The Tear Collector

by Patrick Jones

  “Tyler is so cool, why did you hurt him?” she asks. There’s anger in her eyes, but there’s no regret in mine. “Now you’re gonna do the same to Cody. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Kelsey, you’re not my family and you’re not my friend. I don’t answer to you.”

  “Before Tyler, there were like six others. After Cody, do you already have someone lined up?” she asks. “Maybe you’re the one stealing Craig away from Robyn.”

  “My name isn’t Burnt Knees. I mean Brittney.” I point to my name tag, then fake a smile. Burnt Knees is a nickname that someone bestowed upon Brittney and then spread around school.

  “You’re such a bitch,” Kelsey says with a hiss. “I don’t know why Robyn stays friends with you.”

  “At least I’m Robyn’s friend,” I snap. “You’re only friends with her because of Brittney. And, just in case you haven’t noticed, you’re not even Brittney’s friend either.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, looking confused.

  “You’re not her friend; you’re her toady!” I’m angry not so much at Kelsey, but at how Brittney uses her. “No matter how much makeup you use, your nose is still gonna be brown.”

  She answers by staring me down, but blinks as I ask, “Do you think any of this matters?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Kelsey, look around on this floor. Go up to the burn unit. Or to the ICU. Come with me to Pediatrics. Then you’ll understand what I mean,” I tell her. “These people are in real pain with life-and-death situations, and you’re talking about boyfriends and breakups.”

  “Don’t go acting all mature on me,” is her weak counter.

  “You think the sick kids up there cry as much as people at school do about lame high school drama?” I ask, then answer, “They don’t. It is too bad that Tyler was upset and Cody will feel hurt. But compared to people here, their trivial pain doesn’t even begin to match up.”

  To prove my point, I quickly scan the hallway. We’re just in a regular unit, but I quickly home in on the sound, smell, and even the taste. I dismiss Kelsey with a glare, then walk toward a room near the end of the hall. I take a deep breath, then ask, “Are you okay?”

  The woman—maybe forty or fifty—turns around. She’s nicely dressed, plenty of jewelry, but no makeup. She knows better than to apply makeup that will only wash away. I saw her here last week. It’s her mother lying in the bed, hooked up to tubes pushing life-giving liquid through her veins. “I’m just tired,” she replies in a tone that shows speaking to a stranger is almost more energy than she can spare. I break the rules and hug her softly as a few of her tears fall onto me, then we walk into the room. I help sit her down in a blue chair and the grief swallows her like an ocean. The mom is dying, the daughter is crying, and I’m here to help.

  The rest of my shift goes well. I avoid Kelsey and encounter more family members that I can comfort. I’m not sure why Kelsey even volunteers here. She must have some other motive. The other girls—like Amanda, who sometimes gives me a ride home—seem more the type. Like me, they want to help people or learn more about medicine. Maybe Kelsey’s just trying to meet a medical student. Everybody has good intentions, I suppose, but all with strings attached.

  That thought is on my mind as Cody arrives. The SUV shakes with booming bass. He parks his dad’s black SUV in the handicapped zone, then walks toward the front door. He’s dressed for Saturday night, with new green shades, blue Hollister hoodie, and fake surfer-boy tan. Cody thinks he’s cool, and he is when he’s with Tyler and Craig, but on his own, he’s just another guy who tries too hard. But he says he loves me, and that’s enough for now. I sigh, and then get a head start on the night’s activities by unbuttoning the top button of my blouse.

  …

  “What do you know about Craig and Brittney?” I ask Cody, my head across his chest.

  “What?” he mumbles. He’s satisfied, half asleep; I’m wide-awake and full of energy. It’s midnight, and we’re lying fully clothed in front of the sofa. Upstairs, I hear Cody’s parents going about their adult business; down here, I’ve performed my girlfriend duties for their son.

  “You’re good friends with Craig, right?” I ask.

  “I’m tight with C-Dawg,” Cody says, and I’m trying not to laugh. Nothing in Cody’s spoiled suburban life justifies his ripped-off rap lexicon.

  “Is it true about Craig and Brittney?” I ask.

