Undiscovered Country

by Jennifer Gold

  As if on cue, Jake pulls out a small silver thermos. “Anyone want to join me in making this crap actually drinkable?” he asks.

  Nervously, Tess scans the area for teacher chaperones. “I don’t want to risk it,” she says finally, shaking her head. Jake sighs loudly and pours himself what looks like vodka. This is why they’re always breaking up: Tess is so risk-averse she drives under the speed limit, while Jake yearns for excitement at any cost. They once had an epic fight in line for a roller coaster. I think that was breakup number four.

  Kevin and I also decline Jake’s offer. Kevin drove us here tonight, and I haven’t touched the stuff since the debacle at Marianne’s. Jake sighs, screwing the cap back on. I can tell he’s mentally counting down the days until he’s off to Ohio State, where I foresee he will spend most of his freshman year cozied up to a keg. I hope he and Tess have the good sense to permanently break things off by September.

  “Let’s dance,” says Kevin suddenly, giving me a questioning look. “It’s the prom. We should dance.”

  I want to say no, but he’s right, so I follow him to the dance floor. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, and I sway in time to the music, trying not to feel self-conscious. I look around at the school gym, which has been done up in painstaking detail by the Prom Committee to look like a New York nightclub—or at least what small-town Ohio envisions a New York nightclub to look like. There are lots of stainless-steel cocktail tables, rented white leather stools, and weird lighting in different shades of blue and purple.

  “I heard you got early acceptance to Stanford,” Kevin shouts above the music. “That’s awesome.”

  “Thanks,” I say. The letter arrived a week ago. Mom insisted we all have dinner together to celebrate. She didn’t eat much, and we just ordered in Thai, nothing fancy, but it was nice. Both my parents were thrilled, though they also insisted they were not surprised in the least. I was happy, I guess, but not as happy as I’d thought I would be. I stared at the words on the page and felt only disenchantment and a sense of something like claustrophobia.

  “I’m thinking of deferring a year.” The words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to reflect on their meaning. I hadn’t even considered putting college off for a year until this very second.

  “Really?” Kevin looks interested. “That’s really cool. What are you going to do, travel?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I haven’t decided.”

  The music slows down. We stand there, awkward, until Kevin puts out his arm. “May I have this dance?” he asks dramatically. I can tell he’s overcompensating for the sudden weirdness between us.

  We come together, his hand resting on the small of my back. “I’d love to take a year off and travel. Go see Europe or something.” He looks wistful.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “My parents would never go for it.” He shakes his head. He’s silent for a moment, then changes the subject. “Your mom looks good. Is she doing okay?”

  I flinch at the unexpected shift in conversation. “Not really,” I say softly.

  His face colors with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking away. “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s all right,” I say quickly. I’m used to this by now. I’ve learned there’s no good way to talk about cancer. It makes people uncomfortable no matter how you do it.

  “Is she…in treatment right now?” I can tell he doesn’t know what to say. His face is approaching the color of the possibly-spiked punch.

  I shake my head. “Just pain meds,” I answer. “She didn’t want any more chemo or radiation.”

  Kevin is silent for a moment. “I’m really sorry, Cat,” he says finally. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Do what?” I frown.

  He shrugs slightly. “I don’t know. Cope. Deal. I don’t think I could. You’re brave.”

  “I have no choice.” It’s my turn to shrug. “I don’t feel brave at all, but I think I understand what you mean.” The song ends, and the music picks up again. I don’t feel like dancing anymore, so I walk back toward the tables, Kevin at my side. “Before this happened, I would have thought that, if my mom got cancer, I’d just, like, totally fall apart and lie in bed all day. But it doesn’t work like that. The rest of the world goes on as normal, and you kind of have to, too.”

  Kevin is silent. I can tell he’s processing what I’ve said—his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. “I get it,” he says finally. “It’s like Holden Caulfield and Hamlet, again.”

  I blink, confused. It’s not what I was expecting. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re just trying to get by, even though they’re, like, drowning in grief. And maybe part of the reason they act kind of crazy is that it must be infuriating to have the world go on like everything is okay when it’s not for you.” He stops, looking embarrassed. “Am I making any sense?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. My voice is quiet; Kevin’s captured it well. “I wasn’t going to go to prom.”

  “For that reason?”

  “Yeah.” I lean against a post. “It seemed infuriating, like you said. It’s a good word. Like how can there be this big, stupid party when my mother is dying?”

  “I get that.” He nods, then pauses. “Why did you say yes?”

  “For her.” I look down at my dress, at the full skirt skimming the dance floor. “It meant so much to her, the prom. Buying the dress, getting ready, all of it. I didn’t want to let her down.”

  “Are you having a terrible time?” His face is red again.

  “No,” I say, and it’s true. “I’m actually having a pretty good time. My mom was right.”

  “Moms often are,” he says, smiling. “Want to dance some more?”

  I do, and we join up with Tess and Jake on the dance floor. After a few songs, Tad Schaffer and his band, Broken Windshield, get up on stage. They’re a popular local act—they once competed in a major Battle of the Bands in Cleveland or Cincinnati, I can’t remember which. They have some decent music of their own, but at gigs like this they generally cover classic rock.

