Opposite of Always

by Justin A. Reynolds

  “Later, I promise,” she says. Her face brighter, like a bulb’s been replaced in her eyes.

  “So.” I hold up a plastic grocery bag. “I know it’s not exactly Froot Loops, but I come bearing gifts.”

  “My hero!”

  “It’s just leftovers from the party.”

  “Oh my God! Your parents’ party! Damn. I feel awful. You should be with your family. Not here.”

  “Don’t feel awful. The party’s over, anyway.” I rifle through the bag. “Nothing too fancy. Some modestly tasty sweet-potato casserole. And, uh, spinach lasagna. I hope you don’t mind it’s a middle piece. It’s pretty good, but I’m not sure about the cheese blend, so, yeah. Oh, and some fairly awesome anniversary cake. Which, you know, pairs perfectly with chocolate hospital shake.”

  “Oh, Jack. You are scoring lots of points right now, kid.”

  “It’s an end piece, too.”

  She claps her hands together. “You brought me an end piece? Extra icing?”

  “Extra icing,” I say. “You think I’d show up if I didn’t have extra icing for you?”

  We sit there, silent. Not because we don’t have anything to talk about. Because we have everything to talk about.

  Kate tries to smile, tries to discreetly brush away the tears pooling between her nose and eyes. “Talk about terrible timing. Gosh, I’m such a loser. Your parents’ special day, you shouldn’t be stuck here.”

  “I’m not stuck.” I lift my feet off the ground, one at a time, high enough for her to see over the bed rail. “My feet work fine. See?” I spin in a small circle.

  “Well, whaddya know? They do.”

  I set a folding chair beside her bed. “So, what do you want to talk about? The upcoming election? FEMA? Should I tell you a story?”

  “No. No. And depends. What kind of story?”

  “I’m thinking boring, run of the mill, garden variety, happy ending.”

  She pulls her blanket up. I fix her pillow. She looks small in this bed, pale brown against the stark white sheets.

  “I like boring,” she says. “Boring’s good.”

  “Well, good, because you’re looking at the most boring storyteller ever.”

  “My lucky day.”

  I take her hand; her fingers are cold. I hear the hiss of oxygen rushing into her nose. I smell the bitterness of alcohol swabs. I smile at her. Everything’s going to be okay, I tell myself.

  “I had the craziest dream last night,” she says.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yep, you were this great novelist, no surprise there. And one of your books was turned into a play. And I don’t think you were expecting me to be there, so I sat in the crowd by myself, and I was so happy though. Just being there. Watching something you’d made. And when it was over, I waited for you outside. And then you came out and you were walking toward a group of friends, and I said, ‘Psst. Hey, Jack Attack.’ And I could tell just by the way your head moved, even with your back to me, that you knew it was me. And you turned and smiled. And you walked over to me, our eyes locked, and . . .”

  She stops.

  “Then what happened?”

  “And then the dream completely shifted and suddenly I was turning into a car. Like a transformer. It was awesome. I was a fire-engine-red car with tinted windows and a roll cage.”

  I bust out laughing. “You’re the real writer in this relationship.”

  She shakes her head. “I wanted to apply for the position of muse. If the job’s still open?”

  “It is,” I say. I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back. Our own Morse code.

  “Where did I find you?” I ask her.

  “On some crappy, piss-stained stairs.”

  “Best stairs ever.”

  “Best stairs ever,” she repeats. She breaks our gaze, looks toward the curtain. It’s dense. But she looks at it as if she can see through it. Maybe she can. Maybe she’s been at this place, at places like this, enough times to know what’s on the other side.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If something happens, I want you to remember me—”

  I cut her off. “Don’t. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “Stop.” She squeezes my hand again. “Listen to me.”

  I nod, because if I talk my voice will break.

  “I want you to remember me . . . not as a sick black girl with chicken legs from some no-name suburbs. I want you to remember me like this, right now. The moonlight over your shoulder, stretching against the night, the stars fluttering. Remember me like this. The rain slanting, the fog rolling. The street-lights flickering on. Every time you feel or see another evening like this, I want you to think of me smiling, laughing at you. Remember me, remember us, as a time of day.”

