by Noir, Roxie
There isn’t a night that’s gone by without me lying in bed, thinking of him saying I want to see what you sound like when you come. It’s been almost two weeks and that memory is as potent as ever, tinged with the frustration and allure of wanting what I know I can’t have.
“Do you howl at the moon often?” I ask.
“Not any more.”
“But you did.”
“I’m not sure I should answer your questions,” he says. “You’re going to think I’m a werewolf.”
“That often?” I tease.
“It was a long time ago,” Caleb says, stretching out his arm, resting on it on his knee. “Don’t worry, I’m civilized now.”
My heart beats in my through for one, two, three.
“Are you?” I ask, my voice low, soft.
Caleb gives me a long, slow, searching look.
“When it counts,” he finally says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t howl sometimes.”
Before I can ask when he still howls, my phone buzzes in my dress pocket. Yes, this dress has pockets. All dresses have pockets.
“Sorry,” I say, as my brother Bastien’s name pops up on the screen, and I hit the red button, sending him to voicemail.
“Junk call?”
“Little brother,” I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket.
“I hear those are annoying,” he says, grinning, and I laugh.
“Sometimes he drunk dials me on the weekends,” I say. “I don’t even know why, it’s not like I’m —”
My phone buzzes again, and I sigh.
“Dammit, kid,” I mutter. “Chill.”
“He’s in school?”
“William and Mary,” I say, shoving my phone into my pocket again, hoping that Bastien moves on to drunk dialing someone else. “It’s not exactly a party hot spot, but he’s having a pretty good time with all the football players who graduate high school and then start questioning their sexuality.”
“Does he help them find answers?” Caleb asks dryly.
“He’s very helpful in that regard,” I say, then sigh, looking out the window again. “And I think he drunk dials me because I’m the only one in the family who knows he’s gay.”
“I see,” Caleb says, just as my phone buzzes one more time.
Bastien. Again. He hasn’t left a voicemail yet, just keeps calling. I flop my head against the back of this chair and sigh.
“Fine, you win,” I say aloud. “Sorry, I’ll be right back.”
Caleb just nods as I walk for the door, pulling my phone from my pocket.
“Hey, what?” I ask, facing the far wall of the room we’re in.
On the other end of the phone, there’s a long, long intake of breath, and I frown.
“Did you drunk dial me again?” I ask.
As I do, his breathing hitches, just for a moment, almost like it’s static on the line or something, but I know it’s not.
Just like that, I know something’s wrong, and a seed of fear takes root in my heart.
Bastien told Dad and now he’s disowned, I think, mind racing. He hit on some homophobe and got beat up.
On the other end of the line, my brother clears his throat.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice tight, high-pitched. I walk for a door, open it, and instead of another cozy, antique-filled room it leads outside, to a brick walkway and a wrought-iron bench. I go through it anyway, too distracted to care.
“Bastien.”
They found Javier.
No. They found Javier’s body.
“Bastien,” I say, ready to scream, shout, tear out my own hair. “Talk!”
“It’s Mom,” he finally says, his voice a ragged whisper. “She was in an accident.”
It sucks the air from my lungs, feels like the floor is opening under me.
“What?” I ask, my voice high-pitched, shaky, the words spilling out of me like floodgates have opened. “Is she okay? What happened? Was it a car accident? Did someone hit her? Was she driving? Who was in the car? Was it —"
“She’s in the hospital, Ollie,” he says, and it sounds like he’s dredging the words up from somewhere deep inside him, against their will. “They’re taking her to surgery, there was a car crash, she was coming home, we don’t know —"
He takes another long breath, and I don’t move a muscle, staring blindly at the brick walkway and the bench and a wall and a few ornamental trees.
“We don’t know,” he finished.
“Is she gonna be okay?” I ask. I know he doesn’t know, but I can’t stop myself from asking. “Tell me she’s gonna be okay.”
“I don’t know,” he whispers.
Chapter Thirteen
Caleb
It’s not your business, I tell myself, hands in my pockets as I pace in front of the window.
You’re her professor and that’s all.
I should go back to the banquet, talk to smart undergrads about the wonderful world of mathematics. I’ve already been in this dark room for too long, anyway. I don’t need anyone reporting back to Gordon that I disappeared two-thirds of the way through the banquet.
But I can’t erase her voice from my head, the way she said what is it, Bastien? then yanked the door to the outside open and practically fled the room.
I’m not psychic, but I know panic when I hear it.
And I know that she hasn’t come back inside yet. Maybe she’s still out there, talking to her brother. Maybe this door doesn’t open from that side.
I give it one more minute, then two, and then I can’t stand it any more and I pull the door open, the uneven old wood scraping over the threshold.
Thalia’s head jerks up, her face still lit from below by the glow of her phone, her cheeks streaked and smeared with black. She’s on her knees, on the grass next to an ugly bench, curled into herself, and I’m already down the uneven stone steps, already next to her, kneeling on the ground.
“What is it?”
She just shakes her head, gasping.
