Wake

by Abria Mattina

  It takes forever for her to let me get away with a little bit of tongue. She opens up to it slowly, parting to allow just enough exploration to drive me insane. And then she draws my tongue past her teeth and sucks gently. The sensation makes my face warm and my chest tight with the added effort it takes to breathe. I draw my tongue back, taking her lip with it, and return the favor. Her fingers tighten around my shoulders.

  “Be with me.”

  “Still thinking about it.”

  “Willa—”

  The damn phone rings. I expect her to let it ring through to voicemail, but she slips away from me to answer it. I’m left hanging with my hands on the counter, listening to the conversation that is more important than making out with me.

  “Hello?”

  Please let it be a telemarketer.

  It’s not, because Willa doesn’t immediately hang up. She’s silent, but I can hear the faint sounds of the caller speaking.

  “Haven’t you learned not to piss me off, Luke?” I look over my shoulder at her. She looks calm enough, but her voice is hard and her tongue is sharp. I wouldn’t piss her off right now.

  I take the handset from her. “Don’t call here again.” I slam the phone down and pull Willa into a hug. “You should have let it ring.”

  “You should let go.” She shrugs my arms off and goes back to her paper towels and Windex.

  “Are you really thinking about it? Or are you just saying that to put off rejecting me?”

  “The floor isn’t going to mop itself.”

  “Willa.”

  “I am thinking,” she insists. “Be patient. This pros and cons list could take awhile.”

  “Don’t rationalize it. Just do what you want to do.”

  “I want to think it over. Get mopping.”

  “In a second.” I take her shoulder and turn her away from the window. “Let me try convincing you again.”

  For an undecided person, Willa sure kisses with enthusiasm. The bottle of Windex hits the counter with a thud and her arms wrap around my neck. She’s quick to let my tongue in this time. I generally prefer gentle kisses, but I’m really starting to like the way she sucks and nibbles at my lips and tongue. It’s like passion without force, and I try to return the favor. Willa snickers suddenly.

  “What?” It’s probably not the wisest decision on my part to keep kissing her when I expect an answer, but I can’t leave her mouth alone.

  “I was just imagining,” she says between kisses, “what my brother would say”—I cut her off as my teeth close gently around her lower lip—“if he found a hickey on me.” She chuckles.

  “You want one?”

  “No, I’d rather live to see nineteen.” She lets go of my shoulders and hops up on the counter. Sitting like that, we’re nearly equal height. Willa grabs the sides of my neck and pulls me in for another kiss. My hands trail up her denim-covered thighs, around the back of her hips. I just barely refrain from squeezing her ass—I don’t want to push my luck. She scoots so far forward that she could easily wrap her legs around me…

  “Why the hell are you still thinking?” I murmur against her lips. Willa ignores my question. Her thumbs trace the curve of my collarbone, like she just knows where I most like to be touched. My fingers grasp at her soft back—no bra, again—pulling her closer.

  Then I feel the tips of her fingers slide under the back of my hat, and I tweak. I pull away and take a big step back, tugging the edge of my toque back down. Willa remains on the counter for a second, breathless and hands outstretched. Then she closes her reddened lips and lowers her hands with a sigh.

  “That’s why, Jem. Because you’re dead. You think of yourself as the Jem who moved here from Ottawa, and you can’t stand it when that illusion is broken.”

  What do I say to that?

  Willa slips down from the counter and reaches for the mop. “Sooner or later you have to start living with yourself. It sucks, but it’s the only way to live.”

  I feel sick all of a sudden. Willa gives me a look of concern and offers me her bed to lie down in. As I trudge up the stairs, still breathless and a little shaken, I consider that she might be right about our potential as a couple.

  That doesn’t stop me from wanting her, though.

  *

  Willa keeps the music down while I rest. I wish she wouldn’t. It might help me relax. At the moment all I have are the distant sounds of her cleaning house, and it makes me feel far away. Her sheets smell nice though. Not as nice as Willa, but still pretty awesome.

  Willa’s room is the only part of the house that looks lived in, but not much can be inferred from the objects she leaves out in the open. It’s generic stuff that everyone has—unsorted laundry, a hairbrush, some books and a pair of shoes. I open the drawer of her nightstand to see what she’s really like in private.

  You can learn a lot about a person by what they keep in their nightstand drawers. What objects and sentimental things can they not stand to be far from in their most vulnerable hours of sleep? Are they practical or cluttered? In Willa’s nightstand I find a second-generation iPod with no headphones, a blister pack of what I’m assuming is birth control with none of the pills missing, and a roll of receipts held together with an elastic band. What a suspicious lack of crap. She must hide her meaningful things elsewhere, if she has any.

  Willa comes in just in time to catch me with my hand in the drawer. She stands there and stares while I quietly push it closed.

  “Sorry. I was looking for a mint.” That’s believable, right?

  Willa shakes her head. “I hate it that your bad habits are also mine.”

  “What?”

  “I snooped through your drawers while you were napping.”

  Suddenly drawer-poking is offensive when someone else does it. I wonder what she saw in there. Why can’t I remember what I keep in my nightstand? I had the thing open just this morning.

