chips. “I have to eat good to rebuild my bone. The doctor said!”

  “Eat well.” Claire put on her sandals.

  “And get plenty of rest, and drink lots of water.”

  Claire hefted herself out and stalked into the shop and ordered four fish and chips combos, and when they were ready, we sat in the van and ate, and then we headed farther north to where the microbreweries had tasting rooms and tiny bars.

  We drove around for hours and hours—so long that we had to stop for gas. Claire offered to drop us off at home, but we all wanted to stay together. Claire finally drove home as it got dark. When she took the boys upstairs, she found Dad sprawled across their king-size bed, snoring softly.

  “For real?” She slammed the door. Then she opened it again. “Billy! Wake up!” But he didn’t or he pretended not to, so she slammed the door again. She stomped downstairs, leaving the twins standing in the hallway, each of them holding a picture book, a dazed look on their faces.

  “It’ll be okay.” I ushered them into their room. We sat on the lower bunk, quiet until Corbin offered up his book, and then Owen put his on top, and then they had something to argue about.

  I read the stories and tucked them in before I went downstairs.

  “I don’t know what to do.” Claire was on the phone. “Remember before the boys were born? Remember how bad it was?”

  I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to know.

  I wanted to talk to Ruthie.

  Not my mom, because I didn’t want her to know that it was getting worse.

  Not Claire, because she was so deeply into it that she was nearly drowning.

  Not Nancy, because I never really did want to talk to her.

  Not Dan, either, because he always turned everything into a joke. He made light of all the hard things and expected me to do the same. Sometimes that was okay. But not now.

  I wanted Ruthie, no matter what had happened between us. I used to be able to tell her anything. She knew all my other secrets, and even now that we weren’t speaking, I knew she’d never tell. I’d always trusted her before. I wanted Ruthie, who was so scientific about things. She could always apply a formula, and if one didn’t exist, she’d invent one. She’d listen to me cry, but she’d never cry along with me. She’d listen, but she wouldn’t sympathize.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I wrote to her anyway, even though I wasn’t sure that I did trust her anymore. I told her about Mrs. Patel, and about my dad. I even told her about Salix, because if I didn’t, it would make things worse.

  I don’t even think it’s legal for me to go into a bar, I finished. Let alone twenty-six of them. Can you believe it?

  My finger hovered over the delete button. I’d written it, and now I did not have to send it. That was what Nancy said. Write the letter. Win the catharsis. Erase the letter; burn the letter; delete the letter; rip it up; shred it. But don’t send it.

  I hadn’t received an email or text from Ruthie since she’d invited me over that afternoon, after Jessica had already moved back to California. It was a couple of weeks later, and I had a good reason to email her, so I did. She emailed back almost right away, as if she’d been waiting.

  I still had the email. And the identical text. I opened both.

  Come over and help me make a bunch of hexaflexagons?

  And I have something I want to show you.

  I’m home. Come in.

  r.

  But that was a lie. Or if she did have something to show me, everything happened before she had a chance. Or, thinking back on it, maybe she did show me.

  I’d tried writing her a couple of times since then, but what was I supposed to say? She should be the one getting in touch with me. Right? Or was I supposed to ask her all the questions and hope that she’d give me some answers?

  I was mad.

  I was embarrassed.

  I was ashamed, and confused.

  I was hurt.

  And she should be all those things too. Plus she should be sorry.

  Why should I be the one to reach out now, after all this time?

  I should let her come to me.

  She was the one who needed to apologize.

  But I sent it anyway. And once I had, there was no way to take it back. For better or for worse.

  For better: I missed Ruthie, and I wanted her to be my best friend again.

  For worse: she’d delete it before even reading it and never talk to me again. Everything would stay weird. I started another email.

  I miss you.

  Send.

  And then one more.

  I don’t even know if you’ll get any of these. Or if you’ll read them.

  And then it was almost funny.

  I’ll stop now.

  Send.

