So why is it still such a hard pill to swallow? So to speak.
“Dr. Caslow was right,” Mom’s saying, changing tactics. “We need to stay positive. Just tell me what I can do to—”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I snap. “It is what it is.” Not only am I sick of the word fine, I’m sick of the word positive all of a sudden, too. I’m also irritated by how hard she’s trying to make the situation seem less awful than it is, even though I know it’s not fair of me to feel this way. She’s scared. I need to be strong for her. I take a breath and soften my voice. “Do what you need to do,” I say. “Just let me be the one to tell Moira, okay?”
Mom just nods. She looks like she might burst into tears again at any second.
I let out a long sigh. Then, so she doesn’t think I’m sighing in annoyance, I reach over and put my hand on her shoulder. I pat her gently, the way one pats a frightened child. Sometimes, the effort of keeping up appearances exhausts me. But this is new territory we’re in. I have to be careful to not upset her more than necessary. If she starts panicking now, she’s going to burn out by the time I really go into decline. And she’d never forgive herself for that. More than anything, I wish she didn’t have to travel the road ahead. It’s not going to be pretty.
90
MOIRA
DAY 11: JUNE 14
“How was the appointment?” I ask.
“Same old,” Agnes says, but there’s an instantly recognizable note of false cheer in her voice. Plus, she won’t look me in the eye when she says it. I wonder if part of her is still mad about the thing with me and Boone. Whatever it is, I’m going to tread carefully.
I don’t want to lose her again.
91
AGNES
DAY 10: JUNE 15
If Mom could hear the message Dr. Caslow left on the answering machine, she’d freak. Fortunately, she’s in the shower, getting ready for tonight.
“… sitting here looking over the latest blood work again,” he’s saying. “I still don’t love what I see. But you already know that. I’d like for you all to come in, if possible, so we can discuss … options.”
I’m not stupid. I know what those options are. Surgery on my arteries at the very least, on my heart at most. Extended hospital stays. Side effects from the loads of antibiotics and other medications. Recovery time that might not end in recovery at all. More wishing, more hoping, diminishing odds. Tons of money spent on all the things insurance probably won’t cover. And for what? So I can live a long, healthy life? No. That ship has sailed. The possibility of my living a long life died the day I was diagnosed as a toddler. Actually, it died even before that, probably when I was still just a microscopic blob of unstable cells dividing in my mother’s womb. As of today, my sixteenth birthday, I’ve already lived longer than most progeria kids. I’m one of the lucky ones.
Dr. Caslow doesn’t even try to hide the emotion in his voice that comes through the tiny speaker next. “I’m just … I’m really very sorry.”
A rush of heat flows to my face, and I feel my eyes tearing up. It’s not so much the news that makes this happen. It’s the fact that Dr. Caslow is such a good guy. It’s the fact that this “news” is going to hurt everyone I care about. I hear the sound of the shower shutting off, hear Mom moving around in the bathroom. Unsuccessfully blinking back tears, I reach my hand out toward the phone. I need some time to think about all this. I need some time to decide what I want to do before I’m checked into the hospital and stuck full of needles and tubes for good. I just need some time.
Mom agreed to let me spend the night at Moira’s house tomorrow night, which is no small miracle. If she knew about Dr. Caslow’s message, there’s no way she’d let me go over there. He’ll eventually call and leave another one, of course, but I’m hoping that will take a few days. I don’t want the start of my sixteenth year being defined by this news. My finger hesitates over the answering machine only briefly before pressing the delete button.
* * *
At my birthday party that evening—dinner and tres leches cake at my favorite Mexican restaurant, Piñata Loca—our group looks like any other happy family out celebrating. Dad is there, as are Jamey and the kids. Isaiah sits next to me and acts all grown up while Obi and Nevaeh take turns wearing my birthday hat and asking Mom all sorts of random, whispered questions. Nevvie: Did you used to be married to our dad? Obi: Do you know who Wolverine is? Nevvie: Are you married to anybody now? Obi: Do you think I look like Wolverine? The interrogation goes on like this for a while, cracking me and Mom up, until Jamey gets wind of it and shuts the twins down with a Look of Doom. “I am so sorry,” she tells Mom, blushing.
