The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley

by Shaun David Hutchinson

  “But I know what’s in here,” Lexi says. “You’ve been here for so long, Drew, but your family’s death was not your fault. My death is not your fault. Stop punishing yourself for living and start living.”

  I sink to my knees and feel Lexi’s cold hand on top of my head. “Everyone I love is here.” I look up. Lexi is staring down at me, staring down through me.

  “No. They’re not. Your parents aren’t here. Your sister’s not here. I’m not here. Soon, Trevor and Rusty will be gone too.” Lexi’s body shudders and her lip quivers. “If you don’t leave, you’ll be the only one left. Trapped here forever. All alone.”

  “I hate you,” I say to her. But she’s just a body under a sheet, and I’m just a boy on his knees who can’t stop crying.

  On the third day, I rise.

  My mind is blank, consumed by the horror of Lexi. Destroyed by my own hubris. That I could ever leave this hospital, that I could ever live outside the walls, was folly. I’m no hero, no savior. I’m nothing but a boy, not even a man. A nameless coward who killed his family and hides from Death. Who brought Death to others instead of facing her myself.

  This hospital isn’t my purgatory. It’s my hell. The punishment I deserve. I will stay here until the end of my days. Until the sun finally sets. Until the worms rise up and devour me. Until Death extends her long-fingered hand and drags me away.

  At dawn, I go to the ER to see Emma and Jo. Steven is absent, replaced by a faceless man who looks at me with exhausted eyes before returning to his book.

  “Boy, you are in it deep, aren’t you?” Jo crushes my face to her chest, and I try to suffocate myself. My arms hang limply at my sides, unable to hug her back.

  “Sweetie,” Emma says. “We heard about everything.” I don’t know what version of the truth Death has told them, nor do I care.

  They lead me to a stool and push me onto it. My knees bend, and my butt hits the vinyl, but I don’t rest. “She’s dead,” I say. “Lexi. I didn’t say good-bye.”

  Emma hugs me. She still smells like sugar cookies. “Police are looking for you,” Emma says. “We won’t mention you were here, but . . . maybe . . .”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “Steven told us the funeral was yesterday,” Jo says. “He tried to find you.”

  I chuckle at the thought of Steven roaming the hospital, looking for me. Sometimes he gets lost in his own pants. Then I think about Mrs. Kripke alone at Lexi’s grave, crying into her handkerchief, her giant hair unflappable in the wind, her makeup running down her cheeks like pats of half-melted butter.

  I want to throw up.

  “Drew?” Emma asks. She rubs my back and tries to get me to look her in the eyes, which I refuse to do. My body feels electrified, like I swallowed a ball of lightning and trapped it under my rib cage.

  “I killed my parents,” I say.

  Jo turns from me. “I’m sure that’s not true,” she says.

  “Jo’s right,” Emma says. “You’re just not capable of anything like that.”

  I look up at Emma and Jo, and I want to believe them. I want to believe anything, but I think they’re only patronizing a poor pathetic boy because they can’t think of anything honest to say. I doubt they know who my parents were. “I wasn’t here,” I say, and leave.

  The hospital halls are blossoming with the sun—growing weedy with doctors and interns and nurses—and my time is running out. Death will be patrolling the halls soon, and I need to return to my self-imposed prison. I stop at Peds and walk past Nurse Merchant, who’s fresh on the job. She looks subtracted without Lexi. It’s not one thing in particular, instead it’s a sense of loss that ghosts her movements as if she’s misplaced something valuable but can’t recall what it was. I wait until her back is turned to sneak into Trevor’s room.

  Trevor is standing when I enter. On his own. No wires or tubes connect him to the hospital. His blinds are open, and he’s staring out the window, resting his forehead on the glass, which I imagine is warm. He’s wearing street clothes that hang so loosely on his body, they look like a scarecrow’s hand-me-downs.

  “Droopy,” Trevor says. His eyes glimpse the reflection of me and then turn back to out there.

  “Trevor.”

  Our hearts aren’t in this. Our hearts belonged to Lexi, and she took them both when she died.

  “You go to the funeral?” Trevor’s voice is dead, but his body alive. The change is shocking. It was always the other way around.

  I shake my head. “No. You?”

  “My doctor wouldn’t sign me out,” Trevor says. “What’s your excuse?” There’s acid on his tongue. He’s spitting venom, and I deserve it.

  “No excuse.”

  “Figures.”

  Trevor and I stand in his room, he by the window and me by the door, trying to talk—and failing. I don’t think either of us ever realized how real Lexi was, how she was the subject we talked about most. She was the glue, the dark matter. The miracle you can’t see but which binds all things. Lexi was that. And more.

  “I’m sprung,” Trevor says. He turns around and eyeballs the blue duffel bag on his bed. The sketch I drew for him sticks out of it. There’s not much else: some clothes and the decorations from his very special day. That seems so long ago now.

  I whistle halfheartedly. “They’re letting you out?” Trevor nods but doesn’t look me in the eyes. “And the cancer?”

