Now we’re here, the three of us, waiting in awkward silence. I can feel my dad, next to me, judging all of this, trying to piece together how I managed to surround myself with such unfavorable people, like I’ve been hiding my real self from him. I guess we each have secret faces that we hide from the world. Maybe Evelyn’s problem is that she doesn’t know how to hide them very well, that she’s the most honest of anyone.
A few doctors come out to us periodically to tell us first that Evelyn is alive and that her stomach’s been pumped, that she’s breathing, and that she may or may not wake up today.
Also, that she was lucky. Very, very lucky. That it’s a good thing I called when I did. That’s what they said to me. It’s a good thing.
My dad leaves at eight to open the restaurant. I don’t know why he doesn’t just close again today. What’s another day?
Before he goes, he pulls me into the corner of the hallway.
“Your mother would have been very disappointed about this, you know. Drugs? Overdose? Friends with this kind of person? I do not want to imagine what else. I do not even know what she would say to you—”
“Dad, I—”
But he doesn’t let me talk. Instead, he interrupts me with a low whisper. “I don’t know who you are, Georgia. I don’t know what this is about.”
And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me there, alone.
I sit with Evelyn’s mom for a few hours, but there’s no change, no news. Finally, she convinces me to head home when there’s nothing else to say or do or hear.
I nod off on the bus, holding my bag tight to my body. When I get home, Liss is standing there, waiting for me.
* * *
She doesn’t know what’s happened yet. She’s on the steps, staring at the clouds.
“Find any turnips?” I say.
She sees me and smiles. “Not today,” she says. “A few jellyfish and snails, but no vegetables.”
God, I’ve missed her.
I burst into tears.
She puts her arms around me. “What’s going on? We’re okay, you and me now, you know that, right?”
“Really? Just like that?”
“Sure … why not?”
I pull away from her.
Why not?
There are so many reasons for why it can’t just be okay, just like that. “I don’t know.” We sit on the steps at the front of my building. “Here.” I show her the text and I tell her everything and I’m a mess I’m a mess I’m a mess. The world is upside down again.
“We shouldn’t have just dropped her like that,” I say. You shouldn’t have dropped me like that.
Liss hands me back my phone. “We hardly knew her,” she says, and I’m stunned by her callousness. And then she says, “We were using her, Georgia. Both of us. We were using her to get high. I’m not saying it was right. I’m just saying that’s what we were doing.”
I realize Liss isn’t being cold; she’s being honest.
And that’s why I respect her. Because she says things honestly. Even when she’s angry, she speaks the truth.
I can’t blame Liss for dropping Evelyn, for dropping me.
She reacted honestly to things.
Which is something I rarely do.
Because I hate feeling that way.
I hate the truth of what I’m feeling, which is absolute anger and disgust at all the things I can’t control.
Sometimes you need positive thoughts, sometimes you need the truth.
And the truth is, I’m angry.
I’m angry at Evelyn for doing what she did.
I’m angry at Liss for dropping me like she did.
I’m angry at my dad for living in his bubble of grief, for ignoring me for months and then suddenly guilt-tripping me when I needed his support.
I’m angry at my mom for telling me to make that stupid list. I can’t do everything. I can’t be brave. And how dare she expect me to, when she couldn’t even do it herself. And how dare she not take care of herself so she could tell me what not to do. Why I shouldn’t be doing things like smoking up and kissing my best friend’s boyfriend and failing at school and failing at life. She was supposed to be here to tell me not to do things, not to do everything.
And I’m scared, so very scared, of becoming just like her, sick and stagnant and afraid.
And then I’m angry at myself for feeling that way, for blaming her. I mean, I don’t know. Could she help it? Could she have been different from who she was? Wasn’t she brave in her own way? Facing all the horrible pain, in her kidneys, in her muscles, in her heart, in her life?
There was so much pain.
I don’t know.
What I do know is this: I don’t have to have it all figured out.
But I can speak the truth, as I see it. It’s one of the bravest things I could do.
So I take a deep, deep breath.
And then this is what I say: “Look. You shouldn’t have dropped me like that. I’m supposed to be your best friend. And I get it, I hurt you. I did a stupid fucking thing. But you did a stupid thing, too. You disappeared. You went to Belize and came back with new best friends—Avery and Chloe, of all people. It’s like I didn’t exist or something anymore to you. And now you want to be able to hug me and say we’re okay and I’m just supposed to accept it?
“How are we supposed to go back to how things were? How are we supposed to pretend that I didn’t kiss your boyfriend even though I didn’t know what the hell I was doing? How are you going to trust me? And how am I ever going to trust you? How will I know that you won’t just drop me again?”
Liss gets quiet.
Really, really quiet.
We sit for a while with Liss being quiet, thinking about what I said, not saying anything back.
Maybe she’s going to blow up at me. Maybe she’ll get up and walk away. Maybe this will be the end. Maybe she will drop me permanently and that will be that. Then she looks at me, her eyes red and wet. “You’re right,” she says finally. “You shouldn’t have kissed my boyfriend, even though he’s the biggest asshole in the world and even though you were fucked up and even though it wasn’t really your fault. And I should have talked to you first.”
