Two Feet Under

by C. C. Hunter

  “What’s funny?”

  That I know what else you’re buying. “I’m in the grocery store parking lot. Just bought some ice cream. I saw your mom’s car.”

  “Really?” A hint of panic fills her voice.

  Is she . . . ? How could . . . ? Okay, I know how. But with who?

  I force myself to use my calm voice when I want to shriek. “You wanna meet me at my house?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  And will you explain why you were checking out pregnancy tests? I’m almost home when an ugly thought hits. A very ugly thought.

  What if Charles, her mom’s perverted boyfriend . . . ?

  No. Kelsey would have killed him. Wouldn’t she have? How was it that she put it? I’d cut off his pecker and feed it to my grandmother’s cats.

  Or was that why she was so . . . angry-sounding?

  I remember learning Bessie is back because of some family problems. For sure, this would constitute a family problem. A huge freaking problem.

  That’s when it hits that I’ve been so busy wrapped up in my own problems I might have neglected to notice if Kelsey had any issues. I’m a terrible friend.

  • • •

  Forty minutes later, Kelsey still hasn’t shown up. I call her.

  “Is everything okay?” I blurt out before saying hello.

  “Yeah. Sorry. I decided to drop by the house first.”

  I hear it in her voice. Stress. She’s hurting. Did she take the test? Is she . . . ?

  “I’m on my way now. See you in three minutes,” she says.

  “Good. I’ve got the bowls and spoons out.” I sit at the table, trying not to think about the pervert guy and what he may have done to my best friend.

  Kelsey walks in without knocking, the way only good friends do. But good friends count on each other, they let each other help them. They don’t keep secrets. Yeah, I know I’m keeping my own secrets. But mine are different. Mine are batshit crazy. Hers are just bad shit.

  When she cuts the corner into the kitchen, I see her eyes are puffy. Freshly cried puffy. Fresh-pain puffy.

  I want to hug her, but instead I take the bag from her. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” She drops into a chair. “Why?” That’s Kelsey’s MO: act tough, never show weakness. Only I see through the act.

  “You look like you’ve been crying.” I throw it out there, determined to help my best friend.

  She rolls her eyes. “Just allergies. Ragweed. Pollen. Pine.”

  I call bullshit! “It’s winter. You don’t get—”

  “I’m fine.” She reaches for the bag and pulls out the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. “I think it’s just soft enough that it’ll mix well.”

  I grab a banana out of the bag and go get a knife.

  “You still cramping?” She spoons out two scoops of ice cream into each bowl.

  “Not so much,” I say, still standing.

  She rips open the Reese’s Pieces bag with her teeth, then pours a handful into each dish.

  I chop half of a banana and set the peel on the other side of the table.

  She adds nuts, sprinkles it with cinnamon and nutmeg, then pokes a peanut butter cookie onto the top. Smiling, eyes still puffy, she pushes one bowl to my side of the table. “Eat and enjoy. And live a cramp-free life.”

  “Thank you.” I drop down into a chair. I give the mound of good stuff a few twirls with my spoon, then I look up. “You’re a better friend to me than I am to you.”

  She wrinkles her brows. “Why would you say that? You give me a ride to and from school every day.”

  “Not today.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll never guess who did give me a ride home.”

  “Jacob and Dex.” I smile and take a bite of gooey concoction. Sweetness explodes in my mouth. “Jacob called me.”

  She scoops up a bite and savors it. “Yeah. And you’re right. He’s got his puppy-dog poor-me expression going.”

  I take another bite and then run my spoon along the edges of my bowl. “Remember when I said we needed to tell each other personal stuff?”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “I think today’s the day.”

  She licks her spoon. Suspicion fills her eyes. “Okay. You go first.”

  Yeah, I kind of forgot about that part of the deal. For a flicker of a second I actually consider telling her. Telling her everything. But I’m worried my batshit crazy news might dominate the conversation. I want this to be about her. It needs to be about her.

  I search for something I can toss out in the way of a secret. Something to satisfy her need for the truth. “Okay.” I point my spoon at her. “You’re right. I’m in love.”