  I start to speak, but nothing comes out. Just the faint pucker of my lips opening and then closing.

  The nurse enters, offers Kate IV pain medication, warns me that it’ll make her sleepy, that the best thing I can do for her is to let her rest.

  And I want to do all the best things for Kate.

  Except the only thing I know is that I don’t know what’s best for Kate. My mind revs a thousand revolutions a minute, but I’m getting nowhere.

  So I sit quietly, watch Kate’s eyelids flutter until she drifts to sleep.

  “Jack,” she says, just before her eyes close for good.

  “I’m here.”

  “Tell Franny I’m sorry about Mighty Moat. I owe him a concert.”

  I take her hand. “I think he’ll live.”

  And her lips curl upward into something not quite a smile, but close.

  When her mom comes back and hands me a coffee, I sip it, and it doesn’t matter that it tastes like it came from a pot made days ago; it’s just something to do while Kate rests. While I sit, waiting for what’s next.

  When the coffee’s gone, her mom squeezes my shoulder. “Jack, go home. I’ll have her call you when she wakes up.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask her.

  She nods. “Mr. Edwards is on his way up here. We’ll be fine.”

  I start to argue. But I hug her instead, the way I should hug my own mother more. Then I hover over Kate, hesitating before pressing my lips to her forehead. She doesn’t move. “Good night, my favorite time of day,” I say.

  I cut the headlights. My house is dark and still, deflating balloons twirl against our mailbox. In a few hours it’ll be daylight. It’s odd—you put so much time and energy into something, and then it’s over, a new thing already forming in its place.

  Inside I trip over my trumpet case. So much for sneaking into bed.

  But it doesn’t matter, because my parents are waiting for me in the kitchen.

  “Jack,” Mom whispers, like she’s afraid I’ll combust if she uses one decibel more than necessary. She studies my eyes. “How is she?”

  “She’s going to be okay,” I tell them.

  “What happened? What’s wrong with her?” Dad asks.

  “I’m not sure. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Well, glad she’s okay. That’s what matters. You should call Jillian and Franny,” Mom says. “They’re worried.”

  “They left?” I ask.

  “I drove them home a bit ago,” Dad says.

  I nod. “I’m sorry I cut out so quick without telling you.”

  But they’re all head-shaking and tsking.

  “Don’t be sorry,” they tell me. “You did the right thing, Jack.”

  Upstairs, I shoot Franny a text to let him know all is well, that I’ll see him in the morning. Jillian calls me as I’m climbing into bed and we make plans to go to the hospital together tomorrow.

  I pull my flannel sheets up, thinking about everyone in my life, my family, my friends; I think about Kate snug in her hospital bed, and yes, I’m absolutely afraid—of the future, of the unknown, life’s nasty twists and unexpected turns—but also I realize that I’m incredibly lucky, to have so many, and so much. I wonder how I got to be
so lucky.

  I fall asleep trying to figure it out.

  Kate’s ringtone wakes me up from dead sleep.

  I reach for the phone. It’s 3:37 in the morning. I clear my throat before I answer. “Hey, you, how was your nap?”

  “Jack, I’m so sorry to call you so late.”

  The voice sounds like her, but it’s not Kate. And I know something’s wrong.

  “Jack, are you there?” her mom says. “She’s gone, Jack. Kate’s gone.” And I don’t hang up. I don’t even move the phone away from my lips. But I don’t talk either. What is there to say, except why did everyone lie to me? Kate’s mom. The nurse. Kate.

  She just needs rest. You just need rest, they said.

  Why are all of them liars?

  And I think, she must’ve known. If something happens, she’d said.

  And I hate the moon.

  I hate the stars. I hate the darkening sky. And rain and fog. I hate hospitals. And beds with sheets. And every machine ever made. And nurses and doctors. Keep her alive, that was the one thing they had to do. That was the one thing I had to do. And I hate myself most of all. My terrible lies. You’re going to be okay, I told her. I had no right. I wasn’t right. I was the worst wrong.

