So Glad to Meet You

by Lisa Super

  Tim brushed off his remorse in parental fashion, as though it hadn’t existed. “You’re talented. Is that what you want to do after college? Work in art or design?”

  The suggestion caught Oliver off guard. “I don’t know. I hadn’t considered it. Maybe.”

  “Well, it was a great gift. She’s a fighter, that one. Stronger than any of us.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “When Daphne was little and first started dressing herself, she would wait…” Tim paused, determining the least masochistic way to tell his story. He swallowed, but somehow his throat sounded drier than before. “She would wait until Emily ate breakfast to see what Emily was wearing and find the closest thing to it. Daphne marched up with her cereal bowl in her matching outfit and Emily would act so annoyed. But her mom and I saw right through it. Emily was flattered. She knew she was Daphne’s hero.”

  Oliver smiled, thinking of the Emily-approved outfits Daphne still wore.

  “Even now, I can’t believe how Emily knew that, and still…” Tim’s sympathetic glance fell on Oliver. “Well, you know better than anyone.”

  Oliver hadn’t been placing himself in the context of Tim’s story. Jason hadn’t been his hero. He’d never dressed like Jason. They’d played video games together, but Oliver had adjusted to one-player games without sentimentality. Oliver only missed a few of the comic book titles he’d stopped buying after his brother’s death. And Jason had been a wrestler, a sport Oliver had no interest in.

  Suddenly, the realization struck him. Baseball. Oliver had buried it. Something painful now radiated in the afternoon light.

  Oliver had devoted his summers to baseball in grade school. He’d been an outstanding player, winning scholarships to various camps. Though baseball wasn’t Jason’s sport, he’d played catch with Oliver every time he’d asked, which had been virtually every day from March through October. Even on the dark days and the summer before the end, Jason had never protested. After Jason died, Oliver had continued to play for a while, but it wasn’t fun anymore. He stopped improving, stopped caring. His teammates caught up and surpassed his skill.

  Oliver had always attributed this loss of interest to finding greater appeal in football and basketball—sports with cheerleaders. But it had all stemmed from Jason, from Jason’s absence in the backyard, Jason’s baseball mitt tucked away in a closet, collecting moths. The realization yanked Oliver’s breath from his throat.

  “Daphne needed a hero…” The man in the doorway housed a monster of regret.

  Oliver pretended not to notice that Tim was tearing up. The effort revived Oliver’s lungs. You could still be her hero. Oliver drove the words from his mind to his mouth but couldn’t get them out.

  Tim bowed out as gracefully as the haunted can. “I don’t know when she’ll be home. But if you change your mind, the door’s open.”

  “Thank you.” At that moment, Oliver was thankful for countless things, one of them being Jason.

  Tim closed the door and left Oliver alone on the doorstep. He stared out into the front yard, never checking his phone, willing time to pass, judging the hours by the lowering of the sun in the sky, the yellow flame melding to orange and pink and purple.

  The limo bus pulled into the driveway at the last shades of sunset. Daphne’s bare feet stepped down onto the concrete, her heels dangling by the straps clutched in her hand. Her blue-gray sheath bore the wrinkles of a fun night and a long day. A chorus of goodbyes spilled onto the driveway behind her. She laughed and waved at the bus, her shoes flopping around like puppets on strings.

  Oliver clambered to his feet with stiff knees and a belly full of firecrackers. The movement on her porch caught Daphne’s eye. She didn’t pause or speed up en route to the front door. The fire under his ribs compelled him toward her.

  As the bus backed out of the driveway, Janine’s voice shot through the cracked window and rolled across the lawn. “Stop!”

  The limo bus screeched to a halt. Janine demanded with utmost seriousness, “Do not move this bus.”

  The bus lurched on its wheels, shifting into park. Behind Daphne’s head, Oliver noticed the shadows of dark faces against the window, a captive audience for his lawn theater. Daphne kept a safe distance between the two of them. Oliver estimated the space to be the length of her arm plus the length of the shoes and their straps, should she be tempted to use them as weapons like Penny had.