  “Remission, supposedly.” He shrugs and looks down at his arms, which are scarred and bruised, but whole. He’s whole and new, and his entire life is spread out in front of him. But he’s hesitant. He’s alone, and I don’t think he knows how to go on without Lexi.

  Neither do I.

  “That’s awesome,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Trevor walks around the bed to the wardrobe and pulls out the last of his clothes. I spy the outfit he wore when we played hockey on the roof. He ignores it and closes the door. “I’m supposed to start school in a couple of weeks. I should have done my homework like Lexi. . . .”

  The picture of Trevor from before the cancer still stands by his bedside. “You going to play ball?”

  Trevor shakes his head. “I’ll never be that guy again.” He notices me staring at the picture, and he picks it up and shoves it in the bag, crumpling the drawing. “You should have gone to the funeral. She loved you so much.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The fuck you’re sorry,” Trevor says. His voice is a sucker punch. “You’re a fucking liar is what you are.” He grabs the duffel bag and throws it at my head, but it flies wide and hits the wall. “Shit.”

  I chuckle. “So, not the quarterback?” Trevor shakes his head. “She liked it,” I say. “That you were a football player. Thought it was hot.”

  “I was the kicker,” Trevor says. “The guy who comes in to kick field goals and extra points. I barely saw an entire hour of actual play.” His face is caught between embarrassment and anger.

  “She wouldn’t have cared.” I pick up the bag, but it’s open and the contents spill out. I recognize the wig immediately and pull it out. “Did you steal this from her room?”

  Trevor practically leaps over the bed to snatch it back, but I hold it over my head, just out of his reach. He’s breathless and falls into a chair. He mutters, “Asshole,” and then, “Her mom freaked looking for it. Claimed that one of the nurses stole it.”

  “Dude! Seriously?”

  “Mrs. Kripke was going to return it to the shop. Like it was just some dress that didn’t fit, know what I mean?”

  I toss the wig on the bed and retrieve the rest of his things from the floor. “There’s something deeply twisted about you keeping that.”

  Trevor drags the hair into his lap and twines a lock around his finger. “I wanted something to remember her by.”

  “What’re you going to do with it? Trot it out whenever you need a good whiff? Take it to college and Europe and your first apartment? Maybe you can get your future wife to wear it on your honeymoon.
”

  “Maybe,” Trevor says, defensively. “Anyway, fuck you, Droopy. You didn’t even go to her funeral. I wanted to say good-bye, but I couldn’t. You could and didn’t. So unless you’re buying me dinner, get off my ass.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “I want to make this right,” I say.

  “Yeah? Then how about you go back in time and make me never love her, you fucking prick. I was content. You made me love her. You made it real. And now she’s fucking gone.” Trevor turns to the window to hide his tears, but his shaking shoulders give him away.

  “Trevor . . .”

  “Go,” he says, his voice rough. “My parents will be here soon, and the doctor will sign me out. You’ll never see me again.”

  It’s clear that I’ve done enough harm, and I turn to leave, but an idea takes root in my brain. Turning back time isn’t in my skill set—I’m not Patient F—but I’m not totally useless.

  “Meet me on the roof in ten minutes, Trevor.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’re going to live,” I tell him. “You can do anything you want.”

  Trevor’s heavy-lidded eyes narrow and his lip curls in disgust. He’d like nothing more than to throw me through the window and dance on my broken bones. But he says, “Ten minutes, Droopy. Then I’m out of here for good.”

  “Okay,” I say. “And, Trevor—bring the hair.”

  • • •

  Trevor is standing at the edge of the roof, at the site of our one brilliant hockey game, peering into the nothing below when I arrive with Father Mike. The weather is clear, and a breeze blows in the ocean air from the east. It’s exactly the kind of day that Lexi would have loved if she’d ever been able to detach herself from her books.

  “You said ten minutes.” Trevor balls his fist and takes a step toward us.

  “I had to get someone.” I point at Father Mike.

  Father Mike mops his sweaty brow with a tissue that he slides into his sleeve when he’s finished with it. “My fault,” he says. “Though I’m not sure why.” Convincing Father Mike to come without offering him a reason was difficult, as he was reluctant to leave his chapel unattended, but I told him that God would mind the shop in his absence and that I needed him.

  “You brought a priest?” Trevor asks.

  I shrug.

  Father Mike shakes his head. “I’m Father Mike. You must be Trevor.”

  “How do you know my name?” he asks.

  “Because I told him how crap you are at wheelchair hockey,” I say. “He’s a friend, Trevor.”

  Trevor eyes Father Mike up and down, trying to decide what to make of him. The pair of them are watching me, waiting for me to tell them why the heck I brought them here. My idea, which had seemed so clever in Trevor’s room, feels a little morbid now, but I plow onward because I think Lexi would have approved.

  “We’re here to honor Lexi,” I say. “To give her a proper funeral.”

  “You’re crazy,” Trevor says. “Nuts, bonkers, out of your fucking skull.” He glances at Father Mike. “Sorