by Xavier Neal
“Hey,” Bailey calls to me as I reach for a grocery sack in the trunk of my mother's car.
I pause but don't turn around. We've barely seen each other over the past couple of months. After witnessing his make out session firsthand and then a non-stop afternoon of it, I decided it would be better not to be around him. Only thing worse than having your dream guy hook up with someone else is watching him do it right in front of you, shamelessly. I swear that afternoon is stuck on some sort of instant nightmare rewind and replay feature in my brain. It crosses my mind at least once a day unless of course I am having a terrible day in which it then plays up to four times. Thankfully, Emma has had no problem spending our days over here and removing ourselves from the kingdom of terror known as Addie.
His face leans around my body so our eyes can connect. They look slightly sad. Almost like a puppy in desperate need of a home. The blue color that’s usually so bright when I’m around seems to be covered by an unpleasant gray tint. “Hey?”
“Hi,” I whisper, clutching the brown sack closer. His mouth moves, preparing to say something, but I interrupt. “I need to get these inside.”
To my surprise, he lets me disappear into my house where my mother has parked herself at the kitchen table on the phone. From what I can overhear, my aunt has had another break-up, and needs to be talked down off the ledge of cathood.
I drop the bag on the counter and she mouths her thanks for taking over the chore.
As soon as I'm back in Bailey's sights, his smirk tries to expand, the slight discoloration on his jaw more noticeable with the sun hitting it. “Hey...”
Slightly annoyed he's still waiting around, I huff, “We already said hey.”
“Technically you said hi.”
I don't bother smiling.
“Wow,” he says and gives the back of his neck a scratch in discomfort. “You used to love playful stuff like that.”
“Yeah. Well. I used to love a lot of things.”
My confession startles him.
To say that I am completely over him or whatever it was I thought I felt for him would be an obvious lie. I hate lying. I hate being a part of lies. Plus, my parents take the importance of honestly to the extreme, which makes it even more difficult for me to lie.
Rather than continue that conversation, I motion my hand. “Can you move, please? I need to finish taking those into the house.”
Bailey takes a step back, grabs almost all of the remaining bags in his arms in one swift motion, and asks, “Can we talk after we drop these off?”
I grab the last two. “If you can make it fast. I've got...” The urge to lie and tell him I’ve got plans is on the tip of my tongue. I don't. But sitting in my room flipping channels or watching movies is definitely a better idea than listening to his hot and heavy summer with his real-life Barbie doll. “…things to do.” Not a complete lie. My parents bought some new movies on their latest Best Buy date and most likely I wanna watch at least one.
The two of us walk into my house and immediately unload the groceries beside the others.
My mother covers the receiver. “Hey, Bailey! Good to see you!”
“You too, Mrs. Russell.”
“You haven’t been by in a while. Wanna stay for dinner? We’re having stuffed baked potatoes. You’re more than welcomed to join us.”
“I-”
“He can’t,” I quickly interrupt. “He was just leaving.”
Bailey swallows his prepared reply and replaces it with, “I have plans tonight with Thomas, but maybe next time.”
“Sure,” she waves a friendly hand at him, “you know you’re always welcomed here.”
If she knew he was caught sucking face like a blow fish with some blonde girl and basically broke my heart a couple months ago, I doubt she’d be so inviting. Ugh. That’s definitely not true, even if I wish it were. She’s a total open door for everyone kind of mom. It’s the reason my family and Emma’s gets along so well. It also makes me and Emma’s drifting from her house to mine and mine to hers, so incredibly easy.
“Thanks, Mrs. Russell.”
She gives him one final grin and returns to the crisis on her hands.
Bailey follows me back to the front door where I'm prepared to brush him off, yet he grabs me by the hand to ensure otherwise.
When the door shuts behind me, he snaps, “What the hell did I do to you, Kenny?”
My body tenses in shock. He’s never used a tone like this. It’s filled with hurt and anger combined.
“I haven't seen you basically all summer. You don't come to church with Emma any more. You bail every time we invite you to the movies. You don't come to pool parties at Addie's. You don't even call me back most of the time. What's the deal? What the hell did I do to lose my girl?”
A scoff slips out. “What? Your girl? No. Your girl is at whatever dollhouse you left her at!”
Bailey folds his arms across his chest still in confusion. “What?”
I know guys are dumb but he can’t possibly be that dumb.
“You don't get to call me your girl and then five minutes later make out with Malibu Barbie in front of me!” Slightly frazzled, I snap, “And I understand! I'm not the girl you wanna date. That's fine! I get it! I don't have gorgeous hair and wear lots of make up! I'll never look like that in a bikini! I'll never be that pretty or that perfect or that slutty! I get it, but that doesn't mean I wanna waste my summer watching you slobber yours away.”