  “I’m on my way,” I finally say. But I’m not even sure Kate’s mom is still there. I stumble out of bed, slip on jogging pants, wedge my feet into old sneakers, and race for the stairs. But my head is foggy, and the landing is dark, and I miss the first step.

  I slip headfirst down the stairs. My hands lash out at the wall, at the railing, but my fingers slip away and I can’t stop my fall. Nothing slows me. My body snaps against every stair. And I tumble. And I thud. Until it finally stops. I can’t breathe. The air knocked from my chest. I can’t think. Thoughts rattle in my head.

  “Jack, are you okay? Jack? Jack!”

  Someone is screaming at the top of the stairs. But I don’t recognize the voice. Maybe Mom. Maybe Dad. It could be God for all I know. The hall light snaps on, and my instinct is to shield my eyes except I can’t move my arms. I can’t even wiggle my fingers. And I hear wood creaking. And panicked voices. “Call an ambulance! Call 9-1-1! Jack! Jack!”

  And then the worst pain ever.

  Like my head’s an ice cream carton, and someone’s attempting to scoop out my brain, one thinly curled spoonful at a time.

  And then a shrill of feedback blasts between my ears and I know this is the end.

  Good night, evening. Good night, world.

  Good night, Jack. Good night.

  So Sequels Usually Suck But . . .

  Do You Believe in Life After Love?

  Death isn’t like I’d expect.

  My life isn’t zooming past my eyes. Maybe whoever’s running the projector decided to spare me the boredom.

  There’s no vast sea of inescapable blackness.

  I don’t feel weightless: like I’m drifting but going nowhere.

  Death, it turns out, feels a lot like waking up.

  Which, considering that a moment ago I was asteroiding down a flight of stairs, coming to a stop only because my brain smacked against the landing, waking up at all (even in the deathly sense) feels like a major win.

  Still, I suppose heaven wouldn’t be the worst welcome back to consciousness, Jack, we missed you present. But I figure a hospital bed is more probable. So, when I open my eyes, I’m not sure what awaits.

  Sterile, white walls, maybe.

  Crisp, artificial light illuminating me.

  My parents draped over my bed.

  But that’s the thing about expectation. Most times it’s just a setup.

  Because instead I get peeling, yellowed wallpaper.

  Cheesy disco lights.

  And loud music.

  Only it’s not a choir of beautiful angels strumming harps.

  This is sticky, thumping bass.

  There are voices, too. Except it’s not my parents.

  Or someone directing me to walk toward the light.

  These voices are young, carefree, celebratory. These voices careen around the room with abandon, with energy.

  Someone is complaining that no one makes real music anymore. And whoever he’s talking to agrees. Hell yes, she shouts.

  I touch my head. Although I just played wall-seeking human torpedo, I’m not bleeding.

  All my senses appear intact. I think I’m alive.

  I’m alive.

  My eyes are blurry, but it’s clear that I’m sitting on stairs.

  Only this isn’t my house. And these aren’t my stairs.

  Certainly not the ones I kamikazed down.

  But I know this house. This horrible wallpaper. These warped stairs. I’ve been here, in this exact spot. Once. Months ago. Except this is impossible. I hit my head harder than I thought. I must be in a coma.

  Or maybe I got it wrong. Am I . . . the opposite of alive?

  I touch my chest, my legs. Everything’s solid.

  I slap my face. It stings.

  But it doesn’t make sense. Maybe this house is a processing station, a place to hang out while God or whoever reviews my paperwork?

  But if this place is even remotely associated with heaven—and I don’t mean to sound ungrateful if it is—it’s wholly underwhelming. The music and lights, how many curse words I’ve heard in the last forty seconds—doesn’t scream heavenly abode. Not that I’ve given much thought to heaven. Or dying, for that matter.

  In fact, the only mention of God comes from a kid shouting at the TV across the room.

  “Oh my God, get a damn rebound. They’re getting destroyed on the glass,” he says to the taller kid standing beside him.

  The announcer has zero chill. “This would be the UPSET OF THE YEAR!”

  The taller kid shakes his head. “They’re not going to have any momentum heading into the tourney.”

