I picked up one photograph and brought it closer to my eyes.
There were three guys, all decked out in ROTC gear on what looked like a freshly groomed football field, green and trimmed for an upcoming game. In the upper left corner of the picture, Old Glory was captured mid-flap as her Stars and Stripes twisted together in a frozen billow. The boys were smiling enormously with their high and tight cuts framing their innocent, youthful faces. It felt like an ad for America—all it needed was a hotdog and a bald eagle.
The wheels to Dan’s chair squealed to a halt against the hardwood a few feet behind me.
“Who’s this with you?” I pointed to the boy in the middle as I rotated the image for Dan to view. But he didn’t look up, and I doubted he needed to. After all, it was his photograph.
The amber-colored bottle in his grip hissed as he popped the cap of it off. After a long guzzle, he swallowed, then cleared his throat.
“That was Charles.”
It didn’t take a detective to notice his choice of tense.
“You guys went to school together?” I studied the image. Though the two flanking Charles bore the obvious resemblance to Dan and Lincoln, they clearly weren’t the same boys the picture depicted anymore. There was so much hope captured in their eyes here. So much wonder. The worldliness that was so evident the moment you locked eyes with Dan hadn’t existed when this shot was snapped. That must’ve been born at a later time in his life. If this picture was any indicator, it hadn’t always been in him. “You all look so different.”
“Yeah, I was a little taller then.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Calm down, Eppie. I’m only kidding. Trying to make a joke,” he smiled, genuinely. “Coping mechanism. We all have them.”
“Don’t I know it,” I sighed.
Dan gripped on to his right wheel and gave one forceful push forward, swiveling up to me and finally glancing toward the frame. “That was my senior year of high school. We three musketeers had high hopes at the point of blasting the terrorists into the next century. We planned to single-handedly save the Western World with our Uzis and our tanks and our indoctrinated patriotic mantras. It was a grandiose plan of heroically naive proportions.”
I caught the slight exasperated laugh at the end of Dan’s explanation.
“But didn’t that happen?” I joked, as much as the moment would allow, I supposed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I remember you recently bragging about effectively securing the freedoms of all generations to come.” I replaced the frame back to its home above the fireplace and turned to him. There was a couch close by so I dropped down to sit on the arm. The fabric was velvety and I ran my fingers over the edge as I spoke.
“Well, let’s think about that for a minute. Lincoln’s been stuck in this godforsaken town, I’m stuck without the use of my legs, and Charles is stuck six feet under.” Dan threw back another gulp of his beer and laughed again, but this time it was maniacal and uncontrolled. It caused me to hold my breath. “You take a wild guess as to our success.”
“Dan,” I sighed, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Before you say something that resembles ‘I’m sorry,’ please think for a moment, okay?” There wasn’t much left in his bottle, but he took another pull from it. My dad would do that—drain every last drop from an already depleted bottle or can. Like he didn’t want to waste any bit of that liquid courage. But maybe it wasn’t courage they were gaining from it. Maybe it was something else entirely. “Because I’ve heard ‘I’m sorry,’ at least half a million damn times. And words like that lose their meaning when they’re used up and abused.”
“But what if I really am sorry?” I offered, because what I felt was exactly that. Maybe others had worn out the meaning in the word, but I hadn’t yet. I still had plenty of apologies to give.
“What would you have to be sorry about? It’s our own damned fault for thinking we could change something so much bigger than us.” Dan dropped his now empty bottle to the glass coffee table. It spun like a top on its circular bottom before wobbling to a stop. He clamped his hands together in his lap and shook his head, defeat in his shoulders and in his tone. “Life is not meant to be a peaceful experience, I don’t think. Don’t know how we can be so arrogant as to believe that’s something we could ever even achieve. When we’re not warring with one another, we’re warring within ourselves. When we no longer have enemies, we become our own. It’s all a goddamned mess.”
“I’m sorry.” I meant it. I was.
“Don’t be.”