  In the hours spent waiting on her doorstep, Oliver had come up with three things he could say. With each step toward her, he’d left them behind, one by one, flattened beneath his shoes crunching on the grass. If she wanted an explanation, he could supply it later. “Can I be your boyfriend?”

  The comeback flashed across her forehead: I don’t know, can you? She searched his eyes for the truth, waiting for him to rescind his words, erase the mistake, as he’d done so many times before. Before she could question any longer or louder with her bright eyes, he closed them by stepping into her with a kiss. Their mouths pressed and pulled. With each movement, the weight from the last seven years lifted off his shoulders. His hand reached to her face and caressed her jawline. Her shoes clattered on the driveway as her hands moved to his chest, her body fitted against his.

  The kiss ended on its own terms, her soft lips brushing against his one final time. Excessive whooping filled the bus, to the point where the driver had to open the door to let the noise escape into the evening breeze. Oliver hung his head, a deep blush conquering his cheeks. Daphne flashed ten fingers behind her, wiggling them against her tailbone. He knew it meant something good.

  “That’s right, baby. Nothing less!” Janine yelled from the bus doorway. Behind her, Mel laughed. She looped her arms around Janine’s waist and kissed her neck. The door closed, leaving them in silhouette as the bus eased onto the street and into the sunset.

  Daphne stood still. She and Oliver looked at each other like they were new people. “Your eyebrows and eyelashes are blue,” she said.

  “I got what I deserved.”

  She stuck out her lower lip but decided against further questioning.

  “Want to go for a walk?” he asked.

  The enthusiasm in Daphne’s nod suggested that if he’d asked her to trek to the nearest landfill and dig for pennies, she’d have the same reaction.

  “Let me change.” She went inside.

  “I’ll be here.”

  Oliver waited for half an hour before Daphne reappeared in a T-shirt, jeans, and the Emily boots.

  “High maintenance,” he quipped.

  “I had to call my mom, make sure we’re all on the same page about me going for a stroll with someone of the opposite sex. I don’t even remember what I had to sign away to be standing here right now.”

  “But you’re here.”

  “I’m here.”

  He took her hand. Their fingers fit together as though they were designed for this very moment.

  • • •

  Oliver prepped in the mirror for his first real date with Daphne—dinner and a movie on a school night, another step into adulthood. His lungs prickled in a good way, like he was grabbing the world and holding on for the ride. He celebrated the special occasion by working extra texturizer through his hair.

  As Oliver crossed Daphne’s yard, the static in his chest hardened to lead. The front door floated ajar, creaking with the draft. Oliver stepped back and gave the house a once-over. All the windows, and the garage door, were closed. Everything appeared normal. He pushed the front door open and poked his head inside. “Hello?”

  The sound of shuffling feet and the hiss of running water came from the kitchen, but he couldn’t see anything. He tiptoed through the living room. Only a sliver of the kitchen was visible through the crack of the doorway, but he made out reddish, syrupy splotches on the floor. With each step, they grew redder. Blood. A butcher’s knife rested beside the sink. Daphne was the pair of feet, darting across the doorway.

  He charged over, too scared to call out her name
. When he reached the doorway, the sight of blood stopped him in his tracks. The larger-than-expected quantity of it was drizzled all over the floor, the counter, and the sink. Against the blue-red, the tile brightened to avalanche white.

  Daphne opened and slammed drawers, leaving bloody smears on the wood. Her T-shirt quivered between her shoulder blades, and her breath sounded as though it was being wrenched from her throat. Oliver stepped straight through the chaos to reach her. He grabbed her arms and turned up her wrists. The skin was unscathed, blue veins under blood-crusted skin. His relief came out in a curt exhalation, the first time his lungs had worked since discovering the open front door.

  Daphne’s eyes shot up to meet his. “It’s from my dad.” She shook off Oliver’s hands. “He’s in the garage.” She grabbed a stack of dish towels from the drawer.

  “I didn’t…I saw all the blood, the knife…”

  She turned off the faucet. “A knife in a kitchen. Imagine.” It sounded more like spitting than words.