  Wait, I know this game. I’ve seen this game. State goes on a frantic late run and wins with an off-balance three at the buzzer. I remember because Franny talked about it for days afterward.

  I scan the room again. I’ve seen these people.

  Plunging V-Neck Sweater Guy.

  Hello Kitty Tat Girl.

  It’s exactly the same as four months ago.

  And even before I look into the kitchen, I know who’s there. Leaning against the counter, surrounded by a swarm of people, my best friend.

  Jillian.

  We meet eyes and she waves. Without thinking, I raise my cup to her, tilt my head. She smiles and I feel it, a thunderbolt to the brain, like always. She motions for me to join her. But before I can get my feet under me, I hear the one voice I was sure I’d never hear again. I look back, and the owner of the voice is shaking her head like every second that she’s forced to wait for me to move out of her way is another second of night-ruining agony, and she says those magical I’ll never forget them first words:

  “Excuse me, man, but you’re sort of damming up the steps.”

  I officially understand the meaning of stunning.

  This is stunning. I am stunned.

  Except, surprisingly, my gross motor skills are largely functioning. I rocket to my feet.

  “What are you doing here?” I exclaim. My body already leaning in for the World’s All-Time Tightest and Most Meaningful Embrace.

  Only she jerks away, makes an eww gross face. The same face I’ve seen her make at twelve-legged, eight-eyed bugs. “What the hell, man?”

  I laugh. “What, do I smell like death?” I raise my arms for a quick pit check.

  Kate looks beyond confused. Bewildered, even. But she sniffs anyway. “Maybe, but in general, I don’t make it a practice to go around hugging strange boys.”

  “Strange boys? I’m hardly—have you been drinking the punch, because I’m pretty sure it’s spi—”

  But then it hits me.

  Hello Kitty girl.

  The basketball game.

  You’re damming up the steps.

  She’s not pretending. She genuine
ly has no clue who I am.

  We haven’t exchanged emails.

  She hasn’t stood me up for prom.

  My parents’ party hasn’t happened.

  We haven’t even shared a bowl of cereal.

  We are, in every way, history-less.

  This is the beginning beginning.

  We are, once more, perfect strangers.

  Well, not exactly perfect. I still know her. I still almost-love her.

  But she doesn’t know me. And judging by the face she’s giving me, she’s a million miles from love, even the almost kind.

  We stand there, awkwardly, until she clears her throat and I realize that the only reason she’s still in front of me is because I’m impeding her descent.

  I squish myself against the grimy, floral wallpaper. “Oh, I’m sorry!”

  “Nice to meet you, Sorry.”

  “No, my name isn’t sorry. . . .”

  She laughs. “Is this your first human-to-human interaction? Or are you always this uneasy?”

  And I want to touch her. If only to be sure she’s real. “Only when the other human is special.”

  She smiles. “So, I must be really special then?”

  “The specialest.”

  She bats her eyes. “I bet you say that to all the other humans.” She takes another step down. “Well, I’ll see you around, Sorry.”

  “Cool,” I say. I wave inexplicably hard at her, like I’m her mom watching her climb onto the school bus for the first time. “It was nice to meet you.” Again, I think to myself.

  “Yeah, you, too.” She grins. “I think.”

  “Hey, wait,” I call after her. But my voice is swallowed by the festivities.

  And then she’s gone, absorbed by the mass of partygoers.

  As for me, I’m stationary on the stairs, which, incidentally, don’t smell so pissy anymore.

  And you could’ve told me you’ve solved global warming.

  Or that you’d actually found Park Place and won the McDonald’s Monopoly grand prize.

  And I wouldn’t have heard you.

  Because Kate. She’s alive.

  Jillian is at my side. She pops a chip into her mouth. “Hey, J. Having fun?”

  How did she get to the stairs so quickly? But then I realize I’ve apparently abandoned the stairs and floated into the kitchen. I’m using floated loosely here, which I feel the need to explain since somehow I’ve traveled back in time, and so I couldn’t blame you for interpreting floating as me being a ghost or whatever.