Part Of The List

by Xavier Neal

  Desperation fills my voice. “I do...I have too.”

  She motions her hands down the hall that appears endless. “Let's get going then.”

  “Where exactly are we going?”

  “A little stroll through your mind. Kinda like a yellow brick road of memories to get to Oz or in this case an actual conscious state.”

  I take a step further into the white hallway and let my eyes roam around the countless doors. Unsure of where to start, I give her a questioning look only to receive a shrug. Obviously my subconscious doesn't know either. What good does that do me?

  With a heavy breath, I turn to the door on my left and twist the knob to enter.

  James and I rush in through my front door still laughing.

  “Mom!” Jessica, my big sister shouts. “Bailey's all muddy!”

  Before I have a chance to wipe it away, my mom comes flying around the corner with her mouth wide open. “What were you two doing?!”

  “We were just riding bikes,” I try to explain as my mom sends Jessica to grab towels. “And then it started to rain. And then we fell in the mud.”

  She gives me a look like she doesn't believe me. “Bailey...”

  “We fell in the mud a lot?”

  Her eyes move to James who immediately says, “We had a mud war with Jacob and Adam! We won!”

  My head falls forward. I can't believe he told her!

  “Bailey Brian Cooper,” she fusses, using the towel to wipe it out of my eyes. “You know better!”

  I shrug.

  Jessica offers the towel to James who instantly wipes his face.

  All of a sudden, the sound of my dad's truck pulling into the driveway grabs my attention. For some reason, my mom's face changes as does my sisters. The two of them give each other a strange look I don't remember seeing before.

  There's a shake in my mom's voice. “James, how far do you live again?”

  “Around the corner,” he says quickly.

  “I'm gonna have Jessica walk you home, okay?”

  “Can't he stay for dinner?” I ask.

  “No,” my mom says, quickly wiping as much mud off of him as possible.

  “But he never gets to stay for dinner.”

  She gives me a sad look seconds before the door opens.

  “Wooooo,” my dad says shaking the droplets off of him. “It's raining cats and dogs out there.”

  “Why isn't it cows and chickens?” I joke making James laugh.

  My dad shakes his head at me, ruffles my muddy hair, and says, “Because we're not on the ranch.”

  Sometimes I miss my grandpa’s ranch. We lived in the guest house he had until right before Kindergarten. There was so much room to run. Plus, Jessica almost never found me during hide and seek. While we lived there mom never let us have friends over, saying they all lived too far away. She never let them spend the night either. That bothered Jessica more than me. Mom says that’s part of the reason we moved into this house. So we could have friends. Be around other kids. I know the other part was she wanted to get away from Grandpa. I don’t think she likes him very much. He tries not to show it but he really doesn’t like mom very much. He was always telling her to cook something or bring him something. Didn’t like when she would spend the day in the city with her friends leaving dad to watch us instead of her. I don’t think we’ll see grandpa much now since we moved. Dad still works closer to where grandpa lives so he spends most of the week there. It’s okay though. I’ll be happy if we never visit. I don’t like the other parts of his ranch. Like the weird flags he had hung or the weird cross thing with the red rain drop.

  Dad gives my friend James an unhappy look and then immediately turns to my mom. He doesn't say anything, but she stutters out, “Jessica's walking him home now.”

  “Good,” he mumbles. With his eyes on my sister, he commands, “Make it quick.”

  Jessica grabs an umbrella from the holder and says, “Come on, James. I'll walk you home very fast.”

  James offers my mom the towel, but my dad grunts, “Keep it.”

  I wave to James and watch him leave with my big sister. When the door shuts, I look up at my dad. “How come mom never lets James stay for dinner?”

  “Because he doesn't belong having dinner with us.”

  “What?” I ask as my mother yanks off my messy shoes.

  “Let it go, Bailey,” she quietly commands.

  “Why not? Does he eat different food?”

  “Let it go,” her voice shakes during the demand.

  “Probably fried chicken,” he mutters and my mom seems to look like she's in pain.

  “I love fried chicken!”

  He gives me a short smile. “Not the same way he does.”

  I don't understand. How can people love fried chicken in different ways? Maybe for different reasons?

  “Enough.” Her hand sweetly lands on my face and she repeats, “No more, Bailey. Don’t even say his name while your father is home. Don’t even think about him. Do you understand me?”

  I shut the door sharply and snap, “Why did I see that?” When there's no answer, I turn to look at Emma who is leaning on the wall beside me. “Why the hell was that important? How's that gonna get me back to Kennedy?”

