Cheesus Was Here

by J. C. Davis

  It was morning the last time I visited Claire’s grave, a year ago. Now, orangey light from the setting sun makes the tombstones look like gaudy party favors scattered over the grass. Flowers dot a few of the graves, providing bursts of color, and I can see a wilting bouquet propped beside Claire’s headstone. White roses. I wish I had some blue paint so I could remake them for her.

  Why am I here? Claire’s gone—there’s no point visiting her grave. But my feet won’t obey me. Instead I open the gate, step inside, and pick my way across the grass. Claire’s headstone is gray granite with her name carved in large black letters. Toward the top of the stone is a creamy white oval, like an oversized necklace pendant, with an image of a cartoon angel, head bowed in prayer and hands clasped. It’s one of those sappy sweet images you see on greeting cards and seems so out of place.

  I crouch beside the grave and trace my index finger over Claire’s name. Sometimes it’s hard to remember Claire before the cancer. Like my sister was melted down by chemicals and hospital tubes and even her memory has been erased. When I think of Claire, I see her in a hospital bed, a living skeleton with pain-filled eyes. Like the little girl I saw today.

  Maybe, sometimes, living is worse. I loved Claire. I hated Claire. It’s all tangled together. But I never wanted her to hurt. In the end, that’s all she had, long periods of agonized lucidity and longer periods of unconsciousness when her body twitched and fingers clenched if her morphine drip wasn’t high enough. That’s not living, floating in a sea of pain.

  Suddenly, I find it: a bright, clear memory of Claire before she was diagnosed. We’d gone down to the lake as a family, although Emmet took off with some friends in a fishing boat the moment we hit the lakeshore. Claire and I stripped down to our swimsuits and dashed in, laughing breathlessly as the cold water slapped our skin. I ducked under the water and then came up, striking out in a smooth breaststroke for a red buoy tethered two hundred feet out.

  Claire yelled behind me. “Del! Wait up. I can’t swim that fast.”

  I swam harder, until my arms and legs burned and my fingers could brush the slick sides of the buoy. I knew there was no way Claire could keep up, but I was tired of having to wait around for her all the time. She was like my slower, louder, impossible-to-shake shadow. When I swam back toward the shore, Claire was lying in wait.

  She dog-paddled as fast as she could, stopped close to me, and then used both hands to send a wave of water splashing over my head. I shrieked, going vertical and treading water, pushing hair out of my eyes. I sent an answering wave back at her. But Claire had pinched her nose, prepared for it. We slapped water and splashed and acted like three-year-olds for a good ten minutes.

  “Stop!” Claire begged, water dripping from the end of her nose and eyelashes. She was out of breath again, smiling. “Please!”

  “Fine,” I grumbled, acting like I was mad despite my own smile. I turned to swim off, but Claire grabbed my arm.

  “Let’s be starfish.” She tightened her grip, in case I tried to pull away.

  I grimaced. Starfish was a game we played when we were little and Mom had just taught us to float on our backs. We’d flip over, bellies to the air, and spread our arms and legs wide, floating until we either drifted so far apart we had to shout or the waves from passing boats and swimmers knocked us together. It was a lazy, slow, and silly game. First one to break the starfish pose lost. I wanted to swim. To move.

  “Please?” Claire pleaded.

  She was eleven and persistently annoying. I was too old to be playing baby games, but Claire jiggled my arm, clinging tight, and hit me with another chorus of “Please, please, please? Just for a bit.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said.

  Claire immediately flipped onto her back, smacking me with her hand as she spread her arms. I lay back as well and spread my arms as wide as I could, as if I were trying to make a snow angel in the water. And then we drifted. The sounds of the lake, laughter, splashing, the thrum of a boat motor, were muffled by the water clogging my ears.

  “Pops says when we die we become stars,” Claire said.

  “Pops says the Easter Bunny poops out jelly beans and marshmallow eggs. He’s not the best source.”

  “Wouldn’t that be cool though?”

  “Pooping out jelly beans? No, thanks.”

