All the Major Constellations

  38

  THE PLACE WHERE MARCIA AND JANET had been staying was just five minutes from the hospital. It was a regular chain motel that had been purchased for the families of long-term patients. It looked industrial and anonymous and for this reason reminded Andrew of Laura’s church. Marcia silently led him to her room.

  “Did you stay with Janet?” he asked as she fumbled with her key. They were the first words he’d spoken since they left Sara’s bedside.

  “At first. Then another room opened up, so I relocated. It was better that way.”

  They went inside and Marcia turned on the light. Andrew stifled a gasp. The room was a mess. Towels and clothes were strewn all over the floor. The garbage was overflowing with cartons of Chinese food and soda bottles. Books on neurology and traumatic head injuries lay everywhere, open and heavily highlighted. Andrew picked up one of the books and flipped through its pages. Marcia’s tidy, neurotically small handwriting—“the scrawl of Satan,” Sara had called it—was in the margins of almost every page.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Marcia mumbled. She pulled the covers back from one of the queen-size beds and lay down. Andrew sat on the edge of the bed. Something sharp dug into him. It was a massive textbook. He picked it up. On the cover was a horrifying yet beautiful painting of a brain. It was a multicolored collage of every shade imaginable. It was like a rainbow vomiting a rainbow giving birth to a rainbow. The book was called The Human Brain: A Symphony.

  This is what Sara’s brain must have looked like, he thought. A gorgeous fucking disaster.

  “Do you think it’s over?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” Marcia said.

  Her words made him sick. Sara was dying, dying, and here they sat.

  “I’m so cold,” Marcia said.

  Andrew flipped off his shoes and crawled in next to her. He pulled her close. They slept.

  • • •

  When he woke up, they were no longer touching. It was midnight. The room was dark except for the dim glare of the digital clock. He couldn’t even tell if Marcia was awake or asleep. Her breathing sounded ragged.

  “Is it over?” he said.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  • • •

  He heard the shower running and woke up again. It was two in the morning. He drifted in and out of consciousness. The shower stopped, and Marcia emerged wearing a ratty oversize T-shirt. Her hair was sopping wet. She turned off the light in the bathroom. She made her way over to the bed and tripped on something. They groped blindly for each other. Andrew found her arms and dragged her onto the bed.

  “Marcia?” he said.

  “Don’t ask,” she said.

  She flopped her head on his chest and slept. He stared into the darkness, blinking rapidly.

  Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Laura dug her toes into the sand. The salty air blew back the amber strands from her face. Look at me, he begged. She shook her head. He reached his fingertips to her face, but as soon as he made contact her whole body dissolved under his touch. He pulled his hand away and screamed.

  • • •

  Three a.m. Marcia was on the phone. The lights were bright. He sat up. She put the phone down. Their eyes met. She shut off the light.

  “She’s gone,” Marcia said.

  • • •

  Four a.m. They’d spent the last hour crying.

  “We should have sex,” Marcia said.

  “We should what?”

  “We should do something life affirming. Celebrate existence. That’s what Sara would have wanted.”

  “Don’t be crazy.”

  “I’m not. Don’t you want to?”

  “Kind of,” he said.

  “Well?”

  “You don’t mean any of this. And I’m in love with Laura.”

  “You had sex with that other girl.”

  “That was a mistake. Let’s resolve not to be crazy right now.”

  “Fine,” she said, sounding relieved.

  • • •

  Five a.m. They no longer attempted sleep. They sat up in bed, eating old slices of pizza and drinking flat soda.

  “It was my fault,” Marcia said for what felt like the hundredth time.

  “Stop it.”

  “She wanted to stay in. Rent a movie and chill out. I was the one who insisted on seeing Un Chien Andalou.”

  “A thousand things could have happened that night. Or any night. Sara was a bad driver.”

  “She wasn’t.”

  “We need to stop talking about this.”

  Marcia lay back on the bed. Her hair was still damp. She shivered. Andrew threw the blanket over her. She pulled it up over her head.

  “I guess I’ve always kind of had a crush on Sara,” Marcia said. Her voice was muffled beneath the blanket.

  “Me too,” Andrew said through a mouthful of pizza.

  “But I don’t think I’m gay.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s more complicated than that.”

  “I know.”

  “Want to know something crazy? That guy John and I almost, like, did something. He kind of kissed me. Only I stopped it and just left.”

  “Whoa.”

  “I’m such an asshole.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “No, really. I provoked him. I invited it. I thought I was being nice or something. And I was drunk.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does his church know about him?”

  “I think so. The kids do, anyway.”

  “That’s no good. I think that church is wicked conservative.”

  “Really?” Andrew recalled the reggae in the soup kitchen and the almost hippie vibe that the youth group sometimes gave off. But that was the youth group.

  “Really. I’ve heard things.”

  “What things?” Andrew stopped eating and looked at her. She pulled the covers off her head and sat up.

  “Ever heard of ‘pray away the gay’?”

