Secret for a Song

by Secret for a Song (epub)

  At eleven a.m., my doorbell rang. Dad was at work and Mum was at her alcohol education class; I had no idea who it could be. I peeked out the peephole.

  Zee, in a trendy black bob.

  I opened the door. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

  She gestured behind her, where her car stood with its back passenger door open. “I need help.”

  Frowning, I stepped outside into the cold in my slippered feet and followed her to her car. She had two cardboard boxes on her backseat, filled with what looked like brightly-colored party supplies.

  I looked up at her. “You do realize Jack is turning twenty-five, not five?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “I have a thing about birthday celebrations.” When I raised my eyebrow, she explained, “I like them to be big. And Jack said no presents. So you have to help me.”

  “Help you do what?”

  “Blow these up!” She rummaged in a box and pulled out two giant bags of balloons. “I have the lung capacity of a ninety-year-old man with no lungs. If he doesn’t want presents, he’s going to at least get a dolled-up community center, damn it.”

  I laughed. “Okay, fine. But you know what you could do? Buy a balloon pump.”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “Do I look like I could carry a balloon pump from the store to the car? As it was I had to bribe the neighbor kid to put these boxes in when Mom was out grocery shopping. She totally freaks out about me overdoing anything.”

  I picked up the box nearest to me. “All right, well, let’s get you inside where it’s warmer. I’ve got a fire going.”

  But she was already making her way up the driveway.

  Inside, I handed Zee a mug of hot cocoa and handed her a throw blanket for her legs. “Thanks,” she said, flexing her feet and looking around. “You’ve got a nice place.”

  “Can’t take any credit for it,” I said, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to one of the boxes. I pulled out the pack of balloons and ripped open the package. “My mum’s the decorator.”

  “Your parents at work?” Zee asked, sipping her hot cocoa.

  I paused for a second while I considered how to answer. Pulling out a white balloon, I said, “My dad is. My mum’s just at a class.” I began to blow up the balloon to preempt any more questions.

  Zee sighed. “You’re lucky. You’re not at the stage yet when your parents begin to do the hovering, hummingbird thing.”

  I looked at her over the swell of the growing balloon. How could I explain that I’d kill for the “hovering, hummingbird thing”? That even a “good morning” from Mum was a hard-won comment, one I’d hug to my chest like a sparkling jewel only to be brought out and examined when no one else was around? I settled for tying the top of the balloon and batting it over to her, a white rubber cloud.

  Her eyes lit up. “Look at how fast you did that! Lucky bitch.”

  I laughed, shook my head. There was something about Zee. Even while she was insulting you, you were just glad she’d taken the time to compliment you first.

  “So,” she said, leaning her head back against the couch. I could see the strain on her thin face from the exertion of being here, of sitting up, of holding her mug of cocoa. “What’s going on with you and Drew?”

  I kept blowing air into the balloon, afraid of what I’d say if I stopped. We’d been talking on the phone almost non-stop since our time at the hotel, but I hadn’t had a chance to see him again. He’d been busy with practicing his music with some guys he knew. Finally, when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I tied off the balloon and looked at her. “That’s a nebulous question.”

  She raised her eyebrow. “And that was a nebulous answer.” Setting her mug on the coffee table, she leaned back again and pulled the throw up to her chin. “All I know is, every time he said your name these past couple of days, he grinned. Like an idiot. Over nothing.”

  I found my own mouth smiling in response. “Really?”

  “Really, really.”

  I rummaged in the packet for another balloon and pulled out a red one, studiously avoiding Zee’s eye. “So, like, what did he say?”

  “That you two fucked long and hard.”

  I jerked my head up, my mouth falling open.

  Zee burst out laughing, her narrow chest heaving with the effort. “God, I’m just kidding! But you should see your face right now. It’s priceless.”

  I snapped my mouth shut. “Fuck you,” I muttered, pulling the balloon tight. It looked like a long red tongue between my fingers.

  “Someone’s touchy.” Zee grinned. “Hit a little close to home, did I?”