“Thalia,” I say. My knees are an inch from hers and I curl my hand into a fist against the ground, lean on it so I don’t reach out and touch her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, swiping at one eye with the back of her hand, her knuckles coming away streaked with black. “I’m fine, I’m sorry —”
“Bullshit,” I say, and the force of the word makes her look at me, deep brown eyes ringed with black, already puffy and swollen. “Tell me.”
Now there’s a hand cupping her cheek, a thumb wiping away tears and black streaks.
Mine? Mine.
“My mom was in a car accident,” she says, voice shaking.
It’s like my lungs are lined with lead, suddenly too heavy and stiff to let air in or out, the weight of them pulling down in my chest like it’ll sink me to the ground. Then the bolt of horror, quick, brutal, fresh every single time.
And then I make myself breathe, and it’s gone.
“Is she okay?” I ask, and I force myself to sound calm, to sound collected, like I’m capable of being in charge right now.
“No,” Thalia whispers, and she looks away, pushes at one eye with the heel of her hand, swiping black everywhere.
My heart drops like a bullet through a glass of water.
“That was my little brother,” she says, gasping for air, swallowing convulsively. “He thinks they’re taking her into surgery right now but he’s not sure, he’s in the car on the way there from school so he doesn’t really know anything, he doesn’t even know what she’s having surgery on or what kind of surgery or what happened or —"
Thalia hangs her head and a sob explodes through her, fingers tightening on the bench next to her.
“Not my mom,” she whispers. “Please.”
I pull her into me. I do it automatically, unconsciously, like I’m driven by gravity. I push her head against my chest and loop my other arm around her quaking back, and I hold her there as hard as I can, both of us on our knees, and I let her cry.
&
nbsp; And she does. She buries her head in my shirt and wraps her arms so tightly around me that I think she’s trying to break me, her breathing ragged, gasping sobs breaking through when she can’t stop them.
There’s nothing I can say, so I don’t. I close my eyes against her onslaught and I count my breaths, even and steady: in for one, out for two. In for three, out for four. I open my eyes and look up at the moon, and I don’t think of anything.
Eventually, her arms loosen, her breathing get less ragged.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, pulling away, still wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m —”
“Where is she?” I ask gently, cutting her off.
“The hospital,” Thalia says, looking down at herself. “Maybe she’s in surgery now, I don’t know —”
“Where’s the hospital?” I ask, forcing myself to stay calm.
She shoves the back of her hand against her other eye, smearing black outward toward her temple as she fumbles for her phone, clicks it on again, opens a map with shaking fingers.
“They took her to Randolph General, Bastien said, I think that’s the one at Lynnhaven and Broadway,” she says, staring down at the little screen, swiping jerkily from side to side like she can’t stop moving. “I don’t know why, he said she was closer to St. Agatha’s but they didn’t take her there, they took her to Randolph instead and he didn’t say why —”
“Thalia,” I say, softly, to get her attention before she spirals. “In Virginia Beach?”
“Norfolk,” she says, and then looks up at me, face blotchy with tears, eyes bloodshot and red. She takes a deep breath. “It’s in Norfolk. She’s all the way in Norfolk, fuck, fuck.”
I don’t think, I just speak.
“I’ll take you,” I say.
For a moment, she’s silent, no sound but her ragged breathing, her sniffles.
I rise, holding out one hand.
“Caleb, you can’t,” she says softly, looking at it.
“Yes, I can.”
“It’s a four-hour drive,” she says, looking at my hand like it’s some sort of ancient artifact, like if she touches it it’ll crumble into dust. “It’s clear across the state, I’ll borrow a car, I’ll find a bus, it’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”
“Let me take you,” I say, and I sound calm, even as my pulse is racing with remembered panic. “Please?”
“You could get in trouble,” she says, suddenly whispering.
“I know.”
She studies me for a long moment, still on her knees in the grass, her phone held limply in one hand, my arm outstretched toward her.
The knees of my suit are soaked through, grass stained, and my shirt has black smudges from where she cried against me, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.
“Okay,” she finally says, and puts her hand in mine, lets me pull her up. “Thank you.”
For a moment, we don’t let each other go. We just stand there, next to a building older than the country, sliver of a moon above, and look at each other.
I know I should say something to her, some platitude like it’s gonna be okay or your mom will be fine or I’m sure she’s a fighter, but I know better than to lie. I don’t know shit about the future. I only know about the gaping hole that’s opened underneath Thalia. I know that doing something, being in motion, will put it off for just a little longer.
Then we walk to my car, silent except for the click of her heels on pavement.
Chapter Fourteen
Thalia
I stare at the toothbrushes in the cup on the bathroom sink. I stare and I stare because I can’t figure out which one is mine.
When did I call home? Was it Sunday, or Monday?
Is it the orange one? The pink one?
What does my toothbrush look like?
What did we talk about?