  “What? No shit. That can’t be real.”

  “Of course it’s real.”

  “So they’d just make him pray a lot? I mean, if they found out?” Andrew was thinking of Chip, who seemed extremely shifty. Who else was in charge over there?

  “Pray a lot, or worse. Conversion therapy, aversion tactics. That shit gets very dark. Like torture,” Marcia said. She picked up his unfinished slice of pizza and nibbled at the crust.

  “Fuck,” Andrew said. He thought back on all his interactions with John. John’s affection and nervousness toward him, his pained expressions, his repressed sobs, his tentative kiss . . . his silhouette against the sun, standing on the mountain cliff and staring down.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Andrew said. More action was required of him. Confide in an adult? Cheeve, Neal? No one seemed appropriate. What would Sara do?

  “What time is it?” Marcia asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Early. Why do you ask?”

  “I should call Kyle.”

  “Who?”

  “Kyle Donovitch. You know him. Sara had been out with him a few times.”

  “Oh yeah, the jock. Why do you need to call him?”

  “Um, let’s see, because he was crazy about Sara, he sent flowers, and offered to help Janet in any way he could.”

  “He did?” Andrew felt hot shame course through his body. He should have offered to help Janet, sent flowers. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”

  “It wasn’t that important. Also, I thought it would make you uncomfortable. You’re so touchy about guys who play football.”

  Andrew thought back to the days after the accident, when Kyle had followed him around the school. Andrew had ignore
d him, rebuffing any attempts at communication. Would Matt or John or Laura have been so unkind? Definitely not. Maybe there was something to this whole God business. But then again, both Sara and Marcia would’ve handled the situation more gracefully than he did. It wasn’t about God, or the absence of God. It was about him, his own failure, his own prejudice and lack of compassion. He felt a sudden headache coming on. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. So he was judgmental about athletes. There was so much he didn’t know about himself.

  “You okay?” Marcia said.

  “Yeah. Look, I’ll start cleaning this place up while you call Kyle.”

  Andrew found some garbage bags under the bathroom sink and collected all the trash. He tied off the bags and placed them in a neat pile by the door. Marcia had a brief but emotional conversation with Kyle. Andrew tried to be respectful and not listen in. By the time she got off the phone she was sobbing again. Andrew patted her back and handed her some tissues.

  He collected all her clothes and books and threw them into her suitcase. He brushed his teeth and splashed cold water on his face. When he came out of the bathroom, Marcia was still in a heap on the bed.

  “Come on. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

  Marcia groaned in response.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “Up and at ’em.”

  39

  “I GOT A STORY FOR YOU,” Andrew said to the reporter who was sitting on the porch steps when Andrew pulled into his driveway. He’d dropped Marcia off at her house a few minutes earlier. He was exhausted and emotionally spent.

  “Do you now?” the reporter said. It was the same sharp-eyed guy from the day before.

  “Once upon a time,” Andrew said as he got out of his car and walked toward the house, “a nosy reporter had his ass taken to the local jail for—”

  “Looks like she’s going to drop it.”

  “What?” Andrew stopped with his key in the door.

  “I said,” the reporter said slowly, “it looks like they got her to fuck off.” He watched Andrew’s face.

  “She’s not going to get anything? Like, a settlement or something?” Andrew asked.

  “Why? Do you think she deserves that?”

  Andrew quickly opened the door and shut it behind him. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it in two gulps. He greeted Becky, who immediately responded to his frantic mood by placing her front paws on top of his feet—a strange habit of hers from their childhood. It comforted Andrew. It always had.

  What had he said to that guy? What was it, exactly? Something about a settlement? Whatever he’d said, it would be printed somewhere.

  There was a knock at the door. He decided to answer it. Maybe he could reason with the reporter, ask him not to print what he had said in exchange for some bogus quote about Brian. But when he opened the door, Laura stood gazing up at him, a smile on her face, his sweatshirt in her arms. With the sun against her back she looked dewy and soft and warm. Then his gaze shifted upward, and he saw the reporter walking toward them.

  “Hello, dear,” the reporter said to Laura.

  Laura turned. She looked uncertainly at Andrew and then back at the reporter. She started to say hello when Andrew grabbed her by the arm, pulled her into the house, and shut the door in one swift motion.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Reporter. A real dickhead,” Andrew said. He sat down heavily on one of the counter stools. It creaked beneath him.

  “Here’s your sweatshirt.” She presented it to him and smiled again.

  “How did you get it?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.

  “John’s gone off on a spiritual retreat. He wanted to make sure it was returned to you.”

  “What about his job?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Maybe he has vacation or something?” Laura said as she sat in the stool next to him. “Karen’s going to meet him out there.”

  “Oh.”

  Was it his imagination, or had Laura looked at him very sharply when she mentioned Karen’s name? Laura laid her arm on the counter. Her hand seemed to reach toward him. She gave him one of her Mona Lisa smiles.

  “That’s nice,” Andrew said. Laura’s smile widened.

