Along Came Jordan

by Brenda Maxfield

  "Seriously? Who cares? All of us get dumped one time or other. Now, get out there. You're the one who volunteered to help."

  "Well, I'm un-volunteering as of this minute. You ruined my dress, my ride home is gone, Laine saw me cry like a two-year-old — I'm done. Do you hear me? Done."

  The door opened again, and Jordan stepped into the kitchen, a pained expression stamped on his face.

  "Emili, I…" He noticed Janae watching us with her ears perked out like airplane wings. "Janae, do you mind?"

  "We have a ball to put on, you know." She huffed long and loud but had the decency to leave.

  Jordan reached out for me, but I held my hands up. "Jordan, no worries. I'm going home. You stay and get caught up with Pamela." Even I was impressed with my words.

  "Emili, you and I came as a couple. It's not right—"

  "As friends, Jordan. Remember? We came as friends. It's no big deal. I'm glad you get to see Pamela." My voice faltered on the last sentence, but I recovered and even managed a wobbly smile.

  "I'll drive you home," he said. "You know, when it's over."

  "No need. I'm going home right now. My dad's been sick, and I think I'm getting the same thing." I sniffed and fake coughed. "I have a ride."

  I'd no idea how I was going to get home, but I wasn't about to stand and discuss it.

  "I can take you, Emili," he said. "It's not a problem."

  "No, it isn't a problem, because I have a ride who's probably already outside waiting for me. You have fun, Jordan, and I'll see you on Monday." If I stayed even one more minute, I'd break down, and he'd know the truth. I pushed by him and hurried back into the shadowy gym. The tears came then, and I had trouble seeing. I made my way to the photo booth, found my sweater, and ran out the closest exit to the cold and empty hallway where I slumped against the wall.

  My life sucked.

  I’d thought things were coming around. I’d thought I'd found someone who loved me. I’d thought I could fix everything that was wrong.

  I’d thought too much.

  I walked a ways down the deserted hall until the music faded to a dull, steady beat. My footsteps echoed eerily off the tiled walls. I opened my phone and pushed a button.

  "Hello."

  "Margo?" I could barely speak over the fist-sized lump in my throat.

  "Emili, is it you? ¿Qué pasa? You okay?" Her tone was rich, full of concern.

  "Can you come get me?" I squeaked out.

  "Are you at the ball?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll be there in five minutes." She hung up.

  My head fell forward, and I closed my eyes. The tears burned, and I swiped at them with the back of my hand. After a moment, I squared my shoulders and stood straight. Enough. Like Janae said, people got dumped all the time.

  I sucked in my breath. Was this how Marc felt when I threw him over for Lance? No wonder he wouldn't trust me again. Who would?

  I slipped on my sweater and started toward the entrance. Through the door, I saw Margo's rickety station wagon pull up. She jumped out of the driver's side and rushed up the steps. I met her on the threshold.

  She took one look at my dress and gasped. "What happened? Oh, Emili, it's ruined."

  I put my arm through hers. "Take me home."

  She put her hand over mine and hurried me to the car. The front door squawked open, and she folded me inside. She ran around to the driver's side and slid in. "Are you sure you want to go home? I can take you anywhere you want."

  "Home's good. Thanks, Margo."

  Again, the characteristic wave of her hand. "What are friends for?"

  The engine churned to life, and we headed toward my house. Her car and its hanging muffler announced us with a roar down the vacant streets.

  "Want to talk about it?" she asked.

  "You already know."

  She pursed her lips in the shadows. "Was Pamela there?"

  "She was there."

  "Did you fight with her? Is that why your dress is ruined?"

  I rubbed my forehead. "We didn't speak. It was Janae."

  "Janae?"

  "An accident. Everything went in the toilet from there." I leaned back against the cracked plastic seat then jolted forward. "Oh no. I left my photo."

  "We'll go back."

  "No, no. I can't face it."

  "I'll go in. You can stay in the car."

  "No. It's okay," I insisted.

  We came to a stoplight, and Margo pushed on the squeaky brakes.

  "I'm sorry, Emili. Jordan liked you, he did."

  I gazed out the window at the circles of yellow light hugging the lampposts. "I know. I liked him, too."