  “No,” she half laughed. “Being stars. We could float right up from the lake and be starfish forever, up in the sky looking down.”

  Claire’s outstretched fingers brushed mine. A power boat passed by, sending waves crashing against my side and shoving me into Claire. We folded at the same time, neither winning.

  “All right, runt. We played. Now I’m going for a swim. Go chase some fish or something.” I dunked Claire under the water and swam away before she could retaliate. A month later the first cancer bruise appeared and we never made it back to the lake as a family.

  I’d forgotten about the starfish game. About Claire wanting to turn into a star and fly up into the sky. Is that where she is now? Is that what she wanted in the end?

  There are moments that stay with us forever, that we keep like pictures on the wall. So many of my moments are tied to Claire. To Emmet, my mom, and my dad.

  I took my family for granted, until they weren’t there anymore. And when the worst had happened, instead of fighting for the family I had left and holding tight to my best friend, I folded all that pain and anger inside myself and locked everyone else out. I should have been gathering moments and now it’s too late.

  I rest my forehead against the gravestone and, even though I know she’s not here, even though I know she can’t hear me, I begin to talk. I begin with the words I should have said a year ago, but never did.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was angry and hurt and so tired of being dragged to the hospital all the time. I just wanted my life back.”

  The last time I saw my sister, while she was lying in that bed like a discarded doll, already deep into a coma she’d never come out of, I didn’t tell her I loved her or that I’d miss her. I didn’t read her stories or sing her songs. I leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I wish you’d just die already and get it over with. You ruin everything.”

  My last words were filled with hate and anger and I will never have the chance to take them back. Claire, ever the perfect listener, must have taken my words to heart because she died two days later. She died because I told her to.

  I press my cheek against the cold stone and cry, letting out all the hurt, the pain, and regret. I was so angry with Claire for stealing away my parents, for turning me into a shadow girl.

  I give a hiccuping laugh. “You know the best part? The grand cosmic joke? You died and there wasn’t any normal left. Everything fell apart. I wasn’t just a shadow girl, I was erased from this world, completely invisible. I didn’t know how much I loved you until you weren’t here anymore. I’m sorry I was an awful sister.”

  Words pour out of my mouth, unstoppable. I keep talking, telling Claire everything she’s missed this past year. It ends, inevitably, with the miracles. I talk about Baby Cheesus, Reverend Beaudean, and most of all, the little girl in the wheelchair. I talk so long my voice goes hoarse.

  “I don’t know what to do. What if that girl gets worse because she came out here? What if there are others like her? What would you do, Claire?”

  I wait a long moment. I guess part of me is listening for an answer. But it doesn’t come. At least not from Claire.

  “Hey,” a soft voice says behind me.

  I straighten and look back, wiping my cheeks. Gabe’s standing two feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders down. His gray T-shirt is covered with crease marks, like he picked it out of the laundry.

  “Hey,” I say in an equally quiet voice. “What are you doing out here?” How much did he hear?

  Gabe shrugs, kicking at a clump of grass by his foot. “I saw you walking past and thought you might want some company. When you came in here … I wasn’t going to bug
you, but it’s been half an hour and I got worried. It’s gonna be dark soon.”

  I give him a weak smile. “I won’t turn into a pumpkin when the sun sets. Or grow fangs.”

  “You need some more time?”

  I glance back at the gravestone and press my palm next to Claire’s name. “No. We’re done. I just needed to say good-bye.”

  Gabe doesn’t call me on saying something so ridiculous. Claire’s been gone for a year. I had my good-byes. But this time, I feel like I’m finally letting my sister go. Maybe Claire can forgive me, wherever she is now, and maybe she can’t. But I have to start forgiving myself.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Gabe says tentatively, “but I—uh—couldn’t help overhearing a bit of what you said. What girl where you talking about?”

  Relief makes my knees weak. He didn’t overhear my confession about the horrible things I said to Claire. The feeling only lasts a second. The darkness I’ve been carrying around in my gut for so long is a tiny bit lighter and it’s because I let all those feelings out, even if it was just to a gravestone. I’m done hiding things. As soon as this mess is over, Gabe and I are going to sit down and have a long talk. But right now, there’s something more important to discuss. I explain again about the kid, about why her family’s in Clemency.