  She points her spoon at me. “He gave up on you and started dating other people a few weeks after you left. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  “I think he does.” Of course, she means Carl, but I’m talking about Hayden.

  “So is he, like, ever going to come see you? Didn’t you tell me he has a car? Why hasn’t he come down?”

  “He will. He’ll be here soon. You’ll meet him.”

  She frowns. “Jacob’s hot for you. Are you sure I can’t talk any sense into you?”

  “I’m sure.” I scoop another bite of ice cream into my mouth.

  “And?” she asks. “Keep going.”

  “That’s all I got,” I lie.

  “Seriously? You’re not going to explain—”

  “It’s your turn now.”

  She stares at her bowl, and her spoon does a few laps. “I’m pissed at my mom.”

  “What did she do?” Is Kelsey going to tell me Charles raped her? My gut knots, I’m still not ready to hear this. I’m going to want to hurt him. Bad. Really, really bad. Maybe I’ll get Hayden to blow up the guy’s phone. But is anger what Kelsey needs right now?

  “What didn’t she do?” Kelsey looks up. “Are you sure Carl’s not seeing anyone else?”

  I drop my spoon. It sinks into the melted ice cream goo. “You’re not sharing, Kelsey.”

  “Yeah I did.”

  I shove my bowl away from me. “I saw you at the grocery store.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “In the pharmacy section?”

  Her expression goes to angry, hurt, then . . . she starts laughing. Hard. Then harder. So hard she gets tears in her eyes.

  “What’s so . . . ?” I think I get it. I’ve been duped. “You saw me and did the whole thing as a joke, didn’t you!” I grab the bag of Reese’s Pieces and toss two of them at her. Kelsey laughs harder.

  Pumpkin jumps up on the table. While my friend is too busy enjoying the fact that she completely conned me, my cat starts lapping up her ice cream.

  “This isn’t funny!” I push Pumpkin away from her bowl.

  “Yeah it is,” she says. “You thought I was pregnant.”

  “That was a mean joke,” I say.

  She sobers. Like really quickly sobers. “It wasn’t a joke.” From the glint in her eyes I know she’s serious. Her spoon clatters to the table.

  Crap. “The test was negative, right? But you thought you were pregnant?”

  “Noooo. The pregnancy test wasn’t for me. It was for my mom. She’s pregnant.”

  “What . . . ? You’re kidding.”

  She shakes her head. “No. She’s been worried for about a week. She realized she hasn’t had her period. I finally bought one and made her take it.”

  “Shit,” I say.

  “Yeah. Shit!” Her tone carries a lot of weight.

  “Has she told the pervert guy?” The thought of that guy having even more reason to stick around Kelsey turns my stomach.

  She picks up her spoon and chases a piece of banana around the melted concoction. “No. Because she’s not sure it’s Charles’ baby. In the last few months, she’s slept with three different guys. And get this. She doesn’t even remember one of their names.” Kelsey stares into her bowl. “Isn’t she supposed to be setting a
n example for me? I’ve kind of always known she was a little too open-minded, but now it’s like in-my-face knowing it. At least use a condom!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and then . . . “What’s she’s going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want her to do.” Kelsey’s green eyes tear up. “Riley, she loves me. I know she does. And I love her. But . . . my grandmother is the one who was there for me when I was young. I mostly lived with her until I was nine. Mom doesn’t know how to be a mother. But I can’t stand the thought of her having an abortion. And yet . . . If she has this baby, I won’t be able to go to college. I’ll have to stay home and help raise it.”

  I put my hand over hers. “Maybe it’ll be different. She’s older. Maybe she’ll be a great mom.”

  Kelsey wipes a few tears off her face. “That’ll piss me off, too. If she does do right by this kid . . .” She looks at me. “Why couldn’t she have done right by me? Do you know how many times she took me to my grandmother’s and didn’t come back for weeks? And when she’d come back, she’d always tell me that she’d been trying to find me a daddy.”

  I squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  She sits there, not moving, lost in her head, then she picks up her spoon and scoops up a big bite into her mouth.