  The scream of the approaching siren startled them both.

  “Stay here.” She bolted out the door connecting the house to the garage.

  Voices murmured through the wall and Oliver heard the garage door grind up. He lingered in the kitchen for a few minutes. He thought he might be sick. To distract himself, he moved to a clean patch of tile, streaking it crimson with the bottoms of his shoes.

  Oliver had never been good at following instructions, and he needed air. He removed his shoes, crossed the carpet, and waited on the driveway. It occurred to him that he was watching this gruesome scene play out mere feet from where his brother had died. He kneeled and hung his head to keep from vomiting.

  Under the fluorescent lights in the garage, Tim’s pale face was ghoulish green. His blue eyes lost all resemblance to Daphne’s as they drifted around the room. Blotches of pink emerged through the bandages on the underside of his left forearm and in the crease of his palm. He wobbled on his feet and made strange sounds that never took the shape of words. The paramedics struggled to load him on the gurney.

  “No, don’t try to walk, Dad. Sit down.” Daphne was the adult, as usual, injecting normalcy into the situation. Tim protested with incoherent babble but resigned himself to the gurney. The metal creaked in acceptance.

  Daphne’s face pulled taut, ready to snap when no one was looking. She followed the gurney into the sundown spectacle. Neighbors gathered where the base of the driveway met the road. Their whispers crept over the boundary of the street. Oliver met Daphne halfway down the driveway, watching the gurney legs lurch up and slide into the ambulance. He doubted that in the past five minutes she’d forgiven him for insinuating that she was suicidal and/or accident prone, so he didn’t try to hold her hand. He brushed her arm so she would know he was there. Her stillness hinted that she’d already discerned his presence.

  “It’s just like that night. I was right here. The ambulance.” Her voice was simultaneously thick and light. She almost sounded drunk.

  He wanted to say the thing that she would say to him if their worlds were reversed. He scrambled through the sage ridges of his intellect, empty and out of time. His response was inadequate but necessary. “He’s going to be fine, Daph.”

  His words mended no wounds and her eyes pitied him. She climbed into the ambulance. Oliver wasn’t sure what he’d failed at, but he was determined to fail better. “I’ll be waiting at the hospital.”

  The ambulance doors closed on her distraught face. The vehicle pulled away, graciously waiting a block before igniting its siren. Oliver dragged a garden hose from the side of the house and sprayed down the garage and driveway. The neighbors scattered, nothing to see lest their toes be stained with blood.

  He knew which hospital to go to; he’d been there before. Oliver sat in the waiting room for an hour listening to the squeak of shoes on the never-quite-clean floor. The last time he’d sat in this room was the night Jason died. Oliver had rushed to the hospital in a similar manner. It was the only time that he’d ridden in his parents’ car without wearing a seatbelt. Not comprehending the severity of the situation, his mom and dad downplaying expertly, Oliver had relished the rogue adrenaline of avoiding the belt and buckle. They hadn’t noticed his liberated shoulders jostling against the backseat, his body open and susceptible to injury. The price of freedom.

  At the hospital, his parents had been quiet. They had cried, but not overtly. They must have sensed Jason was gone before getting confirmation and held it together for Oliver so as to not upset him. He loved and hated them for this. In one sense, he hadn’t been scarred by their cries for the rest of his days. On the other hand, for the duration of his parents’ lives, he would have to hold his wits about him under terrible circumstances when all he wanted to do was crumble and let them sweep up his wreckage.

  When he spotted Daphne walking down the hall, he jogged to meet her arms. The way they clamped onto his back before he came to a full stop restored his faith in himself.

  “I’m sorry.” For your deadbeat dad, and for accidentally thinking you were trying to off yourself. He squeezed her tighter.

  “My mom’s here. We’re only all together if something bad happens.”

  “Want to get out of here for a few?” It was a well-intentioned, yet selfish, request.

  “I can’t leave.”

  “Maybe some food?”

  She nodded, and her chin dug into where his neck met his shoulder.