  Gabe’s mouth tightens and his eyes are sad. He drops down next to me, his knee brushing mine.

  “If it was only Baby Cheesus, I don’t think people would be dragging their sick kids to Clemency, you know?” I explain. “But they think there are all these miracles happening and maybe they’ll find one too.”

  He sighs. “Maybe some of the miracles are real. Maybe more will be.”

  “Not the ones they’re coming here to see. And does that whole ‘ends justify the means’ argument work for you? Because I figure the means matter. Especially about this. Seeing that girl, it was awful. I don’t know if I can keep this secret, if I can lie to everyone we know.”

  “We don’t have to lie to them, we just have to keep quiet. Dad said he wouldn’t make any more fakes.”

  “It’s still a lie. We’re still part of it.”

  Gabe rubs his forehead, looking tired. “I know.” His words are so low I can barely make them out. “I just wish there was some other way.”

  I hug him and he hugs me back, both of us squeezing tight. I want him to tell me that everything’s going to be okay. But there have been enough lies. “We need to convince your dad to admit he faked the miracles.”

  Gabe shudders and we pull apart, sitting side by side. He draws his knees up to his chest. “I’m not turning Dad in to the police or the press.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Let’s just talk to him, okay?”

  Gabe won’t meet my eyes, but he nods.

  I reach over and squeeze his arm. “Can we meet at your place in an hour? There’s something I have to do first.” Gabe looks ready to protest, but I quickly add, “It doesn’t have anything to do with the miracles. Just family stuff.”

  He reaches out and twines his fingers with mine, holding tight. I feel like electric currents are running under my skin. That tiny spark, the hyperawareness of Gabe that I’ve been fighting for months, is there in our intertwined fingers. But it’s like a butterfly beating its wings against the side of a jar. When the glass shatters, I’m afraid the shards will end up hurting both of us.

  “See you in an hour,” Gabe says quietly. I let him go and make my way home.

  Claire may be gone, but there’s still a chance to fix things with Emmet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Miracles Undone

  I half expect Rust Bucket to be missing when I arrive home, but it’s there in the driveway, casually leaking oil as usual. I locate my brother in his room and knock tentatively on the door, even though it’s open. Emmet glances up, pulling his headphones off. He looks both annoyed and terrified. I guess that’s fair; I’m feeling the same way.

  I step inside and pull his door closed behind me. Emmet’s room is decorated in football chic, with posters of his favorite players crowding the walls. His comforter looks like a football field, complete with end zones, and there’s a pile of dirty laundry almost as tall as I am at the end of his bed.

  I pick a spot that isn’t contaminated with dirty socks or discarded books and plant myself, hands on hips. “You could have told me.”

  Emmet juts out his chin, eyes narrowing. “Told you what?”

  “That you’re gay.” The words seem obscenely loud and Emmet flinches, eyes darting around as though a horde of reporters is going to leap out of his closet. “It doesn’t make a difference, you’re still my brother and I’ll love you no matter what.”

  “I’m not—” Emmet begins, but I hold up a hand.

  “Please. I saw you. That girlfriend in another city? She’s a he, right?”

  Emmet nods reluctantly.

  “Okay. Why all the secrecy?”

  “I can’t just come out.” Emmet looks at me like I’m dumber than dirt. “I’m a football player. I’d get kicked off the team if the other guys or coach found out.”

  “You wouldn’t get kicked off the team, don’t be stupid.”

  Emmet snorts. “Name one person who’s gay in this entire town.”

  He waits, but he’s right, I can’t name one. “Fine. But, that doesn’t mean our town is full of homophobes.”

  “You aren’t in the locker rooms every day; you don’t hear the jokes they tell or the way they make fun of celebrities who come out. Look, it’s no big deal, I date the occasional cheerleader and no one suspects a thing.”