  I glared at her and began to blow up the balloon.

  “Oh, all right. I’m too tired to tease.” She took a deep breath, then reached out for the mug and took a languid sip instead of telling me what Drew had said. I couldn’t tell if she was genuinely tired or if she was lording her power over me. With Zee, either was equally possible. “He said he really liked you. That you were special or made him happy or something.” She waved her hand around, like what she said was inconsequential. Like she wasn’t holding information in her hands that had the power to put me on top of the tallest mountain, my arms out like I was flying, wind gusting through my hair.

  I tied the red balloon off and began to blow up a turquoise one. I didn’t trust myself to speak just yet. The memory of him, the smell that was like snow and fresh laundry mixed together, filled me up until I was sure I’d pop.

  “So you two going out now?” Zee looked at me over the top of her mug.

  “I guess. We didn’t really have that conversation, but...I’d like to.” I tried to hold in a smile. I wanted to text Drew, or call him, or jump in Mum’s BMW and race to his apartment and make love until the next morning. Possibly all three.

  Zee nodded. “You’d be good for each other. You’re healthier than he is, you know, and he needs that. He needs to do stuff other than all the euthanasia, TIDD group, sick-people things he usually does.” She blinked quickly, several times, and drained her cocoa.

  That’s when it dawned on me, like a fire slowly catching, that Zee liked Drew. Maybe she hadn’t acted on it because she wanted him to have better, to have someone who wasn’t so ill. Maybe she felt guilty about dating him and then dying. If I was any kind of friend, I would’ve asked her.

  But I didn’t. I didn’t want to know. It was easier—for me—that way.

  Chapter Thirty One

  At two-thirty I loaded Zee’s car with her boxes and the balloons, banners, and party bags we’d assembled. I decided to drive the BMW because I needed to pick up Drew and Pierce. Zee would pick up Carson, and we’d meet at Prescott Park.

  Pierce was first, because he lived closer. When I pulled into his apartment complex, he was already sitting on the curb in a heavy white coat with his white surgical mask covering half his face as usual. I noticed immediately just how still he was, almost preternaturally so. With the snow all around, he just about blended in with the sidewalk. It was his shock of black hair that attracted my eye.

  I pulled up to him and got out. “Are you okay?”

  Grabbing the hand I offered, Pierce pulled himself up. He was incredibly light, and in his big white coat, he looked like a feather—transient, delicate.

  “Fine,” he said, his voice weak. “Just cold.”

  I helped him into the car. Once I was in my seat, I turned up the heat as high as it would go and turned on his seat warmer. After a minute, he unfurled and leaned back.

  “Okay?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. The seat warmer’s kick-ass.”

  “You could’ve waited for me inside,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, my mom was driving me crazy. I had to get out of there.”

  “Ah.” I kept my eyes on the road as I got on the highway. “She didn’t want you to go?”

  He put on a strong, mocking Chinese accent. “Prescott Park in March. Bad idea, Pierce! You stay home. You have gay disease.” Then, sighing, he said, “I’m exagger
ating. It’s not really that bad. I just...sometimes it’s hard to understand her way of dealing with it.”

  I shook my head, tried to look sympathetic. If my mother hovered that way, would I be tired of it? Would I feel bad that she didn’t understand who I was? I couldn’t imagine the luxury of having an opinion about how my mother felt about me. “Sorry.”

  “She means well, I guess.” He watched the plowed snow out of his window, a steady, solid stream of white. “I can’t believe Jack’s turning twenty-five,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

  “Really?” I signaled left and came to a stop at the stop light. I glanced at Pierce. “Have you known him long?”