“What did they do?” Dad asks her. When Jamey tells him, he groans and puts his face in his hands. Then he looks up at Mom, grins, shrugs, and rolls his eyes.
For some reason, it’s not even weird to have the three adults together in one place like this. It’s just … good. It fills me with gratitude.
When it’s time to say good-bye for the evening and everyone’s giving me hugs, I look each one of them in the eye and whisper, “I love you.” Dad and Jamey look a little shocked, but they whisper it back to me, as does Isaiah. Obi and Nevvie giggle and squirm at first when I whisper it to them. Each of them hugs me a second time afterward, though, and it almost seems like they don’t want to let go.
* * *
“That was the best birthday ever,” I tell Mom later, when I’m in bed and we’re saying good night.
“It was pretty great,” she agrees. She bends down to give me a kiss on the forehead. “Happy sweet sixteen, my extraordinary daughter.” She looks radiant. She looks happy. What I know everybody was thinking tonight but nobody said out loud is that we’re lucky; I wasn’t ever expected to make it this far. Thank God I erased Dr. Caslow’s message, or this night never would have happened the way it did.
She’s heading toward the door when I respond. “Hey, Mom?”
“Hmm?” She stops and turns around.
“Thank you for everything,” I tell her.
“You’ve already thanked me, silly girl.”
“No,” I say. “I mean for everything. Everything you’ve ever done for me for all these years, ever since you first found out you were going to have me. You’re the extraordinary one.”
“Oh, honey,” she says, coming back to wrap me in a hug. “You don’t have to thank me for those things. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. I’d do it a hundred times over.”
92
BOONE
DAY 9: JUNE 16
“You’re not going to play ‘Unhappy Birthday’ for me?” Agnes asks her.
“No,” Moira says, staring straight ahead through the passenger side windshield of the Chevy. “I don’t have the Smiths tape with me. Besides, it’s too late. Your birthday was yesterday.”
El-C is out of commission again. Something to do with the starter, I assume, based on the symptoms Moira described to me over the phone earlier. She also said Agnes was begging to have another night out with the two of us as a sort of post-birthday celebration, since she spent her real birthday with her family.
“Is Deb okay with it?” I asked her.
“Agnes told me she was.”
I picked the girls up from Moira’s house, and now here we are, the three of us cruising along in my truck listening to Waylon Jennings and Tammy Wynette instead of The Cramps or Violent Femmes.
“Yeehaw,” Agnes says.
I figure even Moira won’t be able to resist “Stand By Your Man,” especially the part where Tammy basically disses the entire male species. But she’s too distracted to notice.
Agnes chose the destination. To get there, we have to drive way out into the country and over a steep, curvy hill. More than a few local teenagers have gotten themselves killed on this road over the years while driving home drunk from the reservoir. It’s been the biggest party spot in the county since it was first constructed in the sixties, and it’s where Agnes insisted s
he wanted to be tonight.
She also demanded that she ride on the seat between me and Moira, unbuckled the whole way due to the fact that there are only two seat belts. Nothing we could say about safety or the law would change her mind. For a second, idling there in front of the Watkinses’ house, I thought we might not go anywhere at all. But Moira finally relented after Agnes stared at her for a full, silent minute.
There aren’t any other cars in the reservoir parking lot tonight. I park near the start of the trail that leads up to the water, and the three of us step out among the beer bottle caps and cigarette butts strewn all over the ground. A nearby sign says NO SWIMMING, NO CAMPING, NO FISHING.
It’s not an easy hike to the water. About halfway up the trail, Agnes’s breathing becomes labored. “I don’t think I can go any farther,” she says. “Can we rest a little?”
“Let’s just go home,” Moira answers. I know she doesn’t like having Agnes out here one bit.