All of a sudden, he steps forward and whispers with what sounds like tears, “You’re wrong, Kenny. You don't get it.”
And I didn't. At least not right then. I didn't understand it wasn't about wanting someone who looked like her or acted like that. I mean, yes, he was a sixteen-year-old guy with hormones and a libido that was concerned with coming first and who made it happen second, but he wanted that to be me. I'd later learn they were nothing more than placeholders. Poor excuses for the girl of his dreams. Bailey didn't want the parade of women he was filtering through. He wanted acceptance. He wanted to rush the days by until he could get out of his house away from the closed-minded prison he was silently suffering in. Those girls were nothing more than cloaks to hide underneath to keep as many beatings as he could at bay.
The sudden knock on the hospital door moves my eyes from his eerily still body.
My mother's worn out face appears around it. Not sure if she’s tired from the stress of the situation or helping keep our energetic daughter occupied. “You need anything?”
I try to put on a brave face. “I'm okay, thanks. Where's Em?”
“Playing with your father. I swear she can convince that man to do anything. He's bought her like four new apps on that damn tablet in the last hour alone.”
A chortle builds. “No more. She doesn't need any more time on that thing unless she's reading.”
“She can't read yet,” my mother fusses. “She's only four.”
“Believe it or not she can read. Bailey’s been buying her those simple reading books you expect to see in Kindergarten and she loves them. She’s been reading them to him at bedtime.” My stomach tightens as the fear she’ll never get another one of those moments again becomes too real. I clear my throat and add, “She’s got a read along program on the tablet. If she keeps insisting on being on it have her at least spend time doing something educational.”
“Okay,” she surrenders quicker than she normally would. “I will go tell Grandpa no more doll apps. Just reading ones.” After a small smile, she states, “She wants to come see him.”
I shake my head. “Not now. Not like this. Not until we know....something more.”
“But the doctor said-”
“No, mom,” I snip. “I'm not giving up that easy on Bailey. This isn't the first time he's had to fight for his life. I just hope it's the last.”
She nods and quietly says, “We’ll stick around for another hour or so, in case you change your mind. Let me know if you need anything. Even if it's just some air.”
I watch as she shuts the door, leaving the two of us alone once more. My attention drags itself back to where Bailey is in critical condition, the bruises on his face knocking me back through time to the end of the summer I was just thinking about.
“Seriously, Emma,” I object with a laugh. “He wasn't that cute.”
“He was soooo that cute,” she groans her argument in route to her kitchen.
“On a scale of 1 to Justin Timberlake he was a-” The sentence fades at the sight of Bailey hunched over their kitchen sink. He spits and blood falls into the running water Thomas has turned on. I push past my best friend and race to him. “Are you okay?”
His face remains hung. He makes no effort to look my direction.
“What happened?” Emma squeaks from the other side of me.
“Nothing,” Bailey attempts to say yet his voice quivers.
“Liar,” she grunts and looks around his back at her brother. “What happened?”
Thomas' mouth drops, but Bailey quickly clears his throat and shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Emma releases another annoyed sound. “Tell me.”
“Let it go, Emma,” her brother urges.
“No,” she argues back, beginning a sibling bicker that's easy to ignore. “Don't tell me what to do!”
“Get your own life then!”
As the two of them move to better challenge one another, my hand lifts to Bailey's face. He instinctively winces and attempts to pull back, but when my caress doesn't waiver, he melts into it. Slowly, he turns his face towards me exposing a light purple color on his swelling jaw and fresh blood from his nose.
A small gasp leaves me.
“I'm fine, Kenny,” he tries to reassure in a low voice. “I swear....I'm fine.”
My fingertips softly caress the damaged area. “You are not fine, Bailey.”
Despite his obvious pain, his blue eyes soften. “I am now...”
I offer him a sweet smile, dampen a paper towel, and gently wipe away the smeared blood. Intently he watches my every move, a mixture of relief and disbelief stuck in his eyes. With every tender touch, his body releases the built-up tension until he's buckling under his own weight.
He braces himself against the sink at the same time, Emma huffs, “Well I'm gonna go get him a damn ice pack!”
“Don't cuss,” her brother scolds. “You're only fourteen!”
“Almost 15, jackass!” She sneers before stomping towards the door that leads to their garage.
Thomas growls and marches after her, muttering something that sounds big brotherly.
Finally alone, I ask, “What happened?”
He shakes his head. “Don't worry about it.”
“Bailey-”
“Just don't,” he begs harder. When his eyes plead so loud I’m afraid I’m going to go deaf, it forces my surrender. His hand lands on top of mine and he lets out a deep sigh. “I've missed the hell out of you, Kenny...”
In a teasing voice I say, “Did you get into a fight to get my attention?”
The joke doesn't break his grimace. “I got into a fight because I haven't had your attention...”