  “Nope.” He began to laugh this really wheezy, throaty laugh, still looking out the window. His left hand rubbed absently at the tumor on the back of his right. “I met him three months ago when I joined TIDD. And even back then, you know, I was sure he was going to be the first one to die. I mean, the cancer had spread everywhere. He was a fucking skeleton even when he was able to come to group. And I just looked at him and thought, ‘There is no way. There is no fucking way that guy is going to make it to his next birthday.’ And now, yep, he’s turning twenty-five. It’s like there’s a game of Russian roulette going on, and as long as somebody kicks the bucket, the rest of us have some time left.” He turned to look at me then, and I saw that he was crying, not laughing. His mask was soaked with tears and snot. “Jack’s still here. Hanging on by a fucking thread. And meanwhile the gun keeps spinning. It’s slowing down, but it hasn’t stopped yet, and I have a feeling when it stops, it’s going to stop on me.” He slammed his fist into the window, and I jumped.

  The car behind us honked—the light had turned green. I began driving again, but I put one hand on Pierce’s arm.

  Pierce could be a scarecrow. Under my hand, I could feel the down of his jacket, the bunched-up sleeve of his shirt. Layers and layers of clothes. But no matter how hard I pressed, I couldn’t feel any body at all.

  Drew got in the car smiling, but when he saw Pierce’s red eyes, his smile faded. He looked at me. I knew he had questions, but all he said was, “Thanks for the ride.”

  I nodded and started the car back up. The drive to Prescott Park was quiet, the only sound the hum of the tires on the street. It seemed wrong to turn on music when Pierce was feeling so low, as if I should pay homage to him by listening to his breathing. It was a stupid, petty thought, the kind that well people think about the ill. Even though I hadn’t been in their midst long, I knew that. It was as if I was picking up on bits of their culture, their language. I knew, for instance, that there were things I thought and said and believed that were superficial and crass and small-minded, but like any bumbling foreigner in a strange land, I couldn’t help it.

  Jack’s dad had come early to help Zee put up the decorations. When we walked into the little room that they’d rented for his birthday party, I saw the banner I’d helped tape together hanging up in the doorway. The balloons were scattered all over the room and taped to the chair I guessed would be Jack’s. There was also a framed, poster-sized photograph of the actress Katie Henson in a silver bikini that left little to the imagination. The photograph had been autographed to Jack.

  “Do you think he’ll like it?” Jack’s dad asked Drew. He was a fat guy with a bright pink face, the buttons on his shirt barely holding the fabric together. I could see some hairy belly skin through the holes between the buttons. “We got it last month and kept it secret.”

  “Hey man, it’s Katie Henson. What’s not to like, you know?” Drew clapped Jack’s dad on the shoulder. He turned and winked at me, as if to show he was just humoring Jack’s dad. Did he think I might be jealous? I realized it hadn’t even occurred to me to be. Whatever was going on between Drew and me seemed beyond the scope of petty things like jealousy over pretty actresses.

  Pierce and Zee were sitting at the table already, talking quietly. I couldn’t tell if Zee was comforting him. She didn’t seem to me to the type to comfort someone anyway, even if she knew exactly what the other person was going through.

  “How’s Jack been?” Drew asked Jack’s dad, who still hadn’t introduced himself to me. He seemed nervous, on edge; it probably hadn’t even occurred to him.

  “Oh.” He actually wrung his hands. “You know. He has good days and bad days, of course, just like anyone else...” His eyes shimmered, and he swallowed a few times.

  Jack arrived then, hanging heavily on his mom’s arm. I wondered why they weren’t using the wheelchair I’d seen beside his bed, but maybe he, like Drew, saw it as “the chair,” something heinous to be avoided unless absolutely necessary. When he saw the room, all done up in carnival colors with balloons floating around his guests’ ankles, he stopped short. His face twisted into something like a grimace. I wondered if he was smiling, but from the look on his dad’s face, I guessed probably not.

  Jack stood there, panting, leaning heavily against his mom. When she tried to get him to move forward, he shook his head and yanked weakly on her arm.

  “What’s...all...this?” he asked, gesturing at the banner and balloons. He wouldn’t look at any of us, choosing instead to look at some point on the floor between him and the table.

  We were all preternaturally quiet. Finally, his dad cleared his throat. “Your friend Zee thought it would be nice to do this room up a bit. Don’t you like it?”

  Jack kept his eyes on the floor. “I...said no...presents.”