  The rest of the trip was silent. When we pulled into my driveway, Margo reached over and gave me a fierce hug. "It'll be okay. You'll see."

  I hugged her back. "Thanks for the rescue." I pushed the door open and went inside.

  I tried to unlock the front door quietly — I wasn't ready for the third degree from Mom.

  I needn't have worried. The house was cold, dark, and deserted. I was tiptoeing down the hallway toward my bedroom when I heard a loud crash in Dad and Mom's room. I froze and listened. There was mumbling then loud coughing and choking. I crept over and put my ear to the door.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't see it," came my mom's voice.

  More coughing.

  "I'll clean it up." Again, Mom.

  The coughing grew louder and more ragged.

  "Here, let me put the heating pad on you again."

  I heard spitting. This was bad. Dad sounded awful.

  I tiptoed down the hall to Sarah's room. I turned her knob and peered inside. A streak of light shone through her curtains, forming a cocoon of white around her. She was curled in a lump, her blonde hair fanning out over her pillow. She was so peaceful-looking, it calmed my heart. Gazing at her was the best thing of the whole night. I inched her door shut and went to my bedroom, where I pulled off my spotted dress and dropped it in a heap on the floor. I crawled into bed in my slip.

  I must've fallen asleep, because I jerked awake to the sound of a door slamming. My watch read one o'clock. I looked around, confused. Someone was knocking, and then my door creaked open.

  "Emili?" Mom whispered.

  "Mom, what's happening?" I sat up and rubbed my hand over my eyes.

  "It's your dad. I'm taking him to the hospital."

  I was instantly alert. "What? Is he okay?"

  "No, it's deep in his chest. Watch Sarah. She doesn't have to know. I have my phone, so call if you need me." Without another word, she hurried out.

  I jumped out of bed and ran to the hallway. She was helping Dad walk through the house. He was bent nearly double, holding his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle another coughing fit.

  My heart froze. I wanted to run after him — and say what? I was sorry for being such a jerk? I was sorry I blamed him for the mess of my life? Sorry Sarah wouldn't speak to him anymore? Sorry Mom had turned mysterious and weird? Sorry he saw himself as a failure, and I'd seen him as one, too?

  Instead, I paused, a glacier of icy confusion. In her hurry, Mom didn't shut the kitchen door to the garage. I walked as if programmed and grabbed the handle. A wave of winter air bolted against my chest. I shoved the door shut and returned to the living room to keep vigil.

  I sat on the couch in my slip, shivering. I drew the afghan off the armrest, wrapped it around my shoulders, and settled in for a long wait. I'd never noticed how many sounds filled the house at night. The digital clock on the corner table hummed, and the DVD player buzzed, blipping the time in red. More than once, I thought I heard Sarah coming down the hallway, but the creaking turned out to be nothing.

  I felt as though I was on a deserted island.

  I wanted to call Jordan or Sally or Margo — anyone.

  The clock flipped through the minutes. I rested against the nubby cushions and closed my eyes. Dad had to be okay. He had to be.

  A cold, twisted lump filled my gut. What if he died?
A person couldn't die from a cough, could they?

  My mind careened toward all sorts of horrifying scenarios. Mom could never support us on her salary alone. If Dad died, Sarah would never forgive herself. She'd quit speaking to me and run off again.

  My phone buzzed, and I lurched to the coffee table where I'd laid it.

  "Mom?" I was breathless.

  "Emili, he's admitted."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "Probably pneumonia. They're running tests."

  "People with pneumonia recover, right? He'll be okay, right?" I had a stranglehold on my phone and I couldn't stop the tremor in my voice.

  "Men are such fools."

  "Mom." Desperation poured through my tone. "Focus. He'll be okay, right?"

  There was a pause, then she said, "I'll be right there," to someone. "Emili, I need to go. More forms."

  "Mom, will he be okay?"

  She'd hung up.

  I pried the phone from my ear and stared at it in the shadowy light. She’d hung up on me without answering. Who would do such a thing? What mother in the universe would hang up on her scared daughter? Heat rose in my throat.

  I didn't know the person living in my mom's body anymore. Didn't know her and didn't like her.

