Side Effects May Vary

by Julie Murphy

  “Yeah, popular fifty years ago,” mumbled Alice. “Harvey, there’s a play about you; did you know that, Harvey?”

  The air around us was gray. A bittersweet smell filled my nostrils, making me dizzy like the perfume section at Feldman’s Department Store.

  “Harvey,” she said, and then looked at me expectantly. “The play is called Harvey, Harvey!” She was saying my name too many times and in too few sentences. I hoped it was because my name felt good on her lips.

  Alice broke the silence with a shrill, high-pitched laugh. It sent a shiver up my spine. “I looked it up once,” she said, still talking about the play. “I did a search on your name. I don’t know why.”

  And I didn’t know why either, but I was happy to know she thought of me when I wasn’t around.

  “That’s funny, isn’t it? I don’t know.” She was talking a lot and quickly, a sort of nervous chatter. It made me anxious. “It’s about a man, Harvey. A man with an imaginary friend. Can you guess which one of them is named Harvey?” She didn’t give me time to respond. “The friend is named Harvey!”

  My mouth was dry and my brain couldn’t form words. Alice was rambling. Alice, whose words were always so perfectly chosen to be the right amount of bitter and sweet, was talking nonsense. I shook my head. This was a bad idea.

  “Harvey,” she said abruptly, her voice completely sober. She sat up and turned to me, scooting in closer and hiking one knee into her chest. “Harvey, you are my Harvey.”

  “Har-har, Alice.”

  “No, you’re my imaginary friend,” she said, like it was so obvious and should make complete sense. “You’re my Harvey.” She picked up my arm, draping it over her shoulder, then rested her cheek against my chest.

  I wanted to ask her what she meant, but Alice thought she was high as a kite so maybe now wasn’t the time. But was I invisible? Imaginary? Or maybe I was so crucial to her that she didn’t care what other people thought when she talked to me, her “imaginary friend.” Either way, there was one thing I knew for sure. Being an imaginary friend was a one-way street. If that’s what I was to Alice, then maybe she only ever saw me when she needed me. I wondered what would happen when I needed her.

  “Alice, come on!” I held Alice’s elbow as she stumbled at my side through the church parking lot.

  We didn’t go to church, but Mrs. Barton, the head of the Parent Teacher Association and Mindi’s mom, did. When word spread about Alice, the PTA moms armed themselves in preparation for extreme fund-raising.

  At first, Bernie and Martin thanked them but declined. However, in recent months the hospital bills had multiplied, and slowly each “No, thank you” turned into a “Yes, please.” So here we were, at Alice’s third Breakfast for Dinner Fund-raiser. I’m not going to lie; last time the omelet bar was pretty solid and the pancake chef was equally legit. The caveat was the pricey tickets at forty bucks a person. Which was a lot of money, especially for a family with kids, but I’d quickly learned that people loved to give when the giving was public knowledge.

  “Harvey, on a scale of one to ten, how good do I look right now?” asked Alice with her hands on her hips, striking a pose in front of the church.

  She lost her balance, and I caught her just before she toppled. “Ten. Alice, let’s go home. I’ll call your dad and tell him you don’t feel good.”

  “No.” She wiggled out of my arms and stalked through the church entrance.

  Mindi sat at the registration table with a little gray cashbox in front of her and twirled her gum around her finger. I was tempted to tell her how grossly unsanitary that was—especially while handling money—but I didn’t.

  “Hi, Alice,” said Mindi, her voice rhythmically drab.

  “Hey, bitch,” said Alice. Sometimes girls call each other “bitch” in a friendly comrade type of way. That, however, was not the tone Alice was going for.

  “Your hair looks nice,” said Mindi, motioning to Alice’s bare scalp. My jaw dropped. Who said that kind of shit? It was ruthless and cruel, but Mindi was totally mindless and always loyal to Celeste.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Alice, and leaned over the table. “But better me than your period. Pregnancy scares are such a bitch, but you know what I mean, right, Mindi?”