  “No,” I say. “Don’t eat that. Pumpkin ate out of your bowl.”

  “What’s a little kitty germs?” She speaks with her mouth full.

  “He licks his butt,” I say.

  She drops forward and spits the melted ice cream into the bowl.

  We both start laughing. It’s not even that funny. But we laugh because we need to. We laugh because that’s what friends do sometimes. Laugh just so we don’t cry.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Kelsey leaves, I go to the garage to see if I can find the easel. There are at least a dozen boxes. The first one I open has books in it. Mostly old encyclopedias. I hit pay dirt when I open the second box. My chest expands as I pull it out. My mom used it. Why didn’t I remember Mom painting until now?

  It’s old.

  It’s paint splattered.

  It’s wobbly.

  It’s perfect.

  I take it upstairs to my room. Putting down an old bedsheet, I change into a worn-out pair of sweats and a shirt that should have been tossed out a year ago. Feeling excited about something for the first time in forever, I set up the easel, then I pull out my paints.

  The excitement wanes when I stand in front of the empty canvas. It’s intimidating. Then I remember the look of contentment on my mom’s face when she painted. It’s how I feel when I draw or when I do pastels. It’s something Mom and I shared, and I didn’t even know it.

  Closing my eyes, I wait for the memory to completely replay in my head. I try to see the canvas she was painting. It’s a porch scene, with a white rocking chair—a cat is curled up in the chair, and beside it is a pot of flowers. Red flowers with white centers. Beside the flower pot are two pairs of flip-flops. One’s a kid’s pair, and then an adult one.

  How crazy is it that I can now see the picture so clearly in my mind? I can’t help but wonder if those shoes weren’t our shoes. If that wasn’t our porch. It had to be, didn’t it?

  I pick up the brush, add some red paint to its tip, and dab it onto the canvas, creating flowerlike images in one corner. I know my picture won’t be exactly like the one Mom was painting, but it’ll be close.

  And close is good enough. It’s what I want.

  I want to feel close to my mother.

  I want to remember all the little details about her.

  I want to know how much I’m like her. How different we are. I want to know if . . . if she saw ghosts. The latter thought comes when I feel the cold.

  “You paint?”

  I almost yelp at the sound of Hayden’s voice. Turning around, I smile. But my smile fades when I see him. His eyes are sunken in. His skin is a gray color. He looks worse than he did earlier today, and he’s twice as cold.

  “What’s wrong?” My words come out with a whoosh. But there’s still a lot of whooshing emotions inside of me because I’m scared he’s here to tell me that he’s leaving.

  “I don’t think I’m doing so well. I think—”

  “No!” I say. “You have to get better, Hayden.”

  “I don’t know how, Riley. I’m sorry.”

  “Are the doctors doing anything?”

  “No.”

  “Well, tell me what’s wrong and I’ll tell them.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong.” He reaches for me, almost as if to hug me goodbye.

  I hold out a hand, warding him off. “What hurts. Is there any pain?”

  “I don’t really feel pain, but it’s uncomfortable.”

  “What’s uncomfortable?”

  “When the machine pushes air into my lungs. It feels different. Tight. It kind of crackles.”

  I remember what I read about comatose people. “I bet you have pneumonia.” I drop my brush on the floor, the paint on the tip smears onto the white sheet and looks like blood, but I don’t care. And I feel like I’m bleeding. I take off downstairs. I ignore the cold. I ignore the dead bride standing at the bottom of the stairs. The train of her gown flows out into the living room. It must be one of Dad’s new clients. She looks at me. But I don’t care. My mind, my heart is stuck on Hayden. I grab my keys, my purse, and every ounce of hope I can find, and I haul butt outside to my car.

  I drive as fast as I can. I’m speeding. I never speed. My gaze is all over the place as I drive, afraid a cop will pull me over. Thankfully, I make it to the hospital in less than ten minutes.

  I park, then rush to the elevator. I check the time as it carries me up. Visiting hours begin in one minute. I rush out of the elevator, around the corner. There’s one person waiting by the ICU doors.

  Come on. Come on. Come on. I tap my foot, waiting for that click that tells visitors the door’s open. When I hear it, I literally run through the ICU doors.