  “You ever notice, even back then, your mother and sister were afraid of him? How even then you weren't? How, even as a five-year-old, you were brave? You didn't know the reason he didn't want your friend James to stay over, but you needed an answer. You needed to know why Adam could come over but not James. You needed to know what made one okay but not the other. You wanted a reason you could understand and you were ready to fight for it to be fair. You never saw James the way your father did. You only saw him for who he was. Even when your father stormed into your bathroom that night reeking of booze and grabbed you so hard it bruised your freshly washed skin, you still didn’t believe there was something about James you shouldn’t like. You remember the way he shook you? The way your mother came into your room shortly after with a bruise on her own face, but refused to hold you while you cried about yours?”

  My voice is unsteady. “What’s your point?”

  “That you never saw James for the color of his skin. Even when your father abused you as he explained why you needed to stay away from him. You still never saw him for the difference in his skin the same way you've never seen Kennedy that way. You’ve always only seen her for the woman who knew how to make you laugh. Who was there when you needed to cry. For the better person she made you wanna become.”

  I run my hands through my hair.

  Why would I see her for anything else? She didn't choose her brown skin any more than I chose my white one. She didn't ask to be born into a world that made her feel less adequate for having curves instead of straight lines. I didn't ask to be born to a man whose hatred is in his marrow. Who can barely have a conversation without racist undertones. Who disowned his own son.

  “Try another door,” Emma encourages.

  I wander away from the memory, hesitant to open another. Suddenly, there's a familiar sound from behind one of the doors to my right. My body effortlessly gravitates towards the noise. Once it's finally located, I press my ear to the wood, and shut my eyes, instantly lost in the memory.

  “That's the worst British accent ever,” Emma complains tossing a pillow at me.

  “It was killer!”

  “You’re gonna be killed by some angry Brits if they ever hear that again,” she gags. “Now move! We wanna watch Austin Powers!”

  I laugh, pick up the pillow, and move to the empty spot beside Kenny on the floor. “I'm in.” Her eyes turn to meet mine. They seem to be sparkling. Hell, they always seem to be sparkling when she looks at me. I pray every night that someday it'll be only me who makes her eyes do that. God answers prayers right? “I'm staying the night over, are you?”

  With a giggle, she says, “Probably.”

  “If not, I'll walk you home.”

  Emma huffs and reaches for the remote.
“She lives across the street, Bailey. It’s not like she's gonna get lost.”

  “If she did, she could always just follow the sound of your annoying whine to get back here,” Thomas teases, plopping down on the couch behind us, next to his sister.

  She grumbles an insult back spurring the fifth spat of the day. Some days they fight more often than others. This is definitely one of them.

  Looking deep into my girl’s eyes, I firmly promise, “I'll never let anything happened to you, Kenny.”

  Kennedy giggles again and tugs the pillow between us. “Does that include not letting me get too cold?”

  “You want a blanket don't you?”

  Her face lights up as she nods.

  I glance over my shoulder at Thomas. With a simple nod his direction, he tosses me the extra throw, and I cover the two of us up. Her body wedges itself tightly against mine, rib to rib, before she lets her head fall on the pillow in front of me. The movie starts yet my attention lingers on the girl in my arms, fingers gently stroking her thin t-shirt covered back. I swear, someway, somehow, she gets even more beautiful every time I see her. It's been over a year since we first met and still, every time she walks in the room, she's all I can focus on. The worst is when I've got a girlfriend and she tries to demand we all spend time together. Most of the time it turns into a huge fight because I refuse to. That usually leads to the fight where I'm forced to choose between her and Kenny. It's always an easy choice. I'd rather give up my last breath than ever consider giving up Kenny. The only reason I even have other girlfriends is because it keeps my dad from bothering me about her. Making sure I stay away from her. If he sees me with another girl or they call my phone, it looks like I’m doing exactly what he wants. What I’m supposed to according to him. It keeps him from adding to the collection of marks he left across my body as warnings of what will happen if I don’t leave this girl alone. Now that’s something I never could do. Not in a million years. The why is hard to explain. There's just something about Kenny I know I can't live without. And I don't mean that just because her smile is pretty and her tits are phenomenal already. I mean it like something inside of me aches when she's not around. Like I'm not complete. And that pain is worse than any my dad could ever inflict.

  Kennedy wiggles, squishing our ribs together again in an effort to be even closer to me.

  I swear it's that whole Adam and Eve thing. She wasn't just made for me. She was made from me. We’re one soul split into two, constantly trying to fuse back together. Someday we'll get to be a real couple. Someday we’ll be able to do this without having to worry about which doors are closed. Without having to worry about which eyes are watching and reporting us for holding hands or standing too close together. Someday...someday, loving each other will be the only thing that matters. God, why can't that day be today?

