by A. E. Rought
“I’ll be overseeing your visits now.” He pauses to rip open the Velcro straps on my new brace. “The surgeon who saw you earlier was called away on an emergency. Dr. Franks sends his apologies.”
He can send apologies. I don’t want them. I don’t ever want to see him again.
Chapter Six
By the pinch of Mom’s mouth, she’s way less than pleased when I ask her to drop me off at the library instead of going home. Her glower is nearly as dark as the clouds lingering on the horizon, choking the late afternoon sun. “No, Emma.” She gives me an are-you-joking look. “Your hand is broken. We should be filling your prescription for pain meds and getting you home.”
“I’ve been hurting this long.” Lame argument, I know, but it’s worth a shot. I take my backpack, and drag it slowly across the seat, giving Mom the opportunity to get serious about denying me. “And you can fill my script while I get my book. Win-win. I have to have it read by the end of the week. I don’t want my grade to slip…”
She heaves a tired sigh, knowing she’s lost this round of the Nurture War. Number one in Mom’s world is my health, only slightly less important is my GPA.
“Fine.” I know I’ve won when she turns off of Washington, away from home and toward the library. She turns the car into the library parking lot. “I’ll pick up our prescription and be back to get you.”
An argument rises in my throat, but it can’t struggle past the rawness tears left behind. I nod and turn from the car.
After Mom pulls away, I lean against the brick façade and watch the dying light. The empty bike rack stands like a frenched rib cage, a suspicious puddle beneath reflecting back the sunset’s bloody hues. Daniel always loved this time of day, we watched every sunset possible, from rooftops, beaches, and cemeteries.
The edges of loss gape and suck in my chest. God, I miss Daniel.
I push off the wall and step into the light, forcing myself off the mourning spiral. One-handed, I root around in my backpack, then revive my phone. The screen lights up with notifications of texts and missed calls. Bree’s been busy, probably alternating between text and dial, text and dial. Rather than listen to, or read the numerous messages, I press 2 for Bree. And then consider a snicker about her being my Number Two.
The first ring dies a fast death. “Emma, where have you been?” A frantic edge sharpens her voice. “I’ve called you, like, a hundred times. Jason said Harmony told him that someone saw you holding hands with Alex Franks!”
“Whoa. Breathe, Bree. Breathe.” Nothing stirs up the gossip mongers better than a New Guy plus Depressed Girl equation. I lift my right hand, suddenly very aware that the white broken heart has been covered, and tuck the brace into the pocket of my hoodie. “We weren’t holding hands. He was just supporting my hand while he—”
“It’s TRUE!” she crows at the other end.
“It is not true,” I snap. Even though he did hold my hand, and brush his finger past my knuckles to what I didn’t need him touching. “End of story.”
“Oh no,” she says, voice thick with innuendo, “this story’s just starting.”
“Whatever.” I do not need this right now. I heave an exasperated sigh. “Bree?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.” I open my backpack, readying it for my phone as I turn back toward the library doors. “But shut up.”
“Only for now, girlfriend. I expect a full report later. Bye, Em.”
Of course she does. It’ll have to be over the phone. She claims actors are professional liars, so she can recognize a fibber when she sees one. Plus, Bree knows when I’m keeping things from her. I can’t tell her I felt electricity in his touch—she’d think I was crazy. I think I might be, though. It would be easy to blame the tingles on my oversensitive nerves, but I know better.
And what about his dad?
Like father, like son. Why does it bother me that he might be like his father?
I shut my phone off before entering the library. The glass doors draw in cool air, then swing shut. The smell of captive words, glue and old carpets fills the space. The weight of hundreds of books presses on me. The guy behind the desk points to a sign on the wall beside him demanding all students show their ID cards before proceeding. I sigh, dig it out with no small amount of noise, making a big deal of following his demand with one hand, then wave it at him.
His dyed black hair shifts, thin and greasy, when he shrugs and makes an apologetic noise close to “sorry.”
Evening sun through the windows of the west wall falls thick and discolored from the stained glass. Splotches of gold, green and red splash across the shelves.