  I race past the nurses’ station and into Hayden’s room.

  His mom isn’t there. I touch Hayden. He feels hot. He has a fever.

  I hit the nurses’ button.

  “Can I help you?” the nurse asks.

  “Yes, I think Hayden has a fever.”

  “Who?” they ask.

  “Carter,” I say, remembering that’s what they call him. “Carter has a fever.”

  “I’ll be right in.”

  Footsteps sound behind me. I turn, expecting a nurse, but it’s Hayden’s mom. “He has a fever,” I blurt out. “I think—”

  “What?” She hurries to his side and touches his forehead. “He is hot!” She reaches for the remote.

  “I just called the nurse.” I put my hand on Hayden’s chest. Now I have to lie, but I’ll lie like a big dog if it’ll save Hayden. “I think I hear . . . I think I feel congestion. I’m afraid he has pneumonia. They need to check him for pneumonia!”

  A nurse walks in. “What’s the problem?” Her tone is high-pitched, as if she picks up on the stress in the room.

  “He has a fever. Do something,” Mrs. Carter says. Her words are choppy, punctuated with panic. “Check his lungs. Listen to his lungs. Do something, damn it!”

  “I am. Let’s calm down,” the nurse says, but she pulls a stethoscope from her pocket. I step back and give her access to Hayden. She places the round knob on Hayden’s chest. Silence fills the room. Mrs. Carter stands frozen, soundless. I don’t breathe. It feels like even the walls hold their breath.

  Am I right? Is it too late?

  She moves the stethoscope to another spot. Silence reigns again.

  Then she looks up and frowns. “I’ll call the doctor.”

  • • •

  I wait outside with Mrs. Carter as they bring in an X-ray machine. We never say a word. I’m not sure she wants me there, but I can’t see leaving her alone. Not now . . . Not when things feel . . .

  I
glance over at her. Tears roll down her cheeks. Pain is etched in the hard lines in her face. Wrinkles, worry wrinkles, that make her look older than she really is.

  I put my hand in hers. She squeezes my fingers so tight it hurts, but not as bad as what I’m feeling on the inside. I want to scream. I want to stomp my feet. I want to demand action from whoever this higher power is that is making me do their gofer work. To save Hayden.

  We’re still sitting there, holding hands, when a tall woman with soft gray hair walks up.

  She hugs Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Carter sobs onto her white lab jacket. When Hayden’s mom pulls away, she says, “I can’t let him go. I know I said I would if things got worse, but I can’t.”

  The doctor gives her arm a squeeze. “Do you want to discuss it with your husband?”

  “No.” Her posture turns to rock. “He’s my son. I make the decisions.”

  “Then you want me to start him on antibiotics?”

  “Yes.” We both say it at the same time.

  The doctor looks at me. For the first time I realize what I’m wearing. That I have a cherry stain on my top and a hole in the knee of my gray sweats. But I don’t really have the energy to give a damn.

  Mrs. Carter introduces us.

  The doctor nods, then focuses on Mrs. Carter. “I’ll get the meds started in the IV, but . . . you should know his blood pressure has dropped. There’s a real possibility that he won’t respond. This could be the end.”

  Mrs. Carter puts a hand over her mouth, but the sad, desperate sound still leaks out. After a few minutes, we go back into Hayden’s room. Mr. Carter shows up.

  “Don’t you dare say a word. He’s my son, and I’m not giving up on him.” There’s fire in her eyes.

  “I’m not . . .” Mr. Carter hugs her, but it’s too short. Tense.

  Mrs. Carter introduces us. I try to be polite, but to put it bluntly, I don’t like him. Not because he didn’t hug his wife long enough. Not because I know he’s already been to the funeral home to talk to my dad about arrangements, but because I remember Hayden telling me how the accident happened.

  He’d found out that his stepfather was cheating on his mom. When he told his mom, she’d admitted that she knew. When Hayden insisted that she needed to leave him, they’d argued. Hayden had left all pissed off. He’d been so angry he wasn’t paying attention and he hit a light pole.