My brain feels like sludge, like my IQ has suddenly dropped so many points that something as simple as a toothbrush is utterly baffling. I take a deep breath and my eyes fill with tears again because I can’t even figure out which toothbrush is mine and I can’t do anything, not one single thing to help my mom besides hope that she’s going to be okay and —
“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself, savagely, as I bend down, wrench the bathroom cabinet open, and grab a new toothbrush, still in the package.
I go back into my room, shove it into my backpack with my laptop and my phone charger and a few shirts and pairs of underwear. I’m sure there’s something else I should take but I’ve already been in my apartment, packing this bag, for a little over three minutes, and what if that three minutes makes the difference? What if I’m three minutes too late, what if she wakes up and asks for me and I’m not there, I’m three minutes away and then —
“No,” I say out loud to my dark apartment, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, glancing back at the now-dirty dress that I tossed on my bed, the heels haphazardly kicked off next to it. “No. Come on.”
I leave. I close the door, lock it, barrel down the stairs. Caleb’s car is still there, waiting in front, and I practically throw myself into the passenger seat.
“All right?” he asks, putting it into gear.
“All right,” I say, and we pull away from the curb.
Then I realize I left something behind. Without thinking I pull the door handle and the car door swings open, nearly hitting the parked sedan next to us.
“Whoa!” Caleb shouts, slamming on the brakes. “Thalia, what —"
“I forgot something,” I say, already running back to the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time. I drop my keys twice as I’m unlocking the door, practically counting the seconds because this is two more minutes, and what if five minutes is the difference between seeing my mom one last time and —
The door swings open. I leave the keys in the lock and dart into my bedroom, open my closet, find the jewelry box on the floor. It’s dark but I find what I’m looking for anyway, worn wooden beads that I know by touch.
I leave, lock, run. Caleb’s back in the spot where he was waiting, and I get in again, buckle up.
“All right?” he asks for the second time, and I nod.
“You’re sure?”
I turn in my seat, look at him. I search his face for clues that he’s ribbing me, giving me a hard time for nearly jumping out of a moving car, but he’s calm, serious, intense.
“Sorry,” I say, squeezing the wooden beads in my hand, letting them dig into my fingers.
We drive in silence. In ten minutes Marysburg is in the rear view mirror, fading. The road we take out of town narrows from four lanes to two and then we’re in the country that surrounds the college town, where farms give way to forests that give way to farms, over and over again.
Caleb doesn’t say anything, just drives, the rear windows of the car cracked for air, the breeze shuffling my hair. I check my phone every thirty seconds, I think, but we’re in and out of cell service and nothing comes through.
After twenty minutes, I unclench my hand and the wooden beads click against each other softly, rearranging themselves in the absence of pressure, and I look down, take it in, like I’m seeing it for the first time.
I forgot to call her on Sunday, I think. I had so much homework and I had to meet with Nathaniel about the sources for Dr. Castellano’s paper and I just completely forgot until it was almost ten.
I pull the beads up, through my fingers, until I’m holding the crucifix between my thumb and fingers. I can’t see it in the dark but I can feel the figure of Jesus there, on the cross like always, and I press it against the pad of my thumb until it hurts, trying to remember the last time I talked to my mom.
Was it the Sunday before that? I think, still pressing the metal into my thumb. Had it been that long? What did I say? What did she say?
I can’t remember. I can’t remember a sentence, a word, a phrase. We end every conversation with I love you and you too, but did we end the last one that way?
We mus
t have. Please, God, we must have.
I run my thumb over Jesus again, in the dark, and just like that the words are there in my brain, fully automatic.
I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth…
I look down again, and the words feel wrong. They feel like school assemblies, like going to Mass every Wednesday and Sunday, like the one time that I got detention for being late to class.
They don’t feel like my mother. I open my palm, still looking down, and the light from the dashboard catches the centerpiece.
It’s faded with the years, but there she is, La Virgen, resplendent and sad. Cloaked in stars. Crowned by faded red and gold.
Creo en Dios, Padre todopoderoso, creador del Cielo y de la Tierra…
I close my eyes and keep the prayer to myself, and I think not of myself and not of the last time I spoke to my mother and not of her on a gurney, being wheeled into surgery, but of her mother, my grandmother.
I think of her, near the end. Sitting in her chair in the living room of the house in South Texas, all the doors and windows open despite the heat. I think of coming and sitting by her feet, the way she’d put her hand on my head and keep praying, the Spanish words flowing over me like cool rain in the blistering heat.
It was the only Spanish she taught my mom and her siblings. She and my grandfather wanted their children to assimilate, to be comfortable in the country where they were born, so they never spoke to them in her own native tongue.
My fingers work up to the next bead and quickly, silently, I recite the Padre Nuestro, three Ave Marias, the Gloria, and even though I’m not sure I’m really still Catholic, saying the words makes me feel a little bit better, brings me some tiny measure of peace that I’m doing what I can.
Chapter Fifteen
Caleb
I glance at the speedometer. Seventy-five. I take a deep breath and ease my foot off the gas, forcing myself to slow the car down to sixty, even though these roads are empty on a Friday night.