  “It’s Robyn’s own fault,” he says, then laughs. “She should’ve lived up to her name.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, but I have a good idea. While Robyn and I don’t talk much about sex—and nowhere near as much as guys do—she confessed her inexperience and reluctance despite her love for Craig. Like me, she’s a “virgin.” Unlike me, there’s no qualification to that word.

  “Robyn wouldn’t swallow Craig’s worm!” Cody laughs so loud, he starts coughing.

  I fake a laugh, which isn’t all I need to fake with Cody, since he’s all about Cody. It just gives me another reason to break up with him. There are so many, it will be hard to choose just one. He’s had his fun. He’s fallen in love with me, and very soon, it’ll be time for me to move on.

  “We should totally roll to his crib,” Cody says through another yawn. I can’t imagine why Cody would be tired. He’s in between sports seasons, he doesn’t work or volunteer, and from what I know about his grades, he doesn’t study. He brags about how he doesn’t do anything around the house. Like the Brittneys of the world, Cody’s just somebody who takes.

  “I gotta go. I have church in the morning,” I say, then fake a yawn. Being with Craig and Brittney would be raw betrayal. Seeing Craig and Cody play video games is rawer boredom.

  “You wanna hang out after, catch a movie or come over here?” he asks.

  I swallow a sigh, then say, “I have other things to do.”

  “You mean other guys to do,” Cody says sharply. He doesn’t handle even the tiniest rejection well. Good-looking guys like Cody are so used to getting their way that any obstacle sinks their self-esteem. Cody types think they can walk on water, yet they drown so easily.

  I raise my head off his shoulder and stare into his brown eyes. “Cody, that’s a lie.”

  “That’s not what Kelsey told me,” he says, sitting up straight.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, especially from Kelsey,” I say.

  “That’s harsh,” Cody says, then makes the universal catfight sound.

  I fake another laugh, then say, “Besides, when Kelsey’s lips move, it’s Brittney talking.”

  “You straight with me?” he asks, trying to seem so strong, but without his sports uniform, he doesn’t look or act tough. He breaks just like a little boy.

  “Cody, don’t worry about that,” I whisper into his ear. “Don’t worry about anything.”

  “It’s just that—,” he starts, then stops.

  I wipe my hands near his not-yet-crying eyes, then say, “I love you, Cody.” As desired, Cody’s eyes start to well with tears of joy. Joyful tears are not as powerful, but just as welcome.

  “I know it, Shawty,” he says, then smiles.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I reassure him, then put my head back on his chest. I know both the things I just told him are lies, but they’re the words that he wants to hear. I might as well let Cody be happy for the rest of the time we’re together. I might not be human, but that doesn’t mean I’m a monster.

  CHAPTER 3

  SUNDAY, MARCH 8

  How’s Veronica?”

  “You’re late,” is my mom’s answer to my query about my great-grandmother.

  “I did an extra Sunday shift at the hospital,” I say, which I know gives me a free pass. Duty trumps everything in this house. Maybe that’s why I spent the morning at church, the afternoon at the hospital, and the evening at a Starbucks listening to my theater pal, Michael, pour out all his problems. I’m always surrounded by people, and yet I’m all alone in the world.
/>   “Always an excuse,” Mom says.

  “If you’d let me drive, I wouldn’t have to wait on friends,” I remind her. Although calling the girl—Amanda—who often gives me rides home a “friend” stretches that word to the limit. Amanda and I share the same place at the same time, but nothing else. It’s a connection built on convenience and coincidence; I know a lot about those relationships in high school.

  “She’s asking for you,” is Mom’s sidestepping response. She’s sitting at the kitchen table drinking bottled water. Like everyone in my family, Mom lives, dresses, and consumes simply, acting out her beliefs in her daily life. She runs the local Red Cross. Anytime there’s a trauma or tragedy, from fire to flood and anything in between, Mom finds herself in the middle.

  “Have you dealt with that boy yet?” Mom asks. Her term “that boy” refers to every boy I’ve dated in high school. She’s never met one or even bothered to learn their names.

  “Cody,” I remind her. “And, no, I haven’t.”

  “You know my rules,” Mom says, sipping water like fine wine.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I say.