  I scrunched down into the cushions and lay my head on the armrest. I held the phone against my chest, closed my eyes, and wished for Jordan.

  ****

  Sarah shook me awake at six. "Emili, where's Mom and Dad?"

  I struggled out of the twisted afghan. "Hey, Sarah."

  "Where are they?"

  "Dad got worse in the night. Mom took him to the hospital so he could get better."

  Her eyes grew huge. "The hospital?"

  I nodded and took her hand, pulling her to the couch beside me. "Don't worry, Sarah. It's all under control. Mom said he'll be fine." The lie slipped easily off my tongue.

  She slumped against me. "When's he coming home?"

  "We don't know yet. Mom will tell us more when she gets back." I patted her shoulder. "In the meantime, let's get some breakfast, okay?"

  "Not hungry," Sarah said. She got up and padded her way back down the hall.

  I followed her, stopping at my bedroom to put on more clothes. The furnace kicked on. I stared down at my crumpled dress lying in a heap next to my closet. The dress was a perfect replica of my life — a big mess of wrinkles and stains. I bent and picked it up. It didn't hang straight anymore. The creases drew up the hem in a zigzag fashion.

  I'd had such high hopes for the evening. My chest tightened with disappointment, and I laid the dress over my desk chair.

  My phone buzzed — a text from Margo. U ok?

  Chapter Thirteen

  I texted back, Ok. Dad in hosptl. Tell more ltr.

  Ooo. Sorry. hope ok. Ltr.

  Margo and Sally's niceness were my oasis. Changing schools hadn't been all bad. My thoughts went to Jordan. He'd probably spend the whole day with Pamela. I wondered where she was staying and if her whole family had come. If not, how had she gotten here?

  Laine would know. Yeah, right, as if I'd ask her.

  I'd left my bedroom door open, so I heard Mom the minute she came through the kitchen door. I flew out there. "Mom! How's Dad? What's going on? Why didn't you call?"

  Mom held her hands up. "Give me a minute. I'm beyond exhausted." Her eyes were smudged black, and her hair hung limply, all curl gone. She looked ready to fall over.

  I hurried to her, put my arm around her waist, and guided her to a chair. "Sorry, Mom. Sit down."

  Sarah stood in the doorway, fear stamping wrinkles on her forehead. If ever there was a time for her to speak, it was then. But she didn't.

  So I asked again, for both of us. "Is Dad okay?"

  Mom nodded. "He will be. He's under an oxygen tent. It could be two weeks." Her face crumpled.

  I rubbed her back. "But, Mom, he's going to be okay, right?"

  She wiped at her face. "Two weeks. Our insurance won't begin to cover it."

  I sank down into the chair next to hers and glanced over to make sure Sarah was all right, but she'd disappeared. Mom scooted back with a screech across the linoleum and stood. "I'm going to take a shower. You can see your father later this morning. I'll take both you and Sarah, but I need to rest first."

  "I could ride my bike."

  "It's sleeting outside. You wouldn't make it down the driveway." She stood, moved her shoulders in a low, stiff circle, and left the room. The image of my dead grandma swept over me. Right then, Mom looked freakishly like her right before she died — shoulders stooped, feet shuffling, all energy drained. I peered after her through the doorway, watching her drag herself toward the hallway. Not long ago, my heart would've been flooded with love and concern, but now, the main thing I felt was nothing. My heart was encased in stone, and the realization scared me to my bones.

  I took a shower after Mom got out. Even though we have two bathrooms, we can't bathe at the same time, or one person will have freezing cold water. I dressed in a hurry and went to check on Sarah. She was sitting on her bed with a closed book on her lap.

  "You okay, Sarah?"

  I could see the naked fear in her eyes.

  "Dad will be fine," I told her.

  "I know." She clenched the book, and I could see how tightly she held on.

  "Mom is going to take us to see him in a bit."

  Sarah shrugged and traced the drawing on her book cover with the tips of her fingers.

  I walked to her bed and sat close to her. "He will be fine. You don't have to worry. And it isn't anyone's fault he's sick." Her body tensed. "It happens."

  She stared at me, her face pleading. "It's not because I won't talk to him?"