  “John said that you and he had a really nice talk. That you inspired in him the possibility of new faith. Pure faith.”

  Andrew put his head in his hands. “Do you have any way of getting in touch with him?”

  “My dad does, for an emergency. I think he does, anyway. I’m not really sure.” Their knees were barely touching. “John’s been sad. I’m so glad you were able to help him.”

  Andrew stared at her hand, golden pink against the scratchy white counter. Her fingertips drummed slowly. Drum. Drum. Drum. It was a tune of impatience. What did she want? It was hard to tell with her. He grasped her hand in both of his and brought it to his lips. He kissed each knuckle gently. Then he turned her hand over and kissed the center of her palm. He placed her hand back on the counter. She was radiant, perfect, still, expressionless. As he looked at her, Andrew felt the usual violent urge to grab her and hold her. Becky walked up to him and nudged him.

  “I have to take Becky out,” he said.

  “Let’s go for a walk then.”

  The reporter was still parked in Andrew’s driveway.

  “Come on,” he said as he pulled her toward the living room and opened one of the windows.

  After he climbed out, Becky scrambled through and landed deftly in his arms. Then Laura carefully eased her legs astride the ledge. She looked down at him, and he reached up to help her. He held her briefly around the waist as she lowered herself down into the backyard. They giggled. Then he took her hand in his and Becky’s leash in the other. They snuck around the side of the house and dashed down the street. They stopped at the next block, panting and laughing as they looked back at the reporter, still waiting outside and clueless that they were gone.

  “He’s here about your brother?”

  “He said it’s over. I don’t know if I believe him.”

  “Ask your parents.”

  Andrew ignored this. They went to the outskirts of their neighborhood at the edge of the park. Andrew took Laura’s hand, and they walked into the woods just as the last streetlamp flickered and came on.

  “You’re not very close with your family, are you?” she said.

  “No.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I guess,” he said.

  “Family is everything.”

  “Hmm.”

  “John said that you felt God’s presence on the mountaintop, and it frightened you.” Laura squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to be frightened.”

  “All right,” he said. Andrew barely knew what he was saying. He felt instinctively that Laura would allow him to kiss her, and this was the only thing that concerned him now. He also knew that he could not sustain the charade under which conditions he was permitted that kiss. This was it. This warm soft air, this early-evening sun, this compliant and blissfully ignorant and blissfully beautiful Laura, was a gift. John’s gift, Andrew thought with a twinge of guilt but also with amusement. Pure faith, new faith, indeed.

  Then again, in a way, it did feel pure. The air was warm, and the wind was cool and gentle. They went off the trail and into the grass. Years ago, some wandering hippie had sprinkled Kentucky blue grass seeds all over the park. Most of it didn’t survive the Vermont climate. But there were some hidden patches of it that, while not quite flourishing, mixed in with the native grass and looked astounding. Here and there were soft carpets of greenish, bluish, lavender beauty that shimmered in the breeze and barely gave under the weight of your body.

  They reached a small field that held a tiny shelter. He tied Becky’s leash to one of the shelter’s pillars. She curled up in a fading patch of sun and closed her eyes. He
watched her for a moment.

  Andrew walked slowly back toward Laura. It occurred to him that they had not spoken for quite some time. He felt like he was inside a silent movie: the quiet was alive, more present in the air than anything else. Every cell in his body felt suspended, sepia toned, balanced between dimensions of sensation. It was as if he were experiencing a perfect memory. Stunned by the state he was in, all he could do was move toward her and toward her and toward her. And she, Laura, was poised and still. Waiting. He stopped when he was just a few inches from her.

  “You can kiss me if you want,” she said.

  For a moment he was so startled by her words that he seemed to snap out of a fog. But he pulled her up to him and kissed her anyway. Her lips were warm. Her body was warm. She opened her mouth, and he kissed her deeply. He felt like he was breathing her in or like they shared the same lungs. She tasted very sweet and clean, like flowery soap. He pulled her body closer and kissed her more forcefully. He was aroused but knew there was nothing doing there. He could kiss her all he wanted. That was it. They kissed and kissed and kissed. It grew cooler as their bodies grew warmer. They lay down in the grass, and Andrew spent what felt like hours sucking on her neck and the maddening hollows of her collarbone. But when he tried to touch her breasts, his hands were promptly redirected.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  She was panting when she spoke, and Andrew felt like he might go crazy. As with Karen, the taste of her was what amazed him the most. Laura didn’t taste musty and piney and hot. She was sweet, like sugary candy. Eventually their kissing slowed. They had been lying on their sides. Andrew tried to crawl on top of her, but Laura playfully pushed his chest so that he lay on his back.

  “I love you,” he said.

  There was a long pause. Andrew held his breath.

  “I’ve got to head home,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to evening service.”

  “Okay.”

  “Want to come?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” she said. Andrew was surprised by the tone of her voice. She sounded ironic, sarcastic even. She drew out the word really as if it had ten syllables.