Jonah: NO I meant like meeting parents and stuff. I assure you . . . I can hold hands the best of them. I don’t even get clammy palms. It’s genetic
Max: As always, so many questions. So you think it’ll just be lockdown lifted, we run into each other’s arms and be the normal couple who met over toilet paper what a cute story but also it was all so very awful
Jonah: Wow you really do get dark past midnight
Max: What if we are that pandemic couple Jonah? The ones that just needed a distraction and when and if we get out of this we don’t have a connection anymore because it was built on anxiety and insomnia
Jonah: That’s how I build everything. Of course it does all come crashing to the ground . . .
Max: JONAH
Jonah: Honestly, I think building a relationship during the shitty times is kind of genius. It’s like the world is on fire. I can’t even go near you, everything is terrible and . . . we’re still here. We’re texting each other at midnight because you are the one person I want to talk to when everything is terrible
Max: I truly can’t decide if that’s romantic or not
Jonah: I don’t want things to go *back to normal.* It’s not like things were perfect before. I WANT to come out of all this different, and, ideally, with you
Max: Okay that was slightly romantic. Also terribly cliche. Is that from a movie?
Jonah: Yes it is. Max and Jonah’s Infinite Essential Playlist
Max: Yeah I’m going to bed. I have to wake up at 6 am
Jonah: There’s a 6 am?
Max: goodnight
Jonah: Still on for tomorrow?
Max: Just have to pick out the right cocktail dress. Also are you sure this is a good idea?
Jonah: All required safety protocols are being implemented. Plus spare utensils. But this is going to be totally low-key. No music. No accomplices. Just a nice simple evening.
Max: All right . . .
I lie there for a while, vaguely considering some sort of healthy distraction. And then I down a whole bag of chips and watch Contagion because I am a masochistic idiot and go to bed full of salt, grease, and fear, and that always leads to a productive sleep.
I lie there and think, and I don’t know where the dreams start and the memories end. It can’t be a dream because it happened exactly like that. But it can’t be a memory because I can see it. I can feel it. I am at school and then I am in the hospital and I can smell the Lysol and taste the dry air and I can see the doctor walking toward me and I sit down. I sit down. I remember that perfectly, or dream it, because I can feel the hard plastic.
“I’m sorry,” she says. I don’t hear the rest.
Olivia is crying. My father is crying. And I am sitting, silent, staring at the wall. Someone’s touching me, hugging me, but I don’t remember who, or my dream doesn’t care, because I just remember the cream-colored wall and the sound of my dad crying. I had never heard him cry before.
And then I see her casket. I see the priest talking, but I didn’t hear him then, and I don’t now. Then she is in the ground, and I am at home, staring at the ceiling in the darkness.
No. Light is forming a halo around my blinds. It’s morning, and it came so fast, I know it was at least partly a dream. I feel bile stinging the back of my throat. Olivia wants me to plant a tree and remember. She doesn’t get it. I always remember. Today, this one annual day in particular, I need to forget.
I give myself a game plan as I crawl out of bed. It’s not the anniversary. It’s my date with Max. It’s a picnic in the park at sunset. Of course, sunset is a long way away . . . but I planned that out too. Classes all day. Clean my room because I saved that job for today and it needs it. A long run. A protracted shower. An early departure to set things up for Max. Stay scheduled. Stay busy. The thought of seeing Max gives me something to look forward to, keeps me focused on the future. I go to get breakfast and get changed and sit down for school and everything is fine.
Today is my date with Max. It’s going to be a good day.
chapter twenty-one
MAX
I’ve heard stories about people with bad gut feelings. That one person who, at the last minute, didn’t board the plane that later crashed. The woman who got weird vibes from that nice guy asking for help with his groceries who totally turned out to be a serial killer. The identical twin who knew the moment his brother was killed in a car accident.
For the record, I’ve always thought that was a load of baloney. Something I’ve been reminding myself of for the last two-plus hours.