  “These aren’t presents,” Zee piped in, sounding cheerful in spite of the situation clearly beginning to unravel in front of us. “It’s just decorations. You know, ‘cuz it’s a party.”

  Jack’s dad looked like he was going to cry or throw up or both. His mom kept half-heartedly pulling on Jack’s arm, as if she thought there might still be a chance he’d come inside, sit at the table, and eat some cake.

  “It’s...not a party,” Jack said, each word punctuated by his heavy hissing inhalations and exhalations. “I didn’t...want anyone...rejoicing. Fuck!” He kicked at a balloon that had bobbed up to him and almost fell over—his mother caught his elbow just in time. His dad was openly crying now.

  “It’s okay, Jackie,” his mom said, rubbing his back.

  “Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t call me that. I’m...a big drain...on everyone. I know...that. No need...to...lie.”

  “That’s not true,” his mom said, trying valiantly not to cry. Her double chin quivered with the effort. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

  “Take...me back...to the car.” He half-turned and began to tug on his mom’s arm. “Now. Now! Now!” He began to hit his forehead with his open hand, over and over again.

  “Okay, okay, we’re going,” his mom said, tossing a look over her shoulder at his dad. “We’re going right home, bud.”

  The door swung shut behind them. Somewhere in the room a balloon popped, startling us all.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Jack’s dad volunteered to dispose of all the decorations, so Zee’s car was empty. She agreed to take Pierce and Carson home so Drew and I could hang out.

  “I feel so bad for his parents,” I said, driving out of the park. “Do his mood swings just happen without warning?”

  “Usually,” Drew said. “Sometimes it’s more of a steady dip. It seems to be happening more and more, though. I’m worried about him.”

  “Did his dad say anything about the petition?” I’d seen Drew take Jack’s dad aside before we’d left to talk to him in private. Zee and I had been tossing all the decorations into a box and popping the balloons with a hair pin. It had felt strangely cathartic to have the offending items meet such a swift, violent end after the reaction they’d caused in Jack, even if I didn’t know him that well.

  “Yeah. They’re having trouble with their finances, so they’re not sure if they can hire the lawyer they want. It’s a criminal defense attorney who’s supposed to be the best with out-of-the-box cases. He won’t do it pro bono, t
hough.” He shook his head. “Fucking lawyers.”

  “Who is it?” My dad was in criminal law, and he was fairly well-known. I couldn’t imagine him taking on a case like this one, where he had to help a poor young dying kid, but maybe it was one of his friends. And what if it is? a small part of my mind asked. What are you going to say? Dad, I need help because one of my friends in the terminal illness support group I joined for fun is dying and he needs representation?

  “Noah Preston,” Drew said. “Some guy in Portsmouth.”

  The name stuck in my mind like a piece of melted candy. There was something about it, something familiar. I shook my head. “Sorry Jack’s not doing so well.”

  Drew’s hand covered mine, firm and cool. “Let’s not talk about Jack anymore tonight.”

  I looked at him. In the fading light, his eyes seemed to be rimmed with gold. “Okay.”

  I got home and let myself in right around dinner time. The living room was quiet, and so was the den, the TV turned off and silent. I’d never noticed before that our house smelled weird.

  Every house had a smell. Ours had an anti-smell: the absolute absence of any kind of scent that would give a clue about the people who lived there. There wasn’t a trace of the food we ate, the perfume we wore, or the scent of our clothing.

  I’d once been to the Hood Museum of Art on a school field trip. The entire place had felt like a mausoleum, and I’d been sure it was haunted by the spirits of the ancient cultures whose works were on display. There was no smell, no warmth, no feeling of life. Even the curators seemed to me to be fake. Our house felt exactly the same way.

  Crossing into the kitchen, I found Mum seated at the table eating a salad and drinking tea. It was the first time I’d actually had a minute to talk to her since the discovery I’d made in her car. It seemed she was always slipping in and out of the house, retreating to her bedroom just as I came out of mine.

  “Been learning anything useful in drunk-driving class?” I didn’t even try to disguise the venom in my voice.