  And lastly, a joke. Because she told terrible jokes.

  Q. Why did the mushroom get invited to all the parties?

  A. Because he was such a fungi!

  Send.

  Maybe she would delete them all.

  But maybe she would read them. And maybe she’d remember what it was like before Jessica.

  On Friday morning, my phone buzzed. I groped for it, knocking my sketchbook and pencils onto the floor.

  Just on the ferry now, coming back to Van. See you this afternoon!

  Salix?

  Salix!

  But I had sent that text. I’d canceled our date. And then Salix hadn’t texted back.

  But there was my text, still open. Not sent. I hadn’t sent it. My stomach flipped. I hadn’t messed it up after all! Salix hadn’t ignored me. I had just beaten myself at my own impulsiveness, for once.

  I deleted the one from before and then, with shaking hands, texted her back. 2pm, right?

  Salix texted back immediately. The trick will be getting an outside table.

  Inside would be okay too, I texted.

  No. Salix’s reply came quickly. It’s a beautiful day. Leave it to me. I’ll get an outside table. Don’t worry. See you then.

  I sat there, stunned. There was still a date, and it was that afternoon. My first date. Only, no. Not really. But sort of. Did Jessica count? We held hands at school. She sat on my lap during lunch. We kissed a lot. But we never went out out. I went to her house on the weekends and we watched movies and baked cookies. She was so bold at first, up to and including that amazing—and also awful—first kiss. Just before she moved back to California, she passed me a note in class. Want to sleep over and do stuff? With xoxoxox and a happy face. I was sick with nerves while her parents served supper. I was sick with nerves when we watched a movie, holding hands and pulling away whenever her mom came downstairs. I was sick with nerves when we went to bed, locking her bedroom door and stripping until we were naked. Absolutely naked. When I slid into bed beside her, my nerves went away. But hers didn’t. She lay rigid beside me, and so we hardly touched. All her talk, and I don’t think she knew what to do with a
girl. And I never claimed that I did either.

  When I told my dad and Claire that I was gay, Dad laughed. I can see why, he said. And then he winked. I like girls too. I cringed. And then Claire: I knew it! She hugged me. You know, I had a girlfriend for about three months back in college.

  But one girl crush back in college didn’t make her gay. Not really. I never said I was, she said when my dad teased her about being a lesbian. I suppose that I’m technically bisexual, she said. If you want to label me.

  He gave her a look that I had no trouble deciphering.

  Being queer was also about not being into boys. Just as it was about attraction, it was also about an absence of attraction, like white space. There wouldn’t be white space if I liked both. But I didn’t. Girls shimmered, as if all the light shone on them and not on the boys at all. Boys were hardly there, just shadows and background noise. I liked how girls talked, and moved, the way they smiled, or tucked their hair behind an ear. I watched the other girls as they changed for gym class, pulling off T-shirts and shorts, shrugging out of dresses. How they fixed their hair and teased each other. The lines of their arms and the curves of their bodies. I was always itching to draw them, even in the locker room. Which sounds weirder than it was. All those girls ignored me. They would never even have noticed me, sitting there with my sketchbook and pencils. They thought I was a loser. A geek. One of the invisible ones. And that was okay too, because the less they noticed me, the more I could admire them, even if they were bitches.

  Until Jessica saw me. Actually saw me, as if I were suddenly in the light too. She was putting her clothes back on after gym. She slid tight jeans up over boy-cut underwear, a tiny, blurry tattoo of a star on her hip.

  “My girlfriend did it,” she said. “With a needle and ash. That’s how they do it in the Russian prisons.”

  I looked away, blushing.

  “Not that I’ve ever been in a Russian prison.”

  She’d come from California the week before. Some mess having to do with her dad losing his marbles and coming to her school and screaming in the office about alien abduction. Now she was living with her mom, but she hadn’t quite mapped the school population yet. Who was land. Who was water. Or maybe she didn’t care.