I spend a few minutes stroking book spines on my hunt for another gothic fiction novel to compare and contrast with Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves, created monsters. After settling on another classic title by one of the Shelley authors—chosen out of desperation by using my school’s name as a guide—I carry it to the front desk, check it out and allow the geek behind the desk to stuff it in my backpack.
Outside, evening shadows have devoured most of the light. Jack-o’-lanterns cast their leering smiles of flame from doorways, splashes of fire in the anemic glow of twilight. Shouldering my backpack, and wishing I had some painkillers in me now, I trudge to the gold sedan waiting for me.
She asks about the book I chose. The cover rasps against my backpack zipper when I pull it out. Mom casts a sideways glance, then nods and says she read it. Her words, the whole trip home, skirt my conscience. On some level I’m here and talking, but my mind is stuck on Daniel. Normally, I would be at the cemetery fence right now, wishing he had a grave.
At home, dinner is a rare take-out event, thanks to my locker-punching and clinic visit. After dinner I make a lame excuse about needing some air, and ease out the front door before Mom can say no. I drift through the neighborhood, drawn by an inexorable pull. Branches creak and groan above me, invisible in the dark before the street lights burn to life.
Leaves rustle and scud along the sidewalk, pushed by my feet and the breeze at my back ushering me toward that familiar stretch of graveyard fence. The gate is not close enough—it’s a wrought iron barrier between me and Daniel’s memory.
Tonight I don’t linger on the border between living and dead. My shoes take me among the headstones as I drift along their stationary parade route toward the mausoleums. One bone white porch beckons. If I close my eyes I can see Daniel sitting there, feet propped up on the banister. Here, wandering between the dead, it’s impossible for me to think spirits don’t live on. I can feel some of them watching a trespasser walk on their resting places.
As every night before, not one headstone has the name I look for. No amount of fantasizing will create a grave for Daniel.
The round face of the moon peeks over the trees, shining milky light on the side porch of the crypt. My heart stutters, then resumes its pace. It looks the same as that night in June, the last time Daniel and I ever sat here together. He’s gone, and I know it, but I wish with everything in me to be able to see him, hold his hand, nestle in his arms again.
Blinking back a tear, I climb the cold railing, my soles squeaking loudly. My backpack settles to the porch with a whisper of nylon and stone. I stand in the spot I’d sat months ago, with Daniel to my left. Closing my eyes, I wish for a glimmer of his ghost, and slide to my butt with my back against the wall. After all the days spent with his memory, I can picture him to the last tousled dark curl. He would be wearing Converse sneakers, faded jeans, maybe the pair with the hole in the knee. Covering his chest would be a soft white t-shirt, the collar peeking through his dark red zip-up hoodie. The last item I can see in exquisitely painful clarity, because I sleep in it every night.
Daniel. My heart hurts for him.
His smile would almost glow against the tan of his cheeks. A playful, loving light would shine from his hazel eyes.
Would, if he were alive.
I slide my left hand, palm up along the floor besi
de me, offering it to the phantom I carry in my heart. Nothing but cold touches my skin. When I open my eyes, moonlight lies in a puddle on my palm, and pours down the side of the tomb, a perfect mimic for Daniel’s slouch.
I’ve never let him go, not really. If it is Daniel’s spirit, I hope he’ll be proud.
Hey, Emergizer Bunny… His voice sounds in my mind, using his favorite nickname for me. Why so sad?
“I miss you, Daniel.” His whispered name strangles into a sob, and I curl my fingers tighter over the hand that isn’t in mine. “It’s an ache I can’t escape. I’ve come here so many nights, looking for your name on one of these headstones. But it never is.”
Wasn’t supposed to end this way, was it? The smile I imagined slides toward a frown on his face. I’m so sorry I had to leave you.
The breeze picks up, whispering in the woods beyond the cemetery fence, blowing between my fingers. I peek at the moonlight cupped in my hand, then pinch my eyes closed.
“You never really left.” The weight of his memory pushes on my shoulders, drags at the edges of emptiness inside me. “I’ve carried you in my heart for so long, I don’t know anything else.”
