“No, no,” he kissed her neck. “It’s not the same in public. C’mon, please?” He kissed her mouth again. “Do it for me?”
“I’m shy,” she protested.
“Oh, shy, huh?” He stepped back a little and looked into her eyes. “Well, you don’t look shy—but okay. Okay, I think I know what to do about that.”
He took her hand and led her to the bed. “Have a seat,” he said, stripping off his T-shirt and dropping it onto the top of the low bureau. “I know just what you need.”
His skin was darker in the room’s dim light, his nipples tiny and hard. She wanted to slide her hands over him, palms wide open, every nerve connecting with his trim muscles and solid shoulders….
“Here we go,” he said, pulling a baggie from his pocket. “Inside this little bag is the recipe for relaxation.”
It took Savannah a second to understand just what exactly was in there. “Oh—I don’t—I mean, I’ve never—”
“No? Well, there’s always a first time, right?”
Not for her. She wasn’t stupid. Drugs screwed up your brain, and she happened to like hers the way it was. But…to be fair, pot wasn’t as bad as a lot of the other stuff. Supposedly it wasn’t addictive at all—and, she recalled, they’d legalized it in Canada. Maybe she should just try it once, and then she’d know firsthand if it was something she wanted to avoid in the future.
She said, “Okay, yeah—first time for everything.” If it helped her relax, that would be a good thing. She wouldn’t need to do it again, after they were…more familiar.
Kyle took a thin white joint from the bag and lit it up, then he sat down next to her. “The trick is to start small, right? Put it to your mouth like this,” he showed her, “then pull in just a little toke. Here, try it.”
She imitated his actions, feeling foolish, but adventurous too.
“Just breathe it in and hold it as long as you can,” Kyle said. When she managed to do it just as he said, not coughing or anything, she felt pleased with herself.
Letting out her breath, she laughed. “That isn’t so hard. And I actually like the smell.”
“Sweet Mary Jane,” he said. “Okay, try it again, but take a bigger toke.”
This time she coughed a little as she inhaled, but did it once more and succeeded. Kyle slid his hand along her bare thigh, pushing her gypsy skirt up until she was sure her panties must be showing. She held the smoke in as long as she could, then blew it out. Piece of cake. “Again,” Kyle said, and this time she felt like a pro. The smoke was hot and harsh in her throat, but strangely smooth, too. And she didn’t feel different at all.
“I don’t think it’s doing anything,” she said.
“Give it a minute, virgin girl; it’s good shit, I promise you that.”
Virgin girl, he’d called her. If this stuff worked like he said, if it relaxed her, she thought she could pull off acting experienced; then he’d never know she was a sexual virgin as well.
When Kyle took his turn, she put her left hand on his back, experimentally, then ran it upward, over his shoulder to his neck, caressing the spot just below his right ear. She’d heard guys liked to be touched here—who told her that? She couldn’t remember, and she wasn’t sure if Kyle liked it or not, but she liked doing it.
He grabbed her right hand and pulled it over to his chest, then pushed it onward, down his belly—he had other ideas, better ones. She let him guide it to the trail of hair she’d thought of so often that she felt she already knew it intimately.
“Your turn.” He handed her the joint and leaned back on the bed, creating a gap between his belly and the waistband of his shorts. Savannah took the joint with her left hand, put it to her lips and inhaled, her eyes all the while watching her right hand with fascination. She could do it, she could slide it right down into that gap anytime she wanted…
“Careful now,” Kyle said, and she thought at first that he meant her hand, but he was talking about the joint, which had gotten very short. He took it from her, took one more hit, then got up quickly to go put it out. When he sat down again, he reached for her shirt and tugged it up. She lifted her arms reflexively and the shirt came right off.
“Now go change,” he said. “I’ll wait right here.”