“No,” Agnes says. “I just need to catch my breath.”
I turn around and back up to her. “Well, hop on up, little lady,” I say, crouching as low as I can.
Agnes hesitates, but then, with Moira’s reluctant help, she climbs onto my back and wraps her delicate arms around my neck. She weighs next to nothing. She definitely weighs less than she did the day I danced her around near the city water standpipe.
We keep climbing, slowly, up the trail until finally we’re standing on the bank of the reservoir.
“It’s so beautiful,” Agnes says, lowering herself down from my back. “I wonder if there’s a place we can sit.”
“Looks like some old fire pits and stuff over there.” I point about a hundred yards west.
“I’ll go check it out,” Moira says. “You stay with Agnes.”
When she’s gone, Agnes tugs on my sleeve. “Boone, you should go with her. I’ll be fine.”
“I think I should stay with you.”
“Why? Because I might be eaten by a bear? I’m right here.”
Sometimes, it feels like no matter what I do, it’s the wrong choice. This is one of those times. I decide to walk away. Maybe both the girls need some space. Maybe I can just distance myself a bit while still keeping an eye on them. You never know when some Freddy Krueger type might make an appearance in a place like this. The three of us have already created the perfect setup for a teen slasher flick by not bringing flashlights to a spot in the middle of nowhere where there’s no cell service.
I’ve gone about twenty-five paces when I hear a scream. It’s accompanied by a splash.
“Agnes, no!” Moira’s running toward the spot where Agnes and I stood just a minute ago.
I whip around and scan the bank. She isn’t where I left her. I break into a run, and I’m almost back to the spot when a moving glint in the dark water catches my eye. Agnes. Her head is just above the surface, and she’s doing this gasping cough thing that makes it impossible to tell if she’s drowning or just clearing reservoir water from her pipes. I’m running toward her, ready to dive in fully clothed, when the coughing subsides.
“I’m okay,” Agnes croaks. After she clears her throat, her voice sounds heartier than I’ve ever heard it, no doubt from cold shock. “Take off your clothes and jump in!” she calls to us.
“What are you doing?” Moira screams at her. “Get out of there!”
“You of all people should know how well I swim,” Agnes responds.
“Swimming isn’t allowed here, and you’re going to get a chill!”
“Maybe you should chill.”
Moira looks like she’s been slapped. “Agnes!”
“I think she’s okay, actually,” I say in what I hope is a calming voice.
“You don’t know shit.”
Agnes is clearly working hard to keep herself afloat. “Come in, Boone,” she hollers at me. “You too, Em.”
“Like hell,” Moira says. “We have to get her out of there. She doesn’t have her flippers or her wings.”
“She actually looks like she’s doing fine out there.”
“Are you kidding me?”
I hate to ignore the girl I love, but I do it anyway. This time, it’s Agnes who has the right idea. I start with the top button on my flannel shirt. Then I keep going until I get to the end of the button fly of my jeans. I pull my T-shirt over my head, kick off my shoes, and shimmy the jeans carefully down to the earth so that I’m standing there in nothing but my boxers. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I’m pretty sure Moira’s eyes linger on me for just a few seconds longer than they need to after the question leaves her mouth.
I shrug in response. “Going in, I suppose.” With that, I walk to the edge of the reservoir, hold my arms over my head, and dive.
“Woo, Boone!” Agnes hollers when I’m in midair.
A few seconds later, I emerge beside her. “Holy cheese, it’s cold!”
“I know,” Agnes says. From this close, I can see her teeth chattering, but she looks like she’s having the time of her life.
“Dude,” I tell her. “You know Moira’s going to kill me if I don’t convince you to get out, right?”
We both glance toward the bank, where Moira’s standing. She’s holding herself tight, arms crossed over her belly.
“No, she won’t,” Agnes whispers. “Watch.” She takes a deep breath and calls out, “I know you’re many things, Moira Watkins, but I never figured you for a chicken. Looks like that’s exactly what you are, though.”