  “Hello, Graduating Class!” shouts Tad, and the crowd cheers. Mandy Bloom shrieks so loudly I’m afraid she might shatter the spotlights. She clearly has not been limiting herself to the non-alcoholic wine.

  “Do you know how to rock?” he yells.

  The crowd shouts back.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  The response is deafening. Even I find myself bellowing out “Yes!” at the top of my lungs. The band strikes up “Come Together,” from the Beatles, and everyone cheers again. Even I wave my arms enthusiastically.

  “You’re having fun!” Tess yells at me, an I-told-you-so expression on her face. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

  “I am, I admit it,” I shout back, holding up my hands up in defeat. “You got me. You were right.”

  “I love the sound of those words!”

  We both laugh, and impulsively, I grab her into a hug. She’s been granted early admission to UCLA, and even if we’re both in California together next year, it won’t be the same as it was. We’ll have different stories, different friends. Different lives.

  The song ends and Tad’s back at the mic. “I know it’s prom, and we’re supposed to play dance music.” He pauses and adjusts the strap on his guitar. “But we’re going to do a couple more rock covers before we let DJ Dave here have his stage back.”

  People clap appreciatively. Pretty much all of us have come out for Tad and his band over the years, and we’re happy to support them one last time.

  “Let’s hear it for the Rolling Stones!” shouts Tad, and the rest of Broken Windshield strike up again.

  It takes me a moment to identify the song amidst the hollering and foot-stomping of the crowd. Someone grabs my hand, and suddenly I’m part of a long chain of fellow prom-goers. The entire senior cl
ass, it would seem, is now one long chain.

  “It’s ‘Paint It Black,’” I say to no one in particular. I freeze, but am propelled along by the chain, my high-heeled feet moving against their will.

  Tad sings about looking inside himself and finding a black heart inside, and I stare at him, mouthing the words.

  It’s an odd choice for the prom, but then Tad and his buddies probably didn’t give it that much thought. Most likely Brad Johnson just wanted to show off that he can play the sitar. Sure enough, when I look over, the spotlight is on Brad, who’s swapped his guitar for the unusual instrument. His blond hair is mussed, and he’s undone his bow tie and the first two buttons of his shirt. He beams at the crowd’s attention.

  The song goes on, its dark lyrics captivating me. My parents like this song; my mom always mentions how she used to know how to play it on the piano. I once read it’s about a girl’s funeral. Tad leans into the microphone, bellowing, and I sing the words under my breath. No one else even seems to hear them; they probably don’t even recognize the song. The cheering is for Tad, for the end of high school, for the excitement of the night. I’m not sure there are any Stones fans in the room other than those on the stage, and perhaps me.

  Tad goes on, spouting lyrics about one’s whole world being black. My breath catches as I absorb the words. The band soon switches to a more light-hearted tune, but that phrase snags in my mind, repeating itself over and over as I try to ignore it, joining my classmates for a final dance.

  ...

  Kevin walks me to the door just before midnight. The spring air is warm, but with a chill underneath that won’t abate for at least another month.

  “Thank you,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I had a great time.”

  “Me too,” I say, my voice sincere. “Thanks for asking me.” I hesitate, then lean over and peck him on the cheek. Predictably, he turns pinker than my dress.

  “I’ll give you a call this summer,” he says. “Maybe we’ll catch a movie or something.” His tone is casual, but I can tell he’s nervous by the way his mouth twitches slightly.

  “Definitely,” I say. I don’t feel that way about Kevin, but I’m happy to go to a movie all the same. He’s a good guy.

  I wave a final time as I twist my key and turn to open the front door. I expect the house to be dark and silent, but the hall light is on and my dad is seated on the stairs, his head in his hands. He’s dressed in only his boxers and a ratty T-shirt.

  “Cat,” he says, relieved. “Oh, thank God. You’re back.”

  “What is it? What happened?” My heart hammers inside my chest. Frantic, I kick off my heels and they land, askew, at different places in our front hallway.

  “Mom is very bad,” he says. He stifles a sob. “She’s waiting for you.”

  The rest of the world fades to black as I dash up the steps.

  Chapter 24

  After

  When they come, I am in the infirmary. I hear only the shouting, the gunshots. Startled, I stumble, knocking over a stack of bandages I’ve just spent an hour sterilizing. I watch as they tumble to the ground. They’ll be filthy now, caked in mud.

  “Do not just stand there!” cries Anna, grabbing me. “Get down!”

  I let her pull me underneath our makeshift gurney, and we hide there, under a pile of unwashed linens. I feel Anna inch closer to me as we huddle together. The shouting voices are getting closer. Rafael has said these raids don’t generally end in violence—that supplies are all anyone is looking for—but it’s hard not to be frightened. Especially when you’re located in the same space as valuable supplies like iodine and Imodium.

  I strain to hear what is being said—shouted—but I can’t make out the Spanish. Anna, however, gasps. Then I realize the voices are not all unknown.

  Among them is Rafael.

  “What is it?” I whisper urgently. “What’s going on?”