She hardly knew that she was on her feet and in the bathroom pulling her bikini out of her purse, but suddenly she was. The surprise of it made her laugh. In the mirror she looked the same as always, but she felt giddy and light. “It works,” she called out. The rest of her clothes came off fast, and she was in the bikini without a second thought. He was going to love what he saw, she decided, smiling at her reflection. Who knew pot gave you such confidence? She glanced at her purse, at the bottle of lemon-juice solution meant to prevent pregnancy if you rinsed with it just before sex, and decided it was too awkward to bother with. She’d ask if he brought condoms—and if he hadn’t, it wasn’t that big a deal. Nobody got pregnant the first time; half of her mom’s patients were women who couldn’t seem to get pregnant no matter how hard they tried.
“Okay, babe, here I am,” she said as she left the bathroom and strode back into the room. She stopped in surprise. Kyle was still there on the bed, but he was sitting against the headboard, naked.
He said, “Oh, wow—stand right there.”
Savannah stood still; she felt that’s all she could do.
“Now untie the top—that’s it.” He stared, then looked up at her face and smiled. “Check me out,” he pointed to his lap. “Didn’t I tell you? This is what you do to me. Now just, like, slide your hand into the bottoms.”
One part of her felt as turned on as he clearly was, but she also felt strangely disconnected from the whole thing; part of her mind seemed to be outside her, wondering if this was how foreplay was supposed to go. She was excited but a little confused.
“Kyle, I don’t—”
“Come on over here,” Kyle said. “Am I freaking you out? Sorry.”
Savannah went eagerly, ready for the passionate kissing and stroking, the body-to-body contact that was her idea of foreplay. Kyle pulled her down beside him, and for a minute—or it might have been longer, it was hard for her to pay attention to time—they kissed and he stroked her back, then her breasts, then lower.
“You like it, don’t you?” he said, his voice a rough whisper.
His touch was a little rough too, and she wasn’t sure if she liked it or not, but she said, “Oh, yeah.”
“You are so hot—I knew you would be. I knew it’d be just like this. Now let me feel that sweet mouth.”
He shifted and reached for her head, pulling her down so that she had to catch herself with her hands to keep her balance. And then she was staring right at him, at the erection she’d been so curious about; well, she was seeing it now! But she had no good idea how to do what he wanted; she felt muddled and a little intimidated and a little ridiculous—but fine, she thought, how hard can it be? And the question set her to giggling. How hard can it be? She pushed away from him and sat back on her heels, hands over her mouth, unable to stop laughing.
Kyle got onto his knees too. “Chicks don’t usually laugh at it,” he said, then he pushed her a little. “Lay down.”
When she started to turn over onto her back, he said, “No, on your stomach.”
She did it, still giggling a little. He peeled off her bikini bottoms and then pushed her legs open. “That’s such a great view…” She felt his hand between her legs again, then suddenly his whole weight was on her, pressing down and in with such abruptness that she stopped laughing and gasped in pain.
“Not a laughing matter, is it?” he whispered, his mouth against her ear. She could tell he was teasing, that he meant this to feel good—it was supposed to feel good, that’s what it was all about, right?—but it didn’t. It stung badly at first, and then it hurt every time he thrust.
“You on the pill?” Kyle asked after a while, she had no idea how long.
“No,” she gasped, trying to just endure. I
t would feel better next time, she was positive; she should have told him she was a virgin so he’d take it slower.
“Bad girl,” he said, pulling out and off of her, and then he let out a series of short groans. She felt hot fluid on her lower back—better there than inside.
He plopped down beside her. “Man, you make me crazy,” he said, and she watched how his dimple deepened when he grinned. “I got carried away. Now, how old are you really?”
“Twenty, remember?”
“Give me a little credit.”
How did he know? “Eighteen, okay? I’m eighteen.”
“You’re sure?” He trailed a finger across her belly.
She started to laugh again—something about the way he raised his one dark eyebrow and gave her that dimpled smirk. “Okay, fine—I’ll be sixteen in a couple weeks.” There, she’d said it. Now he knew the truth.
“You’re fifteen?” he said. “Fifteen? You’re not shitting me?”
She shook her head.