  In the hospital cafeteria, they each took a tray and shuffled through the long, eclectic line: bereaved visitors ceding to sustenance, staff wishing they’d packed a dinner, and patients proving they could feed themselves in hopes of release.

  Oliver hadn’t eaten a cafeteria lunch since sophomore year. If he put on blinders and didn’t breathe through his nose, he could pretend they’d travelled back in time and he and Daphne were in the school lunch line. He settled on a chicken cutlet, mashed potatoes, and corn. But not just any corn—magical cafeteria corn that’s bathed in a top secret substance so it tastes unlike corn or anything else on Earth. His nostalgia was quickly overpowered by the scent of bleach.

  Daphne played it safe and plopped a premade tuna salad sandwich on her tray. “He lost a lot of blood, but he’ll be okay. Maybe some nerve damage in his hand.”

  They were nearly to the cashier when Daphne stopped moving with the pull of the line. Her lips quivered, and the trembling spread to her jaw and downward. The silverware clattered on her tray. Oliver didn’t hug her, fearful that he might break a seal that needed to stay intact. She was on the brink but still holding together.

  “Hey, it’s okay. You’ll feel better after you eat.” He dumped the contents of her tray onto his and pushed against her so she slid the final few steps to the cashier. The seal broke. Her hands sprang to her face, sobs leaking through the seam where her pinkies met. The cashier gave Oliver a concerned look while she counted his change.

  He wrapped his free arm around Daphne and led her to a table near a window so she could face outside. He moved his chair close to hers, and she lowered her shield. The capillaries under her eyes and around her nose looked like they’d been drawn on by a spider with a red pen at the end of each of its legs. And there was black makeup everywhere.

  He’d seen her cry before, been the cause of the tears. Those tears had tumbled down her cheeks with grace, as effortless as drawing breath. These tears possessed her, unwilling to relent until they had all been cried out. He knew it was partially his fault. There was nothing he could do to make it better, to make it go away. He was just as helpless now as he’d been at eleven years old, in this same hospital. History was repeating itself, and it wasn’t easier the second time around. Seven years’ worth of tears were building in his eyes, too.

  His instinct was to resist, hold his eyes open to dry them out, but it wasn’t working. He wanted to appreciate the breakthrough, the fete of experiencing something that moved him to tears. The truth was he hated himself for crying at this moment. H
e hadn’t cried since Tricia’s breakup letter, head buried in his pillow. Now, in public, in front of the one person he needed to be strong for, he was falling apart.

  “I thought you knew me.” She looked straight through him.

  “I know you.” A tear licked against his cheek and the sensation was so foreign it startled him.

  “You thought I’d slashed my wrists. You thought I was like them. Because I told you I was scared of becoming mentally ill. I never should’ve told you that.”

  “No. You were standing in all the blood. There was so much blood. I lost my mind.” A goatee of tears collected on his chin.

  Daphne grabbed his hand, which meant his face looked more discombobulated than hers. With her touch, he let go. The embarrassment washed away with the deluge of tears. Empty and full and free.

  “You don’t want this. Tears in a hospital cafeteria.” Her self-deprecation couldn’t camouflage the fear. She thought he was going to break up with her.

  He did his best to not sound insulted. “Daph, this wet face I’m sporting, it’s been a long time coming and it feels kind of amazing.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you.”

  “Why would I lie?” he asked.

  “Why would you tell the truth?” Daphne responded.

  “Because it’s what we do, you and me. We’re slayers of the truth.”

  Her eyes sparked with something he couldn’t identify, another mystery for another day.

  “This isn’t a breakup meal.” He wiped his nose.

  “You do that? Breakup meals?” She took a bite of her sandwich as an excuse not to hold his hand or look at him.

  “It’s happened. Usually unintentionally.”

  “Usually.” Daphne rolled her eyes.

  “Is this how we fight? You lift a word or phrase that I’ve said and roll your eyes?”

  She caught herself rolling her eyes again and almost smiled.

  He smirked. “I like it. And you’ve mastered it.”

  “We’re not fighting.”

  “And I’m not breaking up with you.”