  Ouch.

  Mindi’s mouth fell open, her eyes watering instantly and her nostrils flaring.

  Most people were nice to Alice, especially with the whole cancer thing. But I think Alice took pleasure in the fact that no matter how sick she was, Mindi and Celeste were still so brutal with her. And because of that, Alice fed the fire between them even more intensely than before she was sick.

  “Hey, guys,” called Bernie from across the church dining hall. She waved us over.

  “I’ve already got you two a plate,” said Martin. “Sit down; grub up!”

  From where we sat, I saw my mom talking to Mrs. Barton near the buffet line. My mom wore her dance clothes and her usual bun, trying her best to inch away from the grease-saturated food as if it was a cold she might catch.

  Alice pushed around some scrambled eggs with her fork and ate half a pancake. I devoured my plate and the remainder of hers. As I scooped up my last bite of ketchup-covered hash browns, Alice said, “Let’s go get some more juice.”

  Looping her arm through mine, she pulled me along, and I trailed behind her, my feet dragging. A few feet away from the beverage table she came to an abrupt halt, with me tripping to a stop at her side.

  “Celeste,” she said sweetly, her eyes fluttering, as she swept her hand to her chest.

  “Alice,” said Celeste, biting each letter.

  “You were just darling in Oklahoma! Harvey,” she said, turning back to me, “she was darling, wasn’t she?”

  Celeste stood there, her arms pressed to her sides, muscles twitching.

  Alice paused and leaned forward, her hand cupped around her mouth like she might share a secret. “It was so nice of the costume department to, you know,” she said, motioning up and down the length of Celeste’s body, “accommodate you.”

  Celeste’s cheeks flushed red.

  I always knew Alice could be mean; there was nothing new there. But Celeste wasn’t even fat. I guess she was bigger than most dancers, but Alice didn’t say those things because they were true; she said those things to be hurtful. And for that moment, I didn’t really want to be associated with her. I wanted to be walking next to the girl I’d sat in the spinning teacups with and the girl who had saved Goliath from the pound and who had humiliated Luke after he beat up Tyson and had danced with me outside of the prom. Not this girl.

  She didn’t notice when I took a step back.

  “And how are you and Luke?” asked Alice. “How does he even keep his hands off you?”

  Celeste leaned in close. “Oh, he doesn’t. That’s why you guys broke up, remember?”

  I didn’t hear what else she might have said. I was halfway to the exit before I even looked back to see Alice nose to nose with Celeste, her hands on her hips. From over Celeste’s shoulder, Alice spotted me, and I walked faster. I didn’t want to be her other half to this. Not anymore.

  I’d made it to my car door when I heard her call my name.

  I looked up to see her walking across the parking lot as fast as her body would allow. “Wait!” she said. “Don’t leave me in there with those assholes.” She caught up to me, her chest heaving. “Why’d you leave me?”

  I shook my head and opened the car door and closed it behind me without a word.

  “What the hell, Harvey?” She stood right outside my window. “Talk to me.”

  She didn’t get it. She really didn’t get it.

  I rolled down my window and breathed through my nose, trying to harness my anger so it wouldn’t slip away, so that she couldn’t make me forget why I was so pissed in the first place. “You can’t talk like that to people.”

  She scoffed. “Oh, come on. Those girls are bitches and you know it.”

  I threw my hands up. �
��So let them be bitches. When you say shit like that, you only make it okay for them to act the way they do.”

  “Whatever. You don’t get it. Someone needs to put them in their place. And, yeah, maybe I was meaner than usual, but it’s not like I get high every day.”

  I reached across the car and opened the glove box. Next to my lighter and pocketknife sat a small baggie from this little head shop outside of town called Purple Dragon. I rolled down the window, my fist clenched around the bag. “No,” I said, and threw the baggie at her feet. “Alice, you’re not high. You’re just mean.”