“But I am. I’m sorry that your experiences did that to you. Made you lose any hope that maybe we actually are meant to be happy in this life.”
Dan threw back his head, groaning. “Listen, Eppie. I’ve heard about you. I know your own life isn’t all unicorns and flowers.”
“You’re right,” I nodded, shrugging in mock surrender. “It’s actually pegasuses and balloons. Slight difference.”
That got a well-placed laugh out of Dan, which made me a little proud.
“But just because you’ve heard my story,” I continued, “doesn’t mean you actually know it.”
Reaching down into his chair, Dan retrieved another cold beer placed next to his hip, busted the cap, and brought it up to his lips. “And just because you think you can see mine,” he said, right before he took a drink. “It doesn’t mean you actually know it, either.”
***
“Honey, I’m home!” The front door slammed as Lincoln’s voice trilled into the duplex.
“In here, sweet stuff!” Dan called out, a too high lilt to his voice. He did a really terrible job of impersonating a girl. Someone should give him some tips on that, I figured. Sam probably wouldn’t be the best one for that task.
I could hear the rustling of grocery bags on the counter, followed by an almost melodic slam of cupboard doors as the bags’ contents were placed onto the shelves. After just a few moments, Lincoln appeared in the hallway, still clad in his construction gear: a thin, white shirt and baggy, faded jeans that bunched up at the bottom as fabric accordions near his steel-toe boots. Effortlessly, without even having to push up at all, he unscrewed the light fixture and replaced the dead bulb with a brand new one; those energy efficient kinds that spiraled tightly like a mattress coil. Flipping the switch on the sidewall next to him, the hallway burst into brightness like the literal sun was trapped inside that bulb. This was the kind of light that required polarized lenses, and I had to squint against the glare.
“Wow. That’s nearly radioactive,” Lincoln said, shielding his brow with his forearm. “Might need to wear protective glasses and clothing when utilizing this hallway, but for now, it’s all fixed.”
“Thanks, man.” Dan nodded his appreciation. “How was work?”
“Decent. Had a furry little mutt there to keep me company the whole time. He’s currently snoozing in the camper. Didn’t have the heart to wake him.” Lincoln shot a smile my direction. It had been over a week since our kiss in the laundry room, yet the feeling he left me with then hadn’t worn off at all. Every time those lips of his moved—whether to speak, yawn, honestly, even to sneeze—I was reminded of the power they had over my sanity. “Something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about actually, Eppie. Herb’s really slacking. Like, he’s absolutely useless with a hammer and you should see him wield a nail gun. Sprays those things everywhere in Terminator-like fashion. He’s an utter occupational hazard. The boys are starting to complain.”
“Maybe I should consult with the vet about that,” I teased.
“In all seriousness, he probably is due to have someone take another look at that back leg.” He slid down next to me in the empty space of the love seat, the outsides of our thighs pressing together as we sloped to the middle. We’d gotten past the weird triangular gap from weeks back, and now our appendages were allowed to do these sorts of things. His arm stretched out over the back and his hand curled around my shoulder,
another allowed occurrence. “I’ve gotta work late all week at the site, but I can probably take him in next weekend.”
“Nah, I have a minimum day on Thursday for AP testing prep. I can schedule an appointment.”
Lincoln’s hand squeezed against my skin. “So. I got everything for dinner,” he spoke as he nodded his head back toward the kitchen. “What time are we planning to eat?”
We’d had this night in the works for a while now. Since our first official double date ended in a sad game of comparative tragedies, I figured this one could only go better. No way but up, right? Dan and Sam had been hanging out together daily, and while I wished that had been the case for Lincoln and me as well, homework and house building thwarted our attempts at scheduling any quality time. One thing we had done was exchange at least a dozen texts per day, as well as spent hours on the phone each night. I didn’t figure Jimmy Fallon put Lincoln to sleep anymore since on more than one occasion, a long pause in our conversation would lead to the echo of deep, peaceful breathing on the other end. I put him to bed now. I liked that.