  “Find anything good?”

  Willa just shrugs. Damn it.

  *

  The carpool to the theater is crowded, but I don’t mind. I get to have Willa’s thigh and shoulder pressed up against me the whole way, and hold her hand on my knee. Up front, Brian and Hannah hold hands on the center console. Chris, slouched in his seat, looks thoroughly put out.

  I don’t let go of Willa’s hand during the walk across the parking lot, or while we wait in the theater lobby. The other three go to the concession stand for popcorn and drinks, but Willa and I hang back. She insists she doesn’t want a snack.

  “You’re not abstaining from popcorn just because I can’t have any, are you?”

  “My, my, you think highly of yourself.” She swats my arm. “I don’t like popcorn when it’s cheap, never mind five bucks a bag.”

  “What do you mean you don’t like popcorn?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “Mutant.”

  Chris comes back from the concession stand with a drink and Twizzlers. He asks Willa again if she doesn’t want anything.

  “I’m good.”

  I like the way Chris keeps looking at our joined hands, so obviously bothered by it. It feels good to finally pay him back for being a complete dick to me. Revenge on Elwood is an ongoing process—as being a dick always is with him.

  Willa notices Chris’s preoccupation too, and she lets go of my hand. She actually apologizes for making him feel like a fifth wheel.

  “I heard you guys were a thing,” he says.

  Willa is embarrassingly quick to correct him. “We’re not.” Excuse me while I go hang myself…

  Chris turns his attention to me with badly feigned concern. “I heard you were sick again.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Really? You look a little fevered.” My face is red from anger and embarrassment; trust Chris to capitalize on that for a joke.

  “Are you?” Willa presses the back of her fingers to my neck. I slap her hand away and instantly feel like a jerk for snapping on her. She looks at me like she wants to tell me o
ff. I’ve proven her right again, being oversensitive about my appearance. But in my defense, Elwood has been a dick to me before. It’s hard not to rise to his bait.

  Hannah and Brian return from the concession stand.

  “Are we seeing this movie or not?” I turn to go, ignoring the perplexed looks from Hannah and Brian. I want to backhand the smirk right off Elwood’s face.

  *

  I hate Chris Elwood. He offers Willa a Twizzler during the previews and watches all too closely as her mouth moves along its length, slipping inch by inch into her moist mouth. I want to reach out and take her hand, or lean over and give her a kiss—anything to throw Chris off his agenda—but she doesn’t think too highly of me right now. She thinks I’m dead inside and delusional to boot. And to her credit, she’s right. Maybe we’re better off as friends now. Later, a few months from now when I look human again, it might work; when I have something more to offer her than this washed up carcass.

  The lights go down for the start of the film. Willa has the worst taste in movies. It’s a goofball comedy, full of obvious jokes and juvenile pop culture references. A couple is making out in the back row—loudly, I might add. I miss that.

  Willa laughs at a ridiculously overdramatic golf cart stunt. Her hand finds mine in the dark and holds on securely, without hesitation.

  Take that, Elwood.

  Sunday

  Waking up at seven on a weekend sucks balls. It sucks even more after a lousy night of sleep—Ava woke me up with six drunken apology texts. I try my best to sleepwalk through showering and dressing, and drag my tired ass downstairs to find food. Everyone else is still asleep—even Mom. I suck back some juice and yogurt to tide me over, and as I brush my teeth I conclude that I am going to sleep all the way to church.

  It’s just Willa and I today. Frank has already given up on going to church, and his sister doesn’t need to be escorted to and from therapy like a kindergartener. Willa looks just as tired as I feel when she picks me up. She’s got a tall thermos of coffee with her and says, “If I fall asleep at the wheel, punch me.” Comforting.

  Willa and I don’t go to mass. We stop at a diner in Perth for breakfast and grab a booth. Willa orders waffles and I nurse a tall glass of milk. I think the waitress imagines she’s being subtle, the way she doesn’t look at me while delivering the food, yet stares at me from behind the counter. I watch Willa drown her waffles in syrup, totally unfazed by Shirley the waitress’s curious gaze.

  “Do you mind being stared at when you’re with me?”

  “No.” She licks syrup off her thumb. “Better you get stared at than me.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She gives me the strawberry garnish on her plate as a peace offering and digs into her soggy waffles. “Does it bother you to be stared at?”

  “Duh.” I wouldn’t have brought it up if I were okay with being gawked at.

  Willa looks over at the waitress, who promptly averts her eyes and busies herself wiping mugs. Every few seconds I can see her peering at me under her lashes.

  “Watch and learn.” Willa raises her hand and waves the waitress over. Shirley grabs a pitcher of orange juice and makes her way to our booth, thinking Willa wants a refill.

  “More?” she offers.

  “No, thank you. I just had a question about the diner.”

  “Yes?”

  “Does it improve your tips to stare at the customers like sideshow freaks?”

  Shirley turns red in the face and mumbles, “I’m sorry.” She scurries away, through the kitchen door and out of sight. We don’t see her for the rest of the meal, and Willa pays the bill for her waffles with exact change.