“Hi, Mom? Just checking in. Text or call.”
“Hi, Mom? Getting your voice mail again. Can you call me back?”
“Hi, Mom? How are you feeling? Call me back when you’re up.”
“Hi, Mom?”
No answer. It’s important to remind myself what I believe. Or rather, what I don’t. I don’t believe everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe in signs. I don’t believe in having no regrets. I don’t believe in karma. I don’t believe I have a superhuman Spidey sense that something is wrong. I am not a Marvel character.
I drive my shift on autopilot, letting the comfortingly posh voice of the GPS lady tell me what to do. I think logically. That queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach is probably just indigestion, a normal response to the fact that my mother believes expiration dates are a conspiracy and last night we ate hot dogs. That tightness in my chest doesn’t mean anything other than I should really try to do cardio more than once a year. That tingle creeping up the back of my neck—
“Hi, Mom?” I try again, and get her voice mail: Sorry I missed you—
Two more grocery orders sit in my trunk. I check the map. It will take me at least thirty minutes to deliver them both. Screw it. I pull a hard U-turn.
* * *
• • •
I have a bad feeling.
It’s five o’clock. My mom’s keys are on the hook. I thought she might be on a cleaning shift at the doctors’ office plaza by now. Her laptop is closed on the kitchen table. The microwave door hangs wide open.
“Why weren’t you answering any of my calls?” I yell out because I’m suddenly sort of pissed off. We need that money. She’s the one who said so. And now where am I? Not where I should be, that’s for sure.
But the apartment is quiet. No TV on. No sound of my mother talking on the phone. Just the buzz of our air-conditioning unit. “Mom?” The light’s off in her room. I flip it on. For a solid five seconds I experience a sense of relief like I’ve never felt before. Her shape is so familiar, lying with her back to me, the covers pushed down to the bottom of the bed, the wrinkles puckered on the bottom of her bare feet. Gently, I shake her shoulder. “You had me worried.” I roll my eyes, because just try to imagine if I pulled a stunt like this. She’d straight up kill me.
She doesn’t move. Her breath rattles like a lawn mower starting up. Like my rickety old car.
“Hey.” I nudge harder. “Hey.”
She stirs. Her legs bicycle-pump in her sleep and slowly, she rolls onto her back and stares up at me glassy-eyed.
“Max?” Strands of hair stick to her forehead. “What . . .” She gives up without finishing her sentence.
“Do you have a fever?” I touch her skin with the back of my hand. Heat radiates. “Hang on.” I back out of the room quickly and go to the kitchen to wash my hands and retrieve my mask from the table, which I put on for the first time ever at home. Next I rummage through the bottom cabinet of our shared bathroom, tossing aside half-used bottles of lotion, a box of tampons, Walgreens samples, and nail polish remover until I find what I’m looking for.
Back in her bedroom, I place the ancient thermometer under her tongue and command her to hold it there. Her chest swells and contracts, swells and contracts. After two minutes, I hold the thermometer up and turn it in the
light until I can make out the thin line of mercury.
Shit.
“It’s one oh four.” My tone comes out scolding.
She pinches her eyes closed. “It’ll be okay.”
“Okay? Mom. You clearly have COVID,” I say, matter-of-factly because come on.
“You don’t know that.”
Except that I do know that. “Mom,” I say. “I’ve been at work. I’ve delivered people’s groceries. I’ve been inside Vons. You’ve been at work. Cleaning doctors’ offices. Where there are sick people.” I pace, flapping the thermometer against my thigh.
“We were really careful. You’re always . . . so careful, Max.” I glance away from the look of desperation I see reflected back at me. Deep breath in, like her lungs are strapped to a massage chair set to vibrate. “Even if I do.” Exhale. “Most people . . . recover fine . . . at home.”
“We should go to the doctor.”
“I don’t need to go to the doctor.” We’ve been here before. Doctors are expensive. There are always bills that come after a doctor’s visit. Tricky ones. Ones we’re not expecting. Even with our insurance.