  “I want this handled before the reunion next month,” Mom says. I nod in obedience.

  “Veronica’s still waiting,” Mom says, then points upstairs like I’m a dog. That is all I do: obey. We move around the country, but for me, nothing changes. I just go where I’m kicked.

  “Okay, I’ll see her,” I say, but first I head toward my room. It’s hard to call it “my room,” considering how often we move. I know this house is rented, and in a few years, someone else will hang their posters on these walls. Still, I can’t be without the Beatles watching over me. From my first listen to songs like “Across the Universe” and “Let It Be,” I was hooked by the majestic sound and, for me, unattainable emotion within their words and music. Yet, mostly it’s envy of their power to move people to tears. They’re my beautiful obsession.

  I toss my/Cody’s coat on the bed and then drop my book bag on the floor with a thud. Like Robyn, I take a few honors courses, and part of the honor seems to be building bigger muscles carrying the weight of the texts. I turn the humidifier up to high and pull out a fresh bottle of moisturizer I’ll apply after a swift shower. On top of the moisturizer, I’ll add a layer of baby oil. This routine is about the only thing to keep my skin from flaking away like a dried-up sponge.

  I jump on the computer, check for messages, and hit my favorite sites like a doctor at the hospital making rounds. I pull up a news story from nearby Bay City and print the item. I read the short article, unlock my desk, and then put it in the folder with the other articles I’m collecting. As I’m locking up my desk, I hear Grandmother Maggie call my name through the locked door. Just in yelling my name, she sounds annoyed, disappointed, and concerned. Her ambivalent tone of voice reflects her attitudes toward me better than anything she does or says.

  “I’m busy,” I snap. Maggie and I get along better than Mom and I, which isn’t saying much. We have a secret connection: our shared, if unspoken, impatience with our mothers.

  “Veronica’s asking for you,” she says, and I stifle both a laugh and a frown. My great-grandmother Veronica never asks for anything; she only expects and demands.

  “Five minutes,” I huff out, then click off the screen. The news will wait; the old can’t.

  “Now,” Maggie barks. As I think of Veronica waiting for me, I know there’s only one thing to do, since I can’t deny duty; I choose petty defiance. I turn off the computer while turning on my phone. Robyn doesn’t pick up her cell, so I call her at home. Her mother answers.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Hey, Mrs. Berry, is Robyn there?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry, Cassandra, she’s already asleep,” she says in a motherly tone. “I don’t think she’s feeling well. Might be the flu. You can’t be too careful.”

  “Can you tell her I called?”

  “Sure. Cassandra, as long as I have you, I need to ask you something,” she says. I’m trying to focus on Robyn’s mother’s words as my grandmother bangs on the door, loudly.

  “John and I have our twentieth anniversary coming up on April ninth,” she starts. “We’d like you to babysit Becca for us that night, if you don’t have other plans.”

  “I’m always happy to be there for Becca,” I say, knowing Cody’s long gone by then.

  “Thanks. I’d have Robyn do it,” she says, then pauses. “But she and Craig are the ones taking us to dinner. Isn’t that sweet of them? They are just the sweetest kids and cutest couple.”

  I pause. The knock at the door echoes the loud pounding in my head. I’m just beginning to understand how difficult this breakup is for Robyn. In this house, my breakups get greeted with celebration. In Robyn’s house, it will be devastation. I wonder how long Robyn can keep it a secret. That’s another area where I could be of great support.

  “Are you there?” Mrs. Berry asks.

  “Sure, sorry, just checking my schedule,” I lie. “Of course I can do it.”

  “Thanks. You’re such a help to us and a good friend to my girls,” she says. “I’ll tell Robyn you called. It might make her feel better. I know Becca always feels better after you visit.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, then say my good-byes. I know there’s nothing that will make Robyn feel any better anytime in the future. When we spoke yesterday, that was all she talked about: the Beatles song “Yesterday.” She said how the line in the song “there’s a shadow hanging over me” described her life. When she tells her parents, those shadows are sure to grow darker.