It didn't make sense right away and he didn't exactly break down to explain it. Turns out, there was more going on than I could've possibly comprehended at that time. See, while I spent the summer dreading the thoughts of the girls he was whispering sweet nothings to, assuming he had forgotten about our friendship, convinced maybe we were just going to grow apart, he spent the time apart trying to get through the pain of missing me. The pain of not having his best friend, his other half. He spent the downtime of his summer staring at old photos he had hidden in his room, desperate for answers, desperate to get back what we had. Those photos were his salvation as well as his burden. They were the reason for that set of bruises his father branded him with. His love for me could've been the death of him then, just like it might be the death of him now.
Bailey
“Daddy! Daddy! I wanna watch My Little Pony,” my little girl whines from my lap. “Pwease.”
“No,” her twin brother argues from beside my feet. “Batman!”
“Pony!”
“Batman!”
I simply smirk at the argument until there's a tap on my shoulder. When I turn my head, Emma, our eight-year-old, says, “Dad, aunt Emma wants to talk to you.”
My head tilts in curiosity. “Your aunt Emma?”
Her namesake died before she was even born. In fact, Emma was actually conceived the night of the funeral. It seemed only fitting to name our first born after the woman who brought us together not once, but multiple times throughout our lives as if it was her only job to ensure we would end up together.
“Dad,” Emma urges sweetly. “She's waiting.”
“What? Waiting? Waiting where?”
She points. “There.”
My eyes follow her finger, terrified at the sight of the woman waiting by the stairs. She gives me a small smile and motions her head for me to come over. Carefully, I move my three-year-old out of my lap and state, “Sit with your brother and sister for me, okay?”
“Do I have to?” She whines. “Where’s mom?”
The question doesn’t faze me as I start to move towards what has to be a look alike, sent here to spook me. “I don’t know. I think in her office working. Just sit with them, please. This should only take a minute.”
“Okay,” she caves and bounces around to flop on the couch beside her sister.
I drop a kiss on the top of her head and cautiously move towards the woman.
The moment I arrive in front of her, her grin grows. “You look really good for a guy with three kids.”
“You look good for a woman who's been dead for...” the amount of time starts to roll off my tongue yet I stop. She's been dead for almost five years, but if that's true then how is my daughter eight? And when did we have the twins? And...and....and why can't I remember their names? Why can't I remember my children’s names?!
Her expression softens.
“Am I....” the sentence clogs my throat.
“Not yet,” she answers flatly. As soon as my jaw cracks open, she continues, “You know they say, right before you die, your entire life flashes before your eyes. I call bullshit. It’s different for everyone. Like you, for instance. You’re seeing the life you were expecting to live.” She tosses her head over my shoulder. When I turn to steal another glance of my children, I notice this time they've aged a couple of years and there's another boy. Kennedy eases herself onto the couch rubbing her swollen stomach. “Apparently, you wanted a huge family.”
“We both did.”
“Okay, but she’s a woman not a rabbit, Bailey. She doesn’t have to have a litter.”
I turn back around and argue, “I meant do.”
“What?”
“We both do want a huge family.”
She offers me a sympathetic smile. “Come on. Let's take a walk.”
I give my family another glance before following Emma up the staircase. “Why am I here?”
Emma shakes her blonde hair she had died with vibrant purple. I remember the way it seemed like a splash of life even after her death. I remember the way Thomas insisted they bury her with matching making up, so she would stand out next to the other angels. I remember the purple we all wore in solidarity at her funeral. I still wear that purple shirt at least once a year in remembrance of that day as well as her life.
“I'm not dead yet,” I state firmly.
Emma reluctantly nods. “Right. But it's complicated. A phrase you are very well versed at using.”
I ignore the remark. “What does that even mean? And what are you? And where the hell am I? Am I in some sort of purgatory? Am I-”
“Totally ruining the speech I had prepared? Yes,” she snips as we reach the top of the staircase.
My arms fold across my chest.
“You’re in a coma.”
“So I can wake myself up.”
“Not q
uite.”
“Then you can wake me up.”
“Nope. Can't do that either.”
“Emma.”
“Okay, try to stay with me on this because it's going to be weird and complicated. You suffered a severe brain injury. Actually, severe is putting it mildly. The chances of you coming out of this are slimmer than my waist line.” She points to her slender hips, which are not the dangerously slim ones she died with. These are actually fuller. The ones I remember her having in college around the time her brother got married. “Right now your entire body is basically a war zone. Your organs are on the brink of failure and your brain is threatening to swell. I'm here because in your mind, in your subconscious, I've always been your tour guide back to Kennedy. So you conjured me up in your hallucinogenic state to lead you back to her. Because that's all you truly want. With everything you've got in you, you want to get back to Kennedy.”