  *

  The church hall seems even plainer than last time we were here. Willa and I walk in hand in hand, and once again she scoots her chair closer to mine. The porn addict sits down on her other side and offers her a smile.

  “I don’t like RedTube much either,” he whispers before Arthur calls the meeting to order. Arthur opens the session with the Serenity Prayer:

  God, grant us the

  Serenity to accept things we cannot change,

  Courage to change the things we can, and the

  Wisdom to know the difference

  Patience for the things that take time

  Appreciation for all that we have, and

  Tolerance for those with different struggles

  Freedom to live beyond the limitations of our past ways, the

  Ability to feel your love for us and our love for each other and the

  Strength to get up and try again even when we feel it is hopeless.

  That’s Eric’s favorite prayer. Don’t ask me how I know this. Arthur makes a point of welcoming Willa and I back to group, since we missed last week’s session.

  “Tell us about your week,” he says. He doesn’t address either Willa or I specifically, since we end up speaking for each other anyway.

  “She’s being indecisive.”

  “He hates the way he looks.”

  “It’s only temporary,” another girl chimes in. “Hair grows back.” She speaks to me with a gentle expression in her eyes, but it’s still Willa who replies.

  “But he’ll never look the same as he did before he got sick,” she says. “He’s a walking contradiction. He hates the fact that he’s invisible, but he hates when people notice him because the looks remind him that he’s not well.”

  My hand barely moves—just the slightest twitch of the pinkie—but she sees it and understands. Willa gives me her hand to hold.

  “Appearance is a big part of who we are,” Arthur says. “But it’s not all of who we are. The beauty of the human spirit shows in the things we do, not the way we look.” I expect him to bust out a quote from scripture, but he spares us. He speaks to the group as a whole. “Each of us here has personal struggles with self-esteem, don’t we?” He makes my problem sound like the worries of a tweenage girl.

  Willa leans over to whisper in my ear, “You’re beautiful.” Her obvious secretiveness makes Arthur turn his attention from me to her. He asks Willa if she has a difficult decision looming.

  “Not so difficult,” I say. Or at least that’s what I think.

  “Would you like to share it with the group? Get an outside perspective?” he says directly to Willa. She doesn’t even look at him. She just shakes her head and says she’s praying on it.

  “Are you really?” I say.

  Willa looks at me sideways. She’s got the shades drawn over her eyes, showing no emotion. “Yes.”

  “Talking to God helps,” Arthur encourages her. “He has a way of helping us through difficult decisions.”

  “I don’t talk to God,” Willa says. “I talk to the dead.”

  “You lost your sister, yes?”

  “Among others. There was a friend…” She shrugs. “I don’t know when he died, but he didn’t have long to live when I last saw him.” She never told me about that. Arthur encourages her to pray directly to God, or at least to a saint, and then moves on to another group member. I wonder if I should be worried that Willa is talking to Thomasina in her head. For one, it’s a little crazy. For another, she’s said a few times that Thomasina wouldn’t have liked me. These imaginary conversations do not bode well for me.

  I don’t say much for the rest of the group session. AA Boy is only six days porn-free this time. Willa claps inappropriately. Next to me, the kid with bullying issues bursts into tears during his turn, which is uncomfortable as all hell to watch. Arthur hands a box of tissues to Pothead and tells him to pass it down the circle to my neighbor. I hold out my hand to take the box, but it stops with Willa. She holds it up and raises an eyebrow at Arthur. “Really? This is the best you can offer?”

  She gets out of her seat and gives the perpetual victim a hug. If there’s one thing Willa understands, it’s ostracism. The kid looks so relieved to receive a shred of commiseration that I can’t stand to look at him and have to turn away.

&
nbsp; Two of the other girls get up and join the hug. I don’t know that it’s helping, because his sniffling turns into full-blown sobs; or maybe that’s what catharsis sounds like.

  “Now, now, don’t crowd him,” Arthur says. “Give Michael some room to speak.”

  Willa is a little busy, so I answer for her. “Arthur, shut the fuck up.”

  *

  After group Willa walks Michael to his car. He’s not such a bad guy, it turns out. I leave them in the parking lot to use the bathroom before the long drive home, and when I come back out Willa is nowhere to be found. Her car is still here, so at least I know she didn’t leave without me.

  I try the parish hall, but the doors are already locked. I check the church, but the pews seem to be empty and so is the side chapel. I knock on the door to the ladies washroom, but there’s no answer and when I open the door a crack I can see that the lights are off. I try calling her cell but she doesn’t answer.

  “Fine, be difficult.”

  I find Willa down in the cemetery, sitting on the flower in the center of the labyrinth. She’s fascinated with that thing. Her legs are crossed and her elbows rest on her knees, holding up her chin. She’s a million miles away. I cross the stones to crouch down in front of her.

  “Hey.”

  “You cheated,” she says of my stroll across the labyrinth.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I didn’t want to let him drive away,” she admits. “People like him end up on the six o’clock news for killing themselves.”