  I’m surprised to find Maggie still standing by the door when I finally emerge from my room. We both still have our uniforms on: mine is from the hospital; hers is from Avalon Convalescence Care, this nursing home where she’s head nurse. In the summer, I volunteer there too. I don’t like being there, but I don’t have a choice. No wonder I relate so well to the patients.

  “Cassandra, you can’t act this way,” Maggie says. “Especially at the reunion.”

  “I don’t want to go,” I say. In four weeks is our family reunion. I hate it, but I do like seeing my cousins Lillith and Mara, as well as almost all of the male cousins, except Alexei. Yet this year, I dread it worse than ever. That coming weekend, not “yesterday,” is the shadow hanging over me. Anytime I speak of missing it, Maggie tells me there is no choice. Those who refuse to attend or break family rules, like my cousin Siobhan, become exiles forever.

  “Your cousin Alexei will be there,” Maggie says, sounding enthusiastic.

  “I know,” I mumble, keeping hidden all I know about him. But I also know my duty to my family and what I’m expected to do. Maggie, even more than Veronica, raves about him.

  “Alexei just turned seventeen recently too,” she says. “You could learn a lot from him.”

  I think of all the evidence that contradicts her, but I don’t bother to say anything. “What do you mean?”

  “He understands family and duty,” she says. “He’s not selfish, like you’re becoming.”

  “Selfish?” I wonder if my eyes are popping out of my head. I am many things, but selfish isn’t one of them. “I do whatever I’m asked. I’ve sacrificed a normal life for this family.”

  Maggie stares me down, “You have a duty to family. Some of the things you do—”

  “I do those things for us, not for me.”

  “No, you are selfish,” she intones. “Our existence owes itself to sacrifice.”

  “Then when are any of you going to sacrifice for me?” I ask, but don’t give her time to respond. “You all ask so much and I get nothing in return. When do you do anything for me?”

  “You mean other than this roof over your head?” Maggie replies.

  “Why can’t it be one roof? Why do we keep moving? Why do I need to go out and make new friends all the time? Why do I always make the sacrifices? Why do—,” I say, then stop dead. And Grandma Maggie looks as if she’s about to stop breathing. I star
t to walk away.

  “Turn around!” she yells, but I ignore her, and I hope we both can ignore what occurred: I almost weep, like any other teenage girl. But I consume tears; I don’t release them.

  I knock on Veronica’s door, then enter once she grants permission. The lights are off, but a ray of moonlight shines through the window. The long white veil she often wears lies across the end of the bed. It must be a trick of the light, but her dry, scaly skin looks as yellow as the moon. Like everyone in this house, she’s thin with little body fat. None of us can stand the cold Michigan climate, but Veronica moved us here from New Orleans, just as she moved us from NYC to New Orleans. She’s always looking for opportunity, but I’m not sure what she sees in Lapeer. It’s east of Flint—once the most dangerous city in the United States—and people here seem like everybody else. Whatever the reason, Veronica hasn’t shared it with anyone.

  Veronica’s lying in bed, where she spends most of her days and nights anymore. It is rare that she leaves the house. On the nightstand are various bottles and vials filled with liquids to prevent her from dehydrating. Her voice is weak. I lean in close and still must strain to hear her.

  “How was the hospital?” she whispers, but her soft voice still speaks volumes. The question is meant to challenge me, and there’s no right answer. Unlike me, everything out of Veronica’s mouth is judgmental. She builds me up only to knock me down and put me in my place. That place is medical school. Veronica worked as a hospice nurse, guiding people along the final steps of life, but she wants me to become a life-saving doctor. Everything that weighs me down—the Honors Biology class, the hospital job, and the peer counseling service at school—is because of her expectations. Now homebound and weak, she demands even more from me.

  “Okay,” I mumble. After this past weekend with Robyn, Kelsey, and moving closer to breaking Cody’s heart, I feel as tired and worn down as she looks.

  She takes a couple of deep breaths. Talking with Veronica is like conversing on a cell phone with a bad connection; it is full of long moments of silence. And plenty of interrupting: always her, never me. “You’re late,” she says, sounding exactly like my mother. They’re twins separated by a generation, much like Grandma Maggie and me. “I want to hear about that girl Robyn.”