“You do.” I try to remember everything I’ve heard about coronavirus in the last few weeks, but it feels like a giant lake of information. I can’t hold any of it in my head.
“No.” I know she means this word to be final and that she thinks she’s giving me her scary Mauro Mom look, but really, it’s just sad.
“I’ll make you something to eat.”
I take it one step at a time. Raid the cabinets for a can of Campbell’s Rice and Stars. Turn on the stove and shake out the congealed contents. It holds the shape of the can for a solid thirty seconds. I add water and stir. For once, I don’t put in my headphones. Instead, I listen closely for the sound of her breathing. I know we don’t live in a palace or anything, but a kitchen to a bedroom is still a long way to be able to hear someone’s breathing who isn’t Darth Vader.
She eats soup. I eat nothing. Somehow two hours pass and I’m still in the clothes I wore to work. She naps. I pace. I question everything. I watch TV with the volume turned down. There are whole half hours that pass during which everything seems fine. My mom laughs. It makes her cough, but it’s still laughing, which has to be a good sign. This from the girl who still definitely, probably doesn’t believe in signs.
I slink away to call work and apologize. I get someone to restock the two deliveries still sitting in my car. My customers will be mad, but I can live with that.
“Do you need anything?” I ask just after nine, too wired to sleep yet still exhausted.
It takes my brain a moment to process what I’m seeing. My mom slouched on the floor beside her bed, her head drooped between her knees. She’s panting, panting, panting.
“I . . . can’t . . .” She wheezes, a sharp, high-pitched whine with every breath. “Breathe.” Her fingers spread out, clutching at the fitted sheet. Her eyes are wild, whites showing the entire way around her pupils. “I . . . can’t . . . breathe.” Her fingernails scratch at the carpet. She fights for air. It’s like she’s underwater.
“Mom. Try to relax.”
She’s tossing her head. Gulping. She reaches for her chest.
This time I don’t ask. I’m almost glad my mom can’t argue. I grab my phone and I’m dialing 911 before I can think through what I’m doing.
“Yes.” I press my finger into my ear, listening hard to the steady male voice on the other end of the line. “Yes, my mother. She can’t breathe.” I glance through to her bedroom and then wish that I hadn’t. “Her fever was one oh four last time I checked. . . . Yes.” I remain calm. Panic does not create solutions. My mom taught me that. “Okay . . . yes. I can do that.” I give him our address, and just as the operator asked, I unlock the door to the apartment, run a dishcloth under the faucet, and place it on my mother’s forehead. Then I wait.
My mom takes far fewer breaths than she should in the space that follows. I haven’t even told her yet. I don’t need to. Her fist pounds the floor. For the first time in more than ten years, I wish I had a dad.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say, not that either of us is listening. Sir Scratchmo meows for his food nearby. The statistics are in our favor. That’s key. Most cases are mild. Some people don’t even know they have coronavirus at all.
I really wish I were an idiot and that I could believe that nonsense. Rainbows and fluffy clouds and unicorns. But I am not that kind of girl. I know better.
When the paramedic pounds on the door, when they clomp through with face shields and latex gloves, patches sewn to their sleeves, when they Velcro the blood pressure cuff to her arm, and place a stethoscope under her shirt, when I miss all the words they say into their handset radios, when they wheel in a gurney, I am thinking one word and that word’s Arlo.
“I’m coming with her.” I trail the female paramedic, a redhead with a severe ponytail.
“I’m sorry.” She holds out her gloved hand like a stop sign. “But there are no visitors allowed.”
“But she’s my mother.”
“I understand.” Her mouth moves beneath the mask. “But no visitors. It’s protocol right now.”
I twist my fingers together and try to come up with something to say. I’ve never been good at talking my way out of anything. I have never been called “charming.”
“Let me come in the ambulance at least,” I say.
“Miss. I need you to step aside.”