You shouldn’t be here. His voice darkens. When I look at his spectral image, he’s the Daniel after his fall, skull cracked, brain and blood in his hair, red trails over his forehead and in his eyes. One red slick rides over the black freckle in his iris. I’m dead, Em. I don’t want you to keep dying inside for me.
“I don’t want it either.” Saying goodbye is like losing him all over again. My chest is a mass of hurt. My throat burns, and eyes brim with tears. “Help me let you go. Please, Daniel. I love you, always will, but I have to say goodbye.”
He smiles through the red coursing his face. A cool breeze blows a kiss on my cheek, damp with my tears. His voice is soft, sad and resigned. You just did. Open your eyes…
His commands were never something I could ignore. My eyelids slide up, my eyes on the white light in my hand. The wind picks up, a cloud cutting across the moon, its beam fading from my hand until it’s gone.
And so is Daniel.
Chapter Seven
The first thing I notice is Wednesday morning dawns cold and clear despite the weight of storms crowding the air. It’s Fall in Michigan, after all, crappy autumn weather happens here.
The second thing I notice is the weight of storms pressing on broken bones in my hand.
“Oh my God,” accelerates downhill to much worse words.
“I thought you’d be hurting,” Mom says from the shadows of the door. She has the decency not to look like she spent all night worrying about me, even though I’m sure she did.
“Entirely,” I agree and push to sitting with my left hand pressed to the snarl of blankets shackling my legs.
“Want help with anything?”
“I think I can manage.” I kick my blankets off, and turn so my feet hit the floor. “But I appreciate the offer.”
“I’ll be downstairs, then, getting you a one-handed breakfast.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Warm air gushes from the hall, sliding by the closing door. If I were smart, I would’ve accepted the help—T-shirts and jeans aren’t easy one-handed, my bra almost impossible. Stubborn and smart constantly battle for control of me, according to my dad. After levering myself from the bed, I hitch the wedgie of my boxers out of places they shouldn’t have crept over night. Then, my closet rocks around me while I struggle into my favorite faded jeans and a stretchy, long-sleeved pink shirt.
A stripe of burgundy catches my eye, then tugs at the new bandage wrapping my heart. The fleece is soft beneath my fingers when I run them over Daniel’s hoodie where it rests on my shelf.
I thought I’d never sleep without the warmth I’d felt in it the night Daniel slid it over my bare shoulders. Last night, I hurt and I wanted it, but Mom helped me into my pajamas and into bed. She would have heaved a sigh if I’d asked her to help me put on my dead boyfriend’s sweatshirt. Probably would’ve considered getting me counseling, too. Instead, we choose baggy boxers and an equally baggy shirt. Then, she sat by my bed, reading aloud from my library book about the product of a man’s hubris coming back to haunt him.
Dark things to fall asleep to, but I did. I blame the painkillers.
Bypassing the reminder of Daniel, I grab a pink camouflage zip-up hoodie to coordinate with my pink shirt. I have to start putting distance between me and his memory, or I’ll never get past his death. And I want to get past it, I just don’t know how. Regardless, wrestling into today’s clothes leaves me ready for a painkiller and a nap.
Downstairs, Dad’s bellied up to the breakfast bar, the white cap of his salt-n-pepper hair peeking above the Local section of the newspaper where his nose is buried, and a cup of coffee close by. “Good morning, Emma.”
The modifier doesn’t make sense with the pain grinding in my hand. “Morning.”
“Want a ride to school?” Turn the page. Sip his coffee. “I have a meeting at the office and need to be in early.”
“Thanks. But, no.” It’s a record day—I’ve turned down both my parents before 6:45am. “Walking earns me a coffee.”
A corner of paper folds down between us, and he gives me an oddly proud smile. “It’s all about the coffee, eh?”
“Runs in the family, doesn’t it?”
A flick of Dad’s finger sends the corner upright, and slices his fingertip at the same time. “Dammit,” he mutters. Another page flips. He’s into the Local Sports section now, crimson soaking the edge in a growing crescent moon. Then his shoulders rise underneath his midnight blue suit coat. “Suit yourself, Em.”