  According to the label on the baggie, what Alice and I had smoked had been completely legal pine-flavored tobacco. Honestly, I wouldn’t even have known how to get real pot.

  Alice picked it up and read the label.

  I didn’t wait to see the reaction on her face.

  For the first time, I left Alice, and the joke was on her. I wanted to laugh, but nothing about it was funny.

  Alice.

  Then

  After the pot incident, I gave Harvey a day before I tried to apologize, but he ignored my messages for the rest of the week before calling me back. I don’t know what made me so quick to apologize. Maybe it was Harvey rubbing off on me. Or maybe it was the feeling of being holed up in my house, waiting for nothing. Every day, and especially the ones without Harvey, began to lack purpose. I’d always taken for granted the little things like studying for tests or quizzes and the anticipation of Fridays; but now, as I spent my days at home under the watchful eyes of one of my parents, I missed those small goals that gave purpose to everyday life.

  I lay sprawled out on the couch with my laptop, hunting for the latest social-media-worthy school gossip. The juiciest bit I’d come across was the fact that Mindi was dating some senior named Mike Tule. This amused me to no end because Mike Tule looked like a total tool.

  I got up for a glass of water to take my meds. As I settled back into the couch, my phone rang.

  “Hey,” said Harvey. He was at work. I could hear the voice on the intercom listing off the Daily Deals.

  “Hi. I’ve, uh, been trying to call you.”

  “I’m on my break. I’ve only got, like, five minutes left.” He sounded distant, like the type of boy who left a trail of confused girls in his wake.

  “Oh,” I said, stunned that he was still acting this way. “We can talk later.”

  “Well, what did you want?”

  I couldn’t believe he was still pissed at me. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

  “I apologized.” I sat up and breathed out through my nose, trying to scale back my irritation.

  “Oh, come on, Al, I wouldn’t really call—” He sighed into the phone. “Just, never mind.”

  “What?” I said, my temper climbing. “Don’t be a punk. Just say it.”

  “You said you were sorry that I was pissed off. That’s not how apologies work.”

  “I said I was sorry. Jesus.”

  “You can’t apologize for my feelings and expect things to be better.” He paused. “Especially not when you’re the reason for them.”

  I knew what he was talking about, but that hadn’t been what I meant. I didn’t think. “Harvey—”

  “No,” he said. “An apology like that makes it sound like you had nothing to do with why I was mad when you were what got me all angry in the first place.” His voice rose with each word. “That’s not okay.”

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound that way.” I almost said it, that I was sorry for how I’d acted and what I did, but instead I said, “Do you want to write up your own apology and I can sign it? Would that work better for you?”

  “I have to get back to work.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”

  “I’ll be there in a sec,” he called to someone on the other end. “Yeah, okay,” he said to me, and hung up.

  He was right and I knew it. My damn pride had gotten in the way. Again.

  About an hour later I texted Harvey and asked him to come over after work. It took him another two hours to respond with a simple “K.”

  By the time his key turned the lock, my parents were getting ready for bed, but I waited.

  We sat there, and I knew it was me who had to talk first.

  “Hey, Harv,” said my dad, peeking his head in from the hallway. “Leftovers in the fridge. And, Alice, don’t stay up too late.”

  I nodded and waited for his door to click shut before turning to Harvey. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He looked at me expectantly.

  I chewed on my lip for a second. “I’m sorry for being an asshole and treating Celeste and Mindi the way I did. And for dragging you into it.”

  “I just like you the way you are when it’s only us,” he said, his lips pursed, “and I wish you could be that way all the time. And I don’t want to be your imaginary friend. I want to be your friend.”

  I nodded. “I want that too.” I felt my eyes watering. I couldn’t handle him being mad. I couldn’t risk dying that way.

  The corner of his mouth lifted. It felt so good to see him almost smile. “Okay,” he said.

  The tension inside me unwound all at once, leaving me suddenly tired. “Okay, like we’re good?”