“I told Sam to come by at six after her shift at the food bank.”
I looked toward the clock hanging on the pale yellow wall. That meant fifteen minutes.
“I’ll get the water boiling.”
“I’ll help you with that,” Lincoln smirked, coming up behind me as I rose to stand. His hand lighted on my waist as he gently pressed me forward. I had enough basic culinary skills to know that boiling water was sort of a one-man job, but I didn’t complain.
“I’ll just stay here and look pretty,” Dan called over his shoulder. As I walked down the hall to the kitchen, I heard the television click on, and the occupancy of the family room increased a thousand fold as the roar of a stadium filled with elated fans blasted through the speakers. “Shit!” Dan yelled, clapping his hands together loudly. “Martin just hit a grand slam!”
I expected Lincoln to go racing out of the room, giddy with equal excitement, but instead he just echoed back, “That’s awesome, man.”
With question in my eyes, I looked up at him, almost concerned. “Aren’t you excited about that?”
“Not really. I’m much more excited about me possibly getting back on first base with you.” Spinning me around, Lincoln pinned me up against the kitchen wall, his hands bracketed on either side of my shoulders, trapping me in. He dropped down, his mouth hovering there, and popped his eyebrows up as he grinned.
Then his lips pressed to mine and all that replaying and daydreaming and fantasizing about our last kiss collided in my brain and tore through my nervous system. I was suddenly one gigantic exposed nerve. That couldn’t be healthy.
“You are such a dork,” I spoke as he pulled back for air.
“I know,” he smiled against my lips. He came in for more, this time sliding his fingers into my hair at my neck. He cupped the base of my head, and then he pulled me up closer to him. I had to stand like a ballerina en pointe, but the way he coiled one hand tightly around my waist and the other at my neck nearly lifted me off my feet. Every surface on me pressed to him: my chest, my hips, the length of my legs. I was weightless as his mouth moved back onto mine, and just when his tongue attempted to tease apart my lips, Lincoln all but dropped me to the floor.
“Quit making out in my kitchen,” Dan asserted as he loudly entered the room, his voice reaching us first. “You’re going to contaminate the food. Totally unsanitary.”
“Get back to your game.” Lincoln ran his hands up and down my arms and kissed the top of my head quickly before releasing me to walk to the fridge. He pulled out all the fixings for our Caesar salad and dropped them onto the tile counter.
“The fact that you’re choosing a girl over baseball pains me, Linc. Pains me.” Apparently Dan was only in need of another beer because after retrieving one he made his way back to the family room, leaving us to our cooking or making out or whatever it was we planned to do. “You’re a sell out!”
Ignoring his last jab, Lincoln just grinned and lit the stove and then placed a large metal pot that practically resembled a caldron onto it. There was one of those fancy waterspouts attached to the wall right behind the range, and he turned it on to fill up the pot.
“For a bachelor’s pad, this is impressively state of the art,” I acknowledged. And it was; there were so many random additions to this house that a typical duplex wouldn’t normally have.
“Oh.” Lincoln shut off the water and then bent down to find the salt in a lower cabinet just to the left. He scouted around a bit before locating it, and then he tossed a dash of it into the water over his shoulder as he flashed me a goofy grin. He really was a dork and that made me smile so big. “I had that installed for him. Being in construction has its perks. Usually someone always owes you a favor, so you can work out some pretty sweet deals.”
“You did that for him?”
Lincoln’s shoulders lifted a little. He was being humble, I could tell, but it wasn’t necessary. “It’s not a big deal, really. But what is a big deal is having to fill a pot to the brim all the way over there... ” his finger flicked to the sink at the other end of the kitchen, “...and then carry it all the way to here if you happen to be in a wheelchair. Not super easy to maneuver with a ten gallon pot in your lap.”
And that right there made me feel a little like I might actually be falling for this guy.
“You’re a really good friend, Lincoln.”