  Emma's snickers break the trance and I stumble away from the unopened door. I turn to face her and she immediately surrenders her hands. “Sorry. Didn't mean to break up the moment. I just didn't realize how cheesy you sounded back then.”

  My eyes lower to a glare. “It wasn't cheesy.”

  “Oh, it had all the makings of a John Hughes movie.”

  “It…It did not.”

  “You’re not even gonna question the John Hughes reference?”

  “You’re a chick. Of course not.”

  “I’m your subconscious.”

  Even in death she's got the kind of attitude that can drive me crazy.

  “You’re my subconscious version of the pain in the ass little sister Emma always was. I.E. The reason you can make the reference and it has no direct reflection on my own personal movie taste.”

  She pushes her hands together and sways them back and forth. “Like 50/50.”

  I never wanted a little sister because as far as I was concerned I had one. Thomas and I were brothers and a little too sassy for her own good, Emma, was our sister. And Kennedy, Kenny was the love of my life...IS. IS the love of my life. I’ve gotta keep that straight. I'm gonna make it the hell out of here. I am.

  “Self-pep talk over?” Emma questions, rocking on her knee-high boot covered heels. “You've got a shit ton of doors and honestly? Not that much time...”

  I give her a slow nod before asking, “So I don't even have to open the doors? I just leaned against that one and was taken back in time.”

  She smirks. “They don't even have to be doors. Watch this.” Emma snaps her fingers and the ground is covered in holes that remind me of the whack a mole game. “We can also swim through caves or climb a mountain if you want.”

  A look of frustration jumps on my face. “What the hell is the point of this again?”

  “That you keep moving,” she encourages. “The longer you keep going, the more important moments you recall, the more you make your body fight to make new ones, the better your odds. The brain is the strongest, most miraculous organ in the body. Show it how badly you wanna live. Prove to me you're not a liar. That you’ll give your last breath to get back to Kennedy. Because I gotta tell you, that's a real possibility right now.”

  Kennedy

  “He's not brain dead,” Dr. Phillips announces as if impressed by the knowledge. I would understand if he was. He wasn’t exactly hit just once with a brick. “There actually seems to be an increased amount of brain activity today.”

  My eyebrows lift in longing. “Does that mean he's going to wake up? Does that mean his chances of waking up have increased?”

  Dr. Phillips struggles for the best way not to destroy the unmistakable hope I'm trying to hold on to. “Not necessarily, Mrs. Cooper. As of right now, all I can say is, whatever it is you're doing, keep doing it. Something....Something is causing a positive change and the positive change could result in more positive changes. I'm not saying that they will, I'm just saying that they aren't harming him. Do you understand?”

  I nod slowly. Maybe the power of positive thinking is more than just some hippie science my parents saw on Oprah. Maybe it has actual merit. Maybe crossing through some of our fonder moments yesterday helped. The last thought pushes me to ask, “Do you think he can hear me? Do you think he could possibly be listening to us when we’re in there talking?”

  “It has been documented in cases where a loved one’s presence was felt or heard. Others? Others recall nothing. There have also been some proven case studies where the abundance of positive words and encouragement spoke caused a positive shift in the recovery from a coma. However, there are more studies that prove there has been no effect. At this time, Mrs. Cooper, I have to say, the most important thing for you to do is to make sure you are tending to your health and peace of mind as much as you are to your husband’s. The last thing you want is to make yourself sick and end up in a position where you cannot be at his side.”

  His words make sense yet they don't. How on earth could I give a shit about my own wellbeing when my husband, the love of my life, my daughter's father is fighting for each breath? How the hell could anyone be so selfish as to think about themselves when someone they love potentially might not make it another day?

  Once he's disappeared down the hall into another patient's room, I slip back into Bailey’s, instantly relieved and saddened at the sight of him unmoved.

  Things could be worse. The doctor could've reported that after three days, his body has stopped fighting. That we need to discuss the next step. That according to the paper I read while waiting for him in surgery, I might have to make the decision to have him live brain dead in a vegetative state or unplug him to set him free. Today could’ve been the day I had to tell my daughter that Daddy is sleeping, but never going to wake up. I know it's a shitty way to put it all in perspective, but the truth is someone in this very hospital is facing that reality right now. Thankfully, it's not me.

  I brush his hair off his forehead. “You need a haircut, baby.” My fingers toy with the strands at the same time I helplessly smile. “You always love when you come home from getting your hair cut and I run
my fingers through it. Remember the first time I did it?”