  “Yeah.” His lips split into a smile. “Being mad at you sucked.”

  I liked that it was hard for him to be mad at me. Maybe I liked it a little too much.

  Alice.

  Then

  I had no good reasons for wanting to learn how to drive except that I was sixteen years old and I felt the universe owed it to me. I would never go to college or have my own apartment, but I could drive. When I’d put it on my list, I’d envisioned myself on an open road, going ninety; but, admittedly, I wasn’t so good at the whole driving thing, so this parking lot would be the closest I’d get to an open road. I asked Harvey to teach me a few weeks after our fight. He’d been stubborn at first, refusing to teach me in his precious little car. When he realized I wasn’t going to stop asking, he obliged me, but only if we stuck to the old, abandoned SaveMart parking lot.

  I wove up and down the empty lot with Harvey in the passenger seat. I’d skipped out on my usual breakfast of pain meds this morning so that I would be alert. Turning the wheel felt different than—

  “Alice, brake!” screamed Harvey. “Now!”

  I slammed my foot down on the left pedal, hoping that it was the brake and not the gas. Harvey’s Geo came to a jarring halt. I sighed, but not loud enough for him to notice. The wheel felt different than I’d thought it would and I’d turned hard, expecting the car to feel heavy, and then all of a sudden we were about to hit a light pole.

  “See?” I said. “We’re fine.”

  “Fine?” He pushed the gearshift between us into park. “We were almost not so fine,” he said, pointing to the light pole outside my window.

  “It’s not my fault your alignment’s off,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “My alignment is fine, thank you very much. Besides, why couldn’t you have your dad teach you this? I don’t even get why—just, never mind.”

  He couldn’t understand why I was even bothering to learn how to drive. That’s what Harvey thought, but couldn’t say out loud. I knew it.

  Leaning over, he touched my leg. I let myself rest my head on his shoulder. His body sighed beneath me. This was good. Recently, we’d fallen into this rhythm where it was okay to hold hands and kiss. He wasn’t my boyfriend. Whatever this was felt bigger than that. Normally, that would have freaked the shit out of me, but wherever I was going, I would go without regrets.

  For Harvey, all this was probably cruel. But for me, it was the last meal—all the sweet things that were never meant for everyday consumption.

  He kissed the top of my head. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s try this again. Put the car in reverse.”

  I sat up and pulled away from him like a cat, enjoyi
ng the way his touch hit every one of my nerve endings.

  Looking over my shoulder, I put the car in reverse. Harvey placed his hand on the wheel, helping me guide the car backward without hitting anything.

  “Just make circles around the lot,” he said.

  So I did.

  “I guess we’re getting close to the end, right?” asked Harvey.

  I took my foot off the brake, letting the car roll to a stop.

  “Your list.” He shook his head. “I meant your list. There’s not much left on it, is there?”

  “Oh,” I said, and pressed my foot down on the pedal again. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess not.”

  “It’s been almost a year.” His voice was void of emotion. It’d been almost a year since I was diagnosed. I wanted to go back in time and examine every single decision I’d made to see what might alter my path.

  There were a few more things to do before I could go from is to was, from here to gone. I’d figured out every little detail of the remains of my list, except for one thing. It was for Harvey. I wanted to give him something, something he could take with him and keep forever.

  Part of me felt like I’d failed Harvey. When I made my list, I’d wanted to do something for him. I didn’t know what. And I wasn’t sure what would be big enough, important enough. But now I was running out of time—the one thing I’d never been able to control—and it seemed that my good deed for Harvey would be my one incomplete resolution. It was the thing that plagued me at night like a dripping faucet. But, in a way, I preferred to keep it like that because when the list was done, there would just be the waiting. Waiting for the moment when my body would say no more. I hoped that this—this whole year of us being together, whether we were planning or kissing or fighting—was good enough for him. I hoped he’d never forget this year of his life. No, our life. Because, thanks to Harvey, the year I died had become the year I lived.