Mom stands by the door, brown hair frizzing from a loose bun. A glass of juice sits on the counter next to my morning dose of pain meds. She holds a bulging tortilla shell in one hand, my backpack in another. “Breakfast burrito,” she says while I choke down the horse pill and chase it with juice. “Eggs, sausage, cheese and tater coins.”
In another life, Mom had dreams of running a restaurant. But then I came along and my parents got married. Guilt is ugly, a harpy tearing at my guts every time I picture Mom behind a diner counter spinning a spatula. I take the burrito and she slides my backpack straps on for me, making sure not to whack my immobilizer. Then she kisses the top of my head and whispers, “Be careful today.”
Normally I’d say ‘every day’ in retort.
I don’t want to lie. Punching my locker wasn’t careful. Neither was letting Alex Franks take my hand in the crowded hallway. That moment bleeds into this, ink into white; I see the smile that lit Alex’s hood and my hand tingles with an echo of the electricity that had flowed in his touch. He’d intentionally touched more than my knuckles. The pale broken heart on my hand thrums with secrets Alex left there with a brush of his finger. Why did he have to touch it? His eyes flash in my mind. Why did he have to touch me?
Glittering frost coats the world, sharpens grass and leaves to fragile glass-like weapons. Near a maple tree, I exhale an eggs-and-sausage scented breath to watch the sparkle coating melt away and slick off a gold leaf.
I know how you feel.
Bright sunshine cuts down, pretty and deceptive. The lawn ornaments, witches and skeletons littering Seventh Street make the neighborhood look like store full of cheap novelty Halloween decorations. Soon, leaves will darken and wither, temperatures will plummet. Bitter cold will follow, ushering the howl of winter winds down the streets, suffocating the world in white.
I shuffle into the Walk-Up line at Mugz-n-Chugz, one more uncaffeinated zombie needing a jolt to come to life. I give my immobilizer a baleful glare, even if it is hidden by the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie. There’s no way I’m putting on make-up one-handed.
Looking like a Picasso painting is low on my list of priorities.
Scott Morgan, the beefy defensive tackle for Shelley High’s football team stands at the window. He plumbs the depths of his pocket then dumps a handful of change and one dollar bill to pay for
his grandé, half-caff, fat-free skinny vanilla latté. Such a frou-frou drink for “Morgan the Mangler.” I choke back my giggle. He cracks his knuckles, then claims the cup from the fleshy hand in the window.
Tiny’s window opens, bouncing a flash of sun into my eyes. White spots crowd my vision, and a headache blossoms like a flower of sharp petals on fast forward. By the time I blink the white blots from my eyes, I feel a presence over my shoulder. Another person in line for their morning fix. Tiny clears his throat, drawing my attention.
A greasy film covers his skin and hair, and his uniform shirt looks like he slept in it before coming back to work. My sight zeroes in on a huge zit on his cheek. I want to pull my eyes away. I know I should. It’s like a train wreck on his face.
Repulsed comes to mind.
“Hi, Emma.” A dopey smile rumples his plump face, temporarily burying the zit.
“Um…” I squash the urge to recoil. “Hey, Tiny.”
“The usual?”
His gaze tumbles down the neckline of my t-shirt and I want to smack him for it.
“Yes please.”
“Make that two,” comes a familiar tenor from close behind me. “And I’m paying.”
A tiny spark dances through my loose hair and I know Alex Franks stands within touching range. His presence brings his father to mind, and his violent, vice-like response to hearing Alex’s name. An unconscious wince draws in my shoulders. I turn to face him, expecting to see the relaxed smiling expression of yesterday afternoon. It’s vanished.
He wears faded jeans and a midnight blue hoodie, hood up and sleeves all the way down, under his leather jacket. The shocked, bemused expression of yesterday morning widens his eyes, his fingers drop from where they must’ve brushed the hair puddled in my hood. The corners of his mouth lift in an enigmatic expression.