“And now you’re friends with Avery and Chloe? Even after what she said to me at the party?”
“What’d she say?”
“You don’t remember?”
Liss shakes her head.
We were all pretty messed up that night, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
“She said, ‘I thought you said she was cool.’”
“Chloe said that? About you?”
“No. Avery did. And last night, at the gallery: ‘They’re really colorful’? Like she couldn’t even muster up something better than colorful? I thought she was on some mission to be nice to everyone. I poured my heart into those.”
“She doesn’t have to like them, you know.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Okay, well, look: Chloe’s not that bad, Georgia.” Liss shrugs. “And Avery’s, well … she’s Avery. You know she wakes up at four thirty every morning just to straighten her hair?”
“That’s supposed to convince me that she’s a good person?”
“No, Georgia. It’s supposed to convince you that she’s human. That she has insecurities, just like us. And that she was high, too, that night when she said that thing about you not being cool or whatever. And she says and does stupid and mean things, just like we all do. And I mean, nobody’s that bad. Don’t you think we’ve judged them just as much as they ever judged us?”
…
“We’re all just trying to get through, you know?”
…
“I mean, would it help if I said she volunteers at the hospital every Saturday? We’re all just trying our best.”
…
“Why do you care so much about what she thinks, anyway?”
…
“Think about Evelyn. I think she’s the one who’s strugglin
g the worst. She’s trying the hardest.”
And she’s right. About all of it.
“I am sorry, Georgia. Really.”
“I’m more sorry. Infinitely so.” The tears come now, fast and full. I can hardly catch my breath. “Like, down deep, buried into my core, is this gaping hole of remorse for what I did. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to express how big it is.”
Liss wipes tears from her face and smiles. “I think you just did.”
“Well, okay, then.” I take a deep breath. “Good.”
“I have something for you.” She pulls out a blue envelope with my name written on it. “Here.”
I rip it open and there it is, my list, numbers 1 through 15, all rewritten in Liss’s handwriting.
“I’m mostly pissed at you because you ripped it up,” she says. “Maybe even more so than for kissing that fuckhead.”
I don’t know what to say, partly because I’m moved by the gesture, but also because I’m feeling done with it—with the idea of doing everything, of being brave, of living life for my mom when she couldn’t even take care of herself enough to live it for me.
“Thank you for doing this, but, um, yeah … I don’t think so. I think the list is over.”
“What?”
“I don’t really need to do everything. And honestly? I’m kind of pissed at my mom for telling me to in the first place. This should have been her list, not mine. And she should have included a point where she took better care of herself so she could be a mom and tell me how not to fuck up my life.”
“Oh, come on, Georgia. You don’t mean that.”
“I kind of do, though.…”
“Really?”
“You were there. You know what happened.”
“But Georgia, she loved you. She couldn’t help what happened to her. She couldn’t help getting sick.”
“Couldn’t she?”
“Why do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Expect the worst. Go to extremes. Give yourself over to something big, then give it all up when there’s even a little bit of imperfection.”
Do I do that?
“She wasn’t perfect, and neither are you. And just because she died doesn’t mean she didn’t love you. Maybe she’s not here to make you feel bad about doing stupid stuff, but I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to give up doing stupid stuff. I mean, you have to live, Georgia. You have to fuck up sometimes. You will fuck up sometimes. Everyone does.”
And she’s right. Again.
Damn it.
“Okay, fine. Let’s say I do the list. Let’s say I finish doing my list of stupid things because my dying mother told me to try everything at least once, even if it’s throwing myself out of airplanes that are not about to crash.” I point to the new, clean list written in her handwriting. “But what about numbers thirteen to fifteen?”
“What about it?” Liss says. “List or no list, you have to go for him. I mean, I hang out with him all the time. And he thinks you’re cute. At least, that’s the word he used.”
Ex-squeeze-me?
“Wait. What? But—but—you guys. I mean, you’re together, right?”
Liss bursts into this huge guffaw of a laugh. “Me and Daniel? God, no! Not my type at all. I mean, he’s supernice, but A) he’s too skinny and B) he’s like a brother.”
“But, wait—you guys were together in Belize, and skinny-dipping, and prom, and, I mean, you’re always together—”
“’Cause we’re friends, Georgia,” she says. “That’s it. Nothing else. We got to know each other when his dad got sick and my mom offered to consult with him.”
Oh.
Right.
Her mom, the medical social worker and the nicest person on earth, who would do anything for anyone. And there I was, once again, assuming the worst.
“He’s all yours. Really. I have absolutely, positively, no interest in Daniel Antell. Never have, never will. Besides the fact that I would never, ever do that to you, I’m holding out for the college men.”
Oh.
“So that changes things, then?”
Huh. “He used the word cute?”
Liss nods.
“That’s sort of flattering, and sort of disappointing. Not sexy? Or mysterious? He said I’m cute?”
Liss punches me in the arm. “You are cute, so just shut up and live with it.”