“Oh, man. Fifteen.” His face clouded, and she was scared, suddenly, that she’d gone too far with her deception. “Was this your first time?” he said. “For, you know, the deed?”
“I’m sorry, I should’ve said—”
“No, babe, it’s cool.” His smile returned. “You just can’t tell anyone, right?”
“But Rachel and her sister already know. They brought me here.”
“Do they know how old I am?”
“Huh-uh.”
He pulled her against him so that their hips were pressed together. “So then,” he kissed her neck, “life is good.”
AS STUPID AS THE THOUGHT SEEMED TO HER, SAVANNAH EXPECTED THAT when she got home Sunday afternoon her mom would look at her and know. She had so little experience with outright deception; guilt of this measure felt strong enough to be smelled, if not seen. She knew before she walked in, though, that she had extra time to disguise any traces: both of her parents’ cars were gone.
As she was supposed to do, as the minute she was in the house she called her mom; she got voice mail, and left a message to say she was home. For all anyone knew, she could be calling from Iceland and making the claim. They were so irritatingly sure she’d be responsible and honest…which was her own fault, for having been that way all along. Yet, taking advantage of their trust made her feel almost as weird as she felt about having just spent a whole night with a guy, smoking pot and having sex. Deception wasn’t her style any more than drugs and sex were. Who had she become, in the short space of twenty hours?
She flopped down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Her thigh muscles ached, she was surprisingly sore between her legs, and her brain felt sluggish. Her heart, though, seemed fuller than it ever had before. Yes, she’d deceived her parents and she’d smoked pot and she’d tried out most every sexual thing Kyle wanted, and maybe all that was out of character for her—but that was the old Savannah. The new Savannah had a sexy, funny, older boyfriend who thought she was scorching, who said, when he dropped her off a couple blocks from the house, that he was afraid he would never be able to get her out of his mind. The way he’d looked at her—as if she was the best, most important thing in his life—gave her butterflies even now, just remembering it.
The new Savannah was smart enough to use whatever she needed to get what she wanted, just like the old one; only the stakes had changed. Laying there on her flowered bedspread, she vowed not to lie any more than she had to, vowed to stay clearheaded and drug free in the future (if only so she’d remember all the details better), and vowed to be the best girlfriend Kyle ever had. With this happy thought in mind, she closed her eyes and caught up on a few badly needed hours of sleep.
Thirty-four
MEG ARRIVED HOME SUNDAY NIGHT FEELING AS IF SHE’D SPENT HER DAYS mildly overdosed with Valium. She could not recall whole chunks of time from the night before, just that she’d ended up parked in the lot of a seedy motel off I-75 after almost causing a head-on collision in the middle of the night. She’d slept curled up in the back of the Lexus, waking to the sound of eighteen-wheelers chugging to life around her. Today was lost to her too, just a haze of images and road noise. She hardly knew how she found her way back home.
When she came inside, she was glad to find Savannah preoccupied and closed off in her bedroom, talking on the phone. She was glad when Brian gave no more than passing interest in her vague story about a long, difficult delivery keeping her at the hospital for the past day and a half. Or she thought she was glad—no: she was, because she wouldn’t have had an answer for him if he’d looked at her closely and offered a concerned What’s wrong? She was glad not to have to try to ad-lib, even if his noticing might have brought her a small measure of comfort. He did manage to notice her limp, but she explained it away with her blister excuse. After telling her there was leftover pizza in the fridge, Brian went to his office to play poker online. Meg drank a tall glass of water and then went to their room and dropped into bed.
At first, sleep refused to come. She kept thinking of how little she seemed to matter to these two people who were supposed to be closer to her than anyone, ever. Here she was, facing the biggest crisis of her life, and they went about their business as they always did. Unless they needed her to do something for them, she was inconsequential. A fixture. A convenience. For all they knew, she could have spent last night turning tricks or running small arms to Key Largo. It shouldn’t matter that she didn’t invite their attention, didn’t know how she would have dealt with it. They were her family; they should be able to smell her distress.