  "Oh no, honey." I gathered her against my chest. "Don't even think that way for one minute. He got a virus or something. It has nothing to do with you not talking."

  She went limp in my arms. I laid my cheek on her hair. Though she was still, I knew she cried, for silent tears dripped from her face onto my shirt.

  After a few minutes, I pulled her from me and searched her face. "Better?"

  She nodded.

  "Want to go visit him?"

  Again, she nodded.

  "Good. Get some shoes on so you'll be ready. I have to go get some stuff. We can wait for Mom in the living room, okay?"

  "Okay."

  A plan was forming in my mind. I went back to my room and opened my top dresser drawer. Way in the back, tucked under my socks, was a business envelope. I took it out and looked inside — fourteen dollars. I opened it wider, hoping more money might be stuck in the corners.

  Fourteen dollars.

  Was it enough for a down payment on some counseling? If Sarah and I were going to be at the hospital anyway, I could take her to the mental health wing and set up an appointment. Even though it was Sunday, surely someone would be manning the desk. I dug in my purse, opened my wallet, and found three more dollars.

  My first paycheck from Chi Chi was scheduled for the next Friday. I couldn't wait, but I could tell the mental health people I'd pay more soon.

  Surely, they'd make an appointment for Sarah with my seventeen dollars and the promise of more. My stomach churned in anticipation. I was sorry Dad was sick, but I was relieved for Sarah. Now, she and Dad could both get better.

  I looked down at my outfit. If I was going to talk to the professionals, I should look older, more mature. I pulled off my tee shirt and put on my black sweater. In the back of my closet, I found a pair of gray slacks that still fit pretty well. I shoved aside my tennis shoes for my low-heeled black boots. My thick hair was almost dry from the shower. I brushed it again, pulled it back in a low ponytail, and put on my wool coat.

  I surveyed myself in the mirror. Not bad. They'd surely take me seriously in this outfit. I looked at the time. It was already ten o'clock. Mom should be rested some.

  I left my room and stood outside her bedroom door and listened. I heard nothing. I rapped my knuckles against the
wood. There was some shuffling, and then Mom pulled open the door. Her hair was damp, and the bags under her eyes hadn't improved.

  "Are you ready?" I asked.

  "I was hoping for a short nap first."

  "Please, Mom, Sarah and I are ready to go. You know we wouldn't have this problem if I had my license."

  She glowered at me, and I bit my tongue. What was I thinking — bringing that up now?

  "Sorry, Mom." I backtracked. "Whenever you're ready is fine." I turned away.

  "Wait," she said. I looked at her. "I know you're anxious. Sarah, too. Give me a minute, then we'll go."

  "Thanks. We'll be waiting."

  I decided not to tell Sarah about my plan to get her some help as I didn't trust how she might react. I guess I'd find out soon enough.

  We arrived at the hospital within half an hour. We approached the front door, and Sarah grasped my arm. I gave her a reassuring smile, and we followed Mom through the double-glass doors and down the hallway. The smell of cleanser and floor wax were overpowering, making my eyes water. How was someone supposed to get well with such an odor?

  I couldn't help but notice the different patients in each room we passed. I tried to keep my eyes straight forward, but I couldn't. Some of them looked scary bad. More than once I wondered if they had already died, but no one knew it yet.

  Our pace slowed as we neared Intensive Care. Mom stopped and faced us. "All right, girls. Your dad's probably asleep, but at least you can see him. Sarah, since there aren't any isolation or limited contact provisions for your dad, you can go on in, too. But remember, you're only eleven years old, and this is a hospital."

  Sarah nodded, her eyes huge.

  Mom reached out and took her arm. "And if he's awake, this would be a good time to say something."

  Sarah's face tensed. She took a step away from Mom and closer to me. Mom's gaze tightened, and I saw a surge of anger flicker in her eyes. Then it was gone, leaving only exhaustion and impatience.

  "Fine," she said, her tone sharp. She dropped Sarah's arm and continued leading us down the hall.

  Dad's room was right off the nurse's station. The front wall was large squares of glass. There were beeping machines everywhere. Dad lay still and pale under the plastic tent. Sarah refused to go in. She stood at the door and shook her head over and over. I tiptoed in, although I didn't wake him.