Well then. Daniel Antell.
“You have to do it, then. You have to ask him out. Again.”
I look at the list, at what I’ve done and what I haven’t done.
“I know how to do a handstand now,” I say.
“Oh yeah?”
“I spend a lot of time at the studio where we took that tribal dancing class. I’m not quite able to do it away from the wall, but I can hold it for, like, thirty seconds.”
“Rock star. You look good, by the way.”
“Thanks. It’s called minus ten pounds. I’ve been going to Aspen’s classes a lot.” Not that it actually changes how I look. By all official medical charts, I should technically lose another fifteen pounds. But I’m not going to kill myself trying to achieve microscopic proportions. I’m still curvy me, and I always will be.
I think for a minute. “I guess this doesn’t have to be about my mom, right? It could be about me. It could be a little bit about her and mostly about me.”
“Exactly.”
I look back at the list. Let’s see. This is what I’ve completed: handstands, skinny-dipping, drawing, cheerleading, tribal dancing, cutting class, getting high, and asking Daniel out.
This is what has yet to be determined: running downhill, skydiving, trapeze school, fishing, and flambé.
Shit, that’s a lot.
“Do you have a pen?”
Liss digs into her bag and hands me one.
This is what I write:
#16. Finish the list.
“Okay, fine. I’ll do it. I’ll finish the list. But I want to do some of these with you and Evelyn, though,” I say. “Like, trapeze school—will you do that with me? When she wakes up, we’ll get her to do that with us. We’ll go swing like monkeys. It’ll make her feel better.”
Liss gives me this sorry look like she can’t even pretend to promise me that Evelyn’s going to wake up and that she’s going to be okay and that we’ll all be hanging from swings happy as can be.
But I have this fantasy: It involves getting Evelyn away from her mom, convincing her to get her GED, maybe even move with us to Champaign, where we can get an apartment and she can go to the community college down there.
“You can’t save her, you know.”
“I know,” I say, but then I write it down, anyway.
#16. Finish the list, after Evelyn wakes up.
Now she has to.
* * *
After Liss leaves, I take the train down to the hospital. The only thing I’ve heard is that there’s been no change. Evelyn’s comatose. Her mom said they think she took some of her mom’s Ambien and some other shit and washed it all down with half a bottle of rum.
I hate it here. I hate having to walk through these doors again. I hate having to press the buttons on the elevator again. I hate having to walk the same maze of hallways. I hate the smell of piss and blood and antiseptic and Jell-O. I hate being here, where my mother spent too much time. Where I spent too much of my childhood. I hate it.
But I have to do this, for Evelyn.
I find room 6-142. I take a deep breath and knock. Her mom opens it and silently waves for me to come in. The nurse is there, checking her vitals. She points me to a chair next to Evelyn.
It smells like hospital, and Evelyn looks like shit; her dreads have been shaved and her skin is gray. She’s not intubated like my mom was, but she’s in that deep sleep that I remember too well, and I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here.
The nurse flips her chart closed and leaves the room with no words, and before I can say an
ything to Evelyn’s mom, like I’m sorry I can’t stay I have homework to do, or I’m sorry I can’t stay I have dinner to cook, or the truth, that I’m sorry I can’t stay I’m going to dissolve if I have to, this is too much, I shouldn’t have come, it’s all too much for me, Evelyn’s mom says this: “It means the world that you’re here. No one else has come.” And then, “Talk to her. She needs to hear us.” She leaves to get coffee. She deserts me here with her in this hospital room where so many have died.
Evelyn, can you hear me?
I don’t know what to say.
I have so much to say.
Mom,
You lie there,
choking on air
the blast
the force
fills you so powerfully your lungs fill and fill and fill.
There is no exhale.
Inflated, you are still conscious but you cannot breathe out—not on your own—
there is only oxygen.
Too much of anything can kill,
even life force.
It’s like moving through the sun.
There is only gas, vapor, moving air,
light and more light.
There is nothing else.
* * *
Your heart:
I can’t see it as anything but broken. I travel down a tunnel to a time when you were a child, five years old, maybe your birthday, maybe the morning, when you first woke up. You were open and expectant and smiling. Your mother, who I never met, was awake, maybe cooking or maybe cleaning or maybe sitting in a chair waiting for you, and you walked into the kitchen, where she greeted you with everything inside her heart, her arms wide open for your first morning embrace. You settled into this love; it filled you. Your heart was full.
* * *
Once upon a time, your heart was wrangled from your chest cavity, disconnected from your body, placed on a table, and tinkered with. I remember that day. I felt you there on the bed, feeling nothing, knowing everything. Your heart was not your own. As the earth spun, hurtled, carried you through space, they moved the space that was your body, they moved you out of your body. The soul does not live in the heart, and breaking ribs do not release the soul. It is a heart, a pump; it moves oxygen through thin wires. The soul is in the air. The soul is in the skin. The soul breathes and exhales every minute. That day, the day they ripped it out of your chest, your soul was still there, not inside you, but everywhere. I felt it.
How to Be Brave Page 17