  “You’re lying about who you are. Of course that’s a big deal. You could have told me the truth, at least. Or did you think I’m just another bigot who’d make fun of you?”

  “I didn’t … I just—” He drops his gaze and stares at the carpet like there’s some deep answer waiting for him in the worn fibers. “You’re all I’ve got left,” Emmet mutters finally.

  That surprises me. But maybe we’re not as broken as I thought. Maybe he needs me, just as much as I need him. I take a tentative step and then another, stopping in front of Emmet. He looks up at me, still sitting at his desk. Before I can overthink things, I reach down and hug him.

  He’s stiff at first but then he hugs me back. “I love you, no matter what,” I say.

  Emmet’s voice is gruff when he says, “Yeah. Love you too and all that crap.”

  I pull away and punch him in the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I still think you’re an asshole.”

  Later, I meet Gabe in front of his house, still off-kilter from my talk with Emmet. Everything I believe and know keeps changing. I can’t help worrying about what else is going to change tonight.

  Gabe and I nod at each other, looking a little grim, and head inside.

  Mr. Beaudean is sitting at the kitchen table, shucking peas, when we stop in the kitchen doorway. Gabe’s dad looks up with a forced smile.

  “Excellent. Mrs. Purdy gave me an entire sack filled with fresh pea pods and I could use some help with them.”

  I pull out a chair and drop heavily onto it. Gabe stays in the doorway, resting a shoulder against the doorframe.

  I wait for Gabe to say something but when he doesn’t I jump in, voice nervous. “We wanted to talk about the miracles.”

  Mr. Beaudean sighs and rests his elbows on the table, head slumping forward. “It was too much to hope the other night’s conversation would satisfy you two.”

  “Things have gotten so crazy with the media, the miracles and everything,” I begin.

  Gabe finally speaks up. “People have started dragging their sick relatives to Clemency to be healed.”

  Mr. Beaudean’s eyes sharpen on us. “What are you talking about?”

  So I explain. Again. Not leaving out a single detail about the girl and her apparent situation. Mr. Beaudean shakes his head, face graying as I talk.

  He drags a hand over his face, the lines in his forehead deepening. “I never meant
for any of this to happen,” he mutters.

  “I know you think the miracles aren’t hurting anyone, but they are,” I say. “What if that girl gets worse because her family dragged her here instead of keeping her in the hospital on chemo?”

  Mr. Beaudean shakes his head. “She might get better,” he says, but the words are feeble.

  “And she might not.” For once I’m not yelling or shouting. I’m not letting anger or panic or pain move my mouth for me and I know what I’m saying is right. “Maybe the miracles are doing some good, but they’re doing a lot of harm too. Look at what happened with Mel’s mom and now this girl. Did you even realize you put that stupid well panel up on the anniversary of Claire’s death? My mom has been crying herself to sleep for weeks because she thinks if Claire had just held out a year longer, Baby Cheesus would have miraculously cured her.”

  Mr. Beaudean looks like I’ve sucker punched him and his face pales. “I didn’t know, Del. I’d never do anything to hurt you or Gabe.”

  “I know,” I whisper, feeling tears threaten again. “But all of this, the lies, the miracles, they are hurting me and other people as well.”

  Gabe takes a step into the room, toward his dad. “If someone else came to you, someone from the congregation, and said they’d faked those miracles, what would you tell them?”

  Mr. Beaudean sags in his chair like a balloon deflating in on itself. “You’ll make a fine pastor one day. Smarter than your old man, anyway.” He gets to his feet and shuffles over to the phone. It’s an old thing, green with a cracked plastic handle and a curly cord connecting the handset to the base. Mr. Beaudean punches in a number and then lifts the handset to his ear.

  “Adam?” Mr. Beaudean says. “Yeah, listen, I need you to call a city council meeting. And invite whatever press is still in town. Can you set it up for tomorrow evening?” He’s quiet a minute before continuing. “I know it’s asking a lot to meet on a Sunday night. Can you do it or not?” Pause. “Of course it’s important. No. No, it’s not another miracle. But it does concern them.”