Moira’s mouth falls open, and her arms drop to her sides. “Give me a break, Agnes.”
“Bok.”
Moira doesn’t try to defend herself. Instead, she starts lowering herself into the water with her clothes on.
“Nuh-uh,” Agnes calls to her. “If I can do it, so can you.”
Moira looks at me, but I just hold my hands above the water, palms up, like I have no power here. I try, unsuccessfully, to hide my smile. “What can I say? She’s right.”
Moira starts unbuttoning her shirt. “I’m keeping my bra on,” she informs us. “Also my slip. These items are nonnegotiable.” She commands me to turn around, so I do. “Don’t look,” she says.
I don’t, but only because of something like divine intervention that keeps my back to her and my eyes focused on the reservoir stretching out in front of me.
There’s a series of splashes followed by the sound of Moira shrieking. Next to me, Agnes’s breathing is starting to get a bit more labored, but she still manages to giggle.
“Can I look now?” I ask her.
“I think so,” Agnes says.
Moira is already in the water when I turn back around, and she’s grimacing from the cold. Only her shoulders and head are visible above the dark surface, which means I have to imagine the rest of her, all those endless curves. The skin that I can see is luminous in the moonlight. It appears to be lit from within.
“It’s not that bad,” she says, dog-paddling toward us. When she gets close enough, she motions for Agnes to climb on her back, like a baby seahorse, so Agnes can catch her breath. After that, just Moira and I are left treading. Occasionally, our fingers and toes brush against each other as they move slowly through the water. For several minutes that pass more like seconds, the three of us stay like that in the almost silence, none of us making a sound.
* * *
“I have a horse blanket in the truck,” I offer uncertainly when we’re standing on the bank again.
“Get it,” Moira says. The girls are clutching their clothes to themselves. They don’t want to put them on until their skin dries off some. Thank God it’s a warmish night. The breeze, when it kicks up, is still chilly, though.
“Please hurry,” Agnes adds, her teeth chattering harder now. As if I would do anything else.
“Use my clothes as towels,” I tell them, handing over my T-shirt and jeans. Then I stuff my feet into my tennis shoes and jog back
to the truck in my soaking boxers, wondering what else I might have that they can dry themselves off with.
By the time I reach the still-empty parking lot, I’m all but dried out from the sprint. I pull the blanket from the back of the truck and give it a good shake. It’s hairy and probably smells like Diablo, but at least it’ll be warm.
Before heading back up the trail, I start the engine and crank the heater up as hot as it will go. Fortunately, the cab always warms up fast.
Back on the bank of the reservoir, Moira doesn’t look like she’s dried off much. Agnes has, though. It’s clear that, after I left, Moira used her own clothes instead of mine to blot as much water as she could from Agnes’s skin. She’s standing there shivering, wearing little more than she entered the water with. I force myself not to look below her eyes, which are locked on to mine.
* * *
In the truck on the way back to Moira’s house, there is no scolding, no “I can’t believe you did that, Agnes.” There’s nothing of the sort. It’s like Moira and I have an unspoken agreement to act like everything’s normal, even though nothing could be further from the truth. With hot air from the heater vents blasting on us full strength and the rocking of the truck as it lurches back toward the paved road, Agnes falls asleep almost immediately.
It’s a couple minutes before midnight when we get back to Moira’s house. Agnes wakes up and allows me to carry her from the truck to the doorstep. “Should I bring her in?” I whisper.
“I think it’s best if you don’t,” Moira tells me, but it doesn’t seem right not to. It seems unchivalrous to leave two freezing girls on a doorstep late at night. Still, I know better than to argue. Moira knows what’s best for Agnes and herself. She always has.
93
AGNES
DAY 8: JUNE 17
Moira’s parents are up late watching an old movie when we get inside the house. A rental DVD case sitting on the entry hall table has the word Koyaanisqatsi typed across the front. Whatever that means. From the brief glimpse I get of it on the TV screen in the other room, the movie looks indie and artsy and deep.
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