After a while she tired of her self-pity and lay listening to the steady shush of cool air through the vents. Finally, she fell into a heavy, blank sleep. All night she was dreamless, as if the knowledge of having ALS had paralyzed her brain.
MONDAY MORNING SHE WOKE DISORIENTED—FORGOT, AT FIRST, THAT FATE had drawn a bead on her like an assassin’s rifle. The sound of the shower running, the energized chirping of a wren outside the bedroom window, the golden glow of morning sunlight all proclaimed an ordinary weekday. Her amnesia didn’t last, though; memory returned like a slap in the face. She had to force herself to get up and get dressed.
Behaving as normally as she could manage, she saw Savannah and Brian off, drank two cups of strong black coffee, and slowly, slowly her focus returned. The cloud was lifting. Not completely, but high enough for her to see that she would not escape her bad news by running to any man, or any place.
She might hope for a miracle, but she didn’t expect one. And so, if she was going to live the rest of her life, she had better get started.
She made some calls to set up her day, then went to the bookstore, returning with a blank book covered in rugged leather. Durable, because she needed it to be able to last. Durable, the way she was not.
When she got back, she tucked herself into her favorite seat on the screened porch and began to write.
Monday, May 1, 2006
Savannah, this is for you. This morning my doctor confirmed his diagnosis: I have something called ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. I’ll tell you about it—not sure when; before you read this, though. This is for you to have when I’m gone. We’ll talk a lot before then, but the words, they won’t stay with you for long. You’ll lose them; they’ll disintegrate over time. I know because that’s how it’s been for me since Grandma Anna died. A few weeks ago, Grandpa gave me some notebooks she’d written in, like diaries, and they’re helping me get hold of important things from my past. You’ll need something like that, as much or maybe more than I need to provide it for you—so I’m writing this journal for both of us.
What is ALS? A neurodegenerative muscular disease. It’s irreversible, and fatal. When I think of saying those two words to you, it makes me cry….
She paused, and when the welling of tears subsided, she continued.
No child should ever have to hear such news. I don’t know why I got ALS; you can’t “catch” it and it’s not inherited (except in really rare
cases, but not mine, so don’t fear for yourself). It just…happens. I’ve learned, in the years since I started studying medicine, that there aren’t always answers to “Why?” especially when it comes to unexpected illness and death. I hope you won’t spend your time battling that question, and hope this journal helps you accept what is. Manisha can give you good advice about how to do this. I wish I’d taken more of her advice over the years.
Anyway, ALS paralyzes all the muscles in the body, even, eventually, the ones that make you breathe, but it doesn’t affect the mind at all. What gets set down here in this journal will be written with a clear head, or as clear a head as I’ve ever had, anyway.
I suppose I want, with this journal, to pass on some of my wisdom to you…give you advice on how to grow into a confident woman who makes good decisions, who doesn’t let anyone determine the course of her life. I made mistakes, big ones. I know this now, but it’s too late for me to do very much about them. I want to share the lessons, though, and just…tell you things…. And yes, it makes merest a little easier knowing you’ll have a part of me to…visit, I guess you could say, from time to time. Maybe share with your own children someday.
She set the pen down, her hand fatigued already. Dr. Bolin told her this might be her luck—that her initial onset of symptoms had been gradual, but now it appeared she was in an “acceleration period.” The disease was as variable as the people who contracted it: male and female, every skin color, almost any age, though the very young weren’t usually afflicted. Her symptoms could worsen quickly, then stabilize again—even hit a long-term holding pattern. Or not. Because ALS was not one precise disease but rather a tight spectrum of clinically similar conditions, a very few ALS patients had versions, as Bolin put it, that defied the usual prognoses. He knew of a rare few who’d lived a decade or more after diagnosis. Most, though—seventy-five percent—were dead inside of five years, some dropping like flies from within weeks of a late diagnosis, to a few dragging themselves to the five-year-finish. If her symptoms accelerated even faster than they appeared to be doing now, she could be in a wheelchair in a matter of weeks. She could lose the use of her hand at any time.
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