  Anna crosses herself, something I have not seen her do before. Until now, she has not demonstrated any signs of religious observation.

  “Someone is hurt,” she says. She looks frightened. “Shot.”

  Shot? But the raiders never shoot anyone. My heart beats faster. I hear a familiar cry and I freeze. It’s Melody. What is she doing here? And what has happened to her?

  Suddenly, Rafael bursts through the door, flanked by two unfamiliar men with guns. Soldiers, I think. Or terrorists. I wonder briefly if there is a difference in this case. They are older than Rafael, and harder looking. Multiple scars that were not properly attended to. Numerous tattoos.

  A third comes in. He is dragging something. Someone. Someone who is bleeding, and screaming.

  It’s Melody.

  “She’s been shot,” shouts Rafael in English. “Anna? Cat?”

  We emerge from under the table with our hands up. Anna is shaking. She says something in Spanish to Rafael. He doesn’t answer. I stare at him, but he avoids my gaze.

  Melody is placed on the table, and I see right away the damage that has been done. She has been shot below the waist, and the blood seeping out around her body is considerable. I groan, wanting to close my eyes, to look away, but I can’t. There is a sound from Melody like crunching peanut shells, and I realize she’s trying to breathe.

  Rafael’s face is white as he surveys the damage to Melody. He says something in rapid-fire Spanish to Anna, who goes to Melody, leaning over her. The crackling noises persist as Melody’s chest caves in and out, laboring with the effort. Tentatively, Anna rolls Melody onto her side, looking for an exit wound.

  “The bullet is still inside,” she says grimly. “She needs to go to San Pedro.”

  One of armed men shouts something, looking angry. Rafael cowers slightly and shakes his head at Anna.

  “What is going on?” I ask, my voice trembling. “Who shot her? And why can’t she go to San Pedro?”

  Another of the soldiers shouts at me in Spanish to be quiet. I stare at Rafael, waiting for an explanation.

  “She had another…panic attack,” he says carefully. His voice is shaking as well. “They passed her coming into the village. She would not stop screaming.”

  “So they shot her.” I feel faint. I watch as Anna tries, unsuccessfully, to staunch the bleeding. It spurts out with force as she presses against the wound with bandages, splattering us all. I gasp involuntarily as I feel the wet and warmth against my cheek.

  “They say they tried to shoot her in the knee, but she dove to the ground.” Anguished, Rafael looks hopefully at Anna, who shakes her head. I stand by, paralyzed with fear and shock.

  “Melody?” I whisper, leaning in. I grab her hand, which is limp and tinged blue, like the rest of her. “Melody, can you hear me?”

  She gasps, and the ensuing gurgling sound makes me cringe. Reflexively, I pull back, but I feel her squeeze my hand slightly.

  “Cat,” she manages, gasping again.

  “Melody!” I grasp her hand again, this time with both of mine. “Don’t worry, Anna will help you. We’ll—”

  Melody shakes her head, and I can see what an effort it is.

  “I let them,” she whispers. She turns to look me in the eyes. “I didn’t—I couldn’t—”

  “Shhh,” I say. Her lips look as if they have been stained with indigo dye. “Don’t talk.”

  “No.” She struggles again to move, and I feel the weak pressure in my hands that must mean she is trying to squeeze mine.

  “I let—” she gasps, a horrible sound like cardboard tearing. “I let them shoot me.”

  “What?” I stare at her, stunned.

  “I couldn’t—” she wheezes loudly. “Do it anymore.”

  “No,” I say again in disbelief.

  She’s trying to say something else, but I can’t understand her. I move in closer. Her body is wracked with spasms as she tries to breathe and speak.
>
  “Sister,” I hear. “I am…sorry.”

  Tell my sister I am sorry, I realize. Tears prick at my eyes.

  “I will,” I promise. “I swear.”

  Her eyes fill with relief and her body relaxes on the table. She’s quickly losing consciousness; the lack of oxygen and rapid blood loss are overwhelming her injured body. I let go of her hand and turn to Anna.

  “Is she going to die?” I can barely speak. It comes out as a whisper. “Can’t we do something?”

  Anna squeezes my hand. Hers are covered in blood, there having been no time for niceties like sterile gloves. “I can’t help her.”

  I flash back to the oncologists’ pronouncements that my mother’s cancer was effectively incurable. They couldn’t help her. I can’t help Melody.

  I stare at Anna, who has stepped aside, her eyes downcast. “She is gone,” she says quietly.

  I turn my gaze to Melody, who looks no different than she did a moment ago, only now she is no longer a person, but a body. I shudder. Body. It so utterly fails to convey the life force of the person that was Melody. I guess that’s the part Melody would have called the soul. I’m not sure what I would call it.

  Rafael is whispering anxiously with the armed men, who appear unconcerned at Melody’s violent end. I fumble for a blanket, which I pull over her, gently covering her face. Good-bye, I say silently. I’m too shocked to cry. I stand over Melody, swaying back and forth. I don’t notice at first when Rafael puts his hand on my arm.

  “Cat?” His voice is tentative.

  “They killed her.” My entire body is trembling. “You said no one ever gets hurt during the raids.”