“I’m not. I’m just a relatively good kitchen designer.” Humble people’s shoulders must get really tired, because they sure did a lot of dismissive shrugging. “Plus, I love the guy. He’d do the same for me. Probably more.”
I hadn’t realized I was still smiling, but my cheeks began to hurt—tremble almost—and my lips were dry. Apparently everything about Lincoln produced a silly, wide-eyed grin on my face. “You think so?” I asked as I located the spaghetti noodles and a jar of red sauce that promised to be just like homemade. I placed them on the counter next to the stove and spun around to face him. Our eyes met instantly.
“Considering he nearly gave his life for another friend of ours, I’m pretty positive on that one.”
“So dying for someone is the true test of love, yeah?” I wasn’t saying it as a challenge, but more for clarification. I honestly wanted to know his opinion on this one.
Thinking for a moment, Lincoln looked down at me intently. His gaze softened and it felt like that first day again. That time when we were in my kitchen and he was sizing me up, reading me. Back when I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to take a further look. Right now, I wanted him to stare so hard that he would be able to summarize everything about me in just one glance. I wanted to be discovered by him. I didn’t want to have to do any of the necessary explaining myself.
Several moments of quiet passed and he paused, hesitating before he spoke. After a long breath released as a sigh he said, “Maybe not.” He looked away, breaking our connected gaze and returning to the now simmering pot of water. “Maybe not, Eppie. Maybe living for someone is actually the truest test.”
SIXTEEN
“These are absolutely horrible!” Mama chucked a burnt banana nut muffin across the counter and doubled over in laughter when it collided with the toaster. I laughed too, a little nervous at first, but when I realized she seriously thought it was funny, I allowed myself to let it out. “Oh my God, Eppie. How did we manage to ruin these?”
“I think the bananas were bad,” I giggled, covering my mouth with my small hand. I spit the mushed up crumbs into my palm.
“Probably true,” she said through her uncontrollable cackling. She hadn’t laughed like this in so long. I really liked the sound of it. I’d forgotten it. “They sat on the counter for weeks. Maybe even a month!”
I couldn’t even swallow the rest of the muffin, so I walked to the trash and spit out the remaining pieces into the garbage before sitting back down on my barstool. Those muffins tasted so bad, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get the taste out of my
mouth. We really messed that one up.
Dad was gone on another work trip and Mama and I thought it would be a good idea to make breakfast in our pj’s and then lounge around the house watching Disney movies all day. It had been another sick week for me, and she never liked to push me too hard on those first days when I started feeling better. But I’d managed to keep my food down for the last 24 hours, though the banana muffins were questionable. We probably should’ve started off with something much more bland. Or at least more edible.
“You have any energy today?” Mama came around the breakfast bar and ran her fingers through my bangs. I had been trying to grow them out for the last month, but I wasn’t very patient with things like that. Last night I took scissors to them and now I looked so stupid. Luckily, Mama didn’t make me feel that way as her manicured nails combed through them gently. She made me feel pretty. “Feel like getting out of the house?”
“Yes!” I jumped down from the stool. Boy, did I. Being sick wasn’t any fun, obviously. But not being able to get out was the hardest part. Luckily, this time I was able to stay at home and didn’t have to go to the hospital. Last time I was really sick like this, they kept me there for almost two weeks while the doctors ran tests and I regained my strength. I would see all of these other kids without hair or in casts or on crutches and I wanted so badly to be them. Not because I necessarily wanted cancer or broken bones, but because I wanted a diagnosis. I figured knowing you had cancer had to be better than not knowing at all. At least then you’d be able to treat it, right?
So this last week I actually prayed for cancer. And then I prayed for polio. And then the flesh-eating bacteria I’d seen earlier in the news. I prayed for anything that I could find a word for, because so far there were no words when it came to me. Any illness or disease that affected your body—that was what I wanted. Especially since the doctors were moving away from those options and had started focusing on my mind. The body seemed easier to fix.
Love Like Crazy Page 10