Out of some preconditioned behavior, I do. “I’m a minor,” I attempt.
“Miss,” she says, this time with more emphasis. “We can call CPS on the way to have someone check on you.”
“No!” Her words shoot through me like a lightning bolt. “I’ll call someone. I—”
“Your mother is crashing. She needs to get to a hospital. Now.” It all happens so fast. And also in slow motion. Like a time warp. A galaxy wormhole. An alternate reality.
They leave the door open. Dazed, I shut it and sink onto the couch, understanding without meaning to that tonight might be the last time I see my mother alive.
chapter twenty-two
JONAH
I step out of the shower with a burst of steam, scrubbed raw and pink, smelling like a—I check the bottle—alpine breeze, and smile into the mirror because I am doing a hell of a job so far. I went to virtual school and sat at my desk and I even participated and never once left for a snack. After my last class, I went for a run and made it six miles before my apparently atrophied lungs made me choose between home or death. To cap it off, I showered far longer than should ever be allowed in the parched state of California: six reckless minutes of steaming hot relaxation.
And, most importantly, I avoided Olivia and Kate all day and no one asked me to sing “Amazing Grace” with Olivia on the bagpipes or help with a ten-cannon salute or whatever else she had planned. And now I’ve made it. It’s after dinner and I ate alone in my room and no one yelled at me. I have my picnic supplies ready to go in a basket I found in the basement, which is plastic instead of wicker but close enough. And now I get to go see Max.
Take that, brain. Make me sad and I will just run until you have no oxygen and then plan picnics. I’m vaguely aware that I am acting insane, especially given the fact that Arlo’s passing is hanging over this particular anniversary as well, but it’s kind of just making me more intent on ignoring everything. There’s just too much. I need distraction. I also realize I need a blanket. Rookie mistake, Jonah. Seriously, since I’ve never planned a picnic.
I hurry downstairs to the main linen closet, looking for something suitable.
“Plush, but not too warm,” I murmur, sorting through options. “And it has to be big. Like ten by ten. Maybe she would prefer her own blanket—”
“Jonah.”
I yelp and fall into the closet, then turn to see Olivia standing be
hind me. “What?”
“Are you leaving?”
She is wearing black. Like . . . c’mon, Olivia. You’re killing me. Black pants and a black shirt over that and a black headband. Just seeing the outfit makes me angry. This is a girl who wore the same bathrobe for two weeks straight and now she has a handy memorial outfit?
I tuck a blanket under my arm, scowling. It’s a bit coarse, but whatever. “Yes.”
“I would like you to come out. Even for ten minutes. Just for the actual planting.”
“No. Thank you.”
I start for the door. I’m a bit early, but I have to bike with the basket and the blanket and everything. I want to have it all set up when Max arrives. I do a quick inventory even though I feel Olivia staring at me.
1. Bluetooth speaker for casual but slightly emotive music
2. Various sweets and a charcuterie set for two
3. Two bottles of wine because I think meeting in the park is already a felony so why not make it two
4. A candle, which in hindsight is a terrible idea on a blanket
5. Two masks to be prudent, though I have officially decided mask kisses will never be a thing. Probably. I mean, if she leaned in for one I would totally mask-kiss her back
Nodding in satisfaction, I swing open the door and start outside.
“Do you know what my last words to Mom were?” Olivia says quietly.
I pause halfway across the porch, basket in hand. “No.”
“I told her to get out of my room.”
I don’t know what to do. I glance back at her, wondering if there will be tears, but instead, her hazel eyes are narrowed, her cheeks flushed.
“It would have been nice to work through this together. I gave you space because I knew you needed it. But with all this going on, I thought maybe we could try this year.”
I can feel something shifting in my gut. My whole day of wall-building is starting to crumble and there are dark things beyond the walls and now I am angry because I tried so hard today. I don’t want to be selfish. But when the options are to be a jerk or fall into a chasm that might not have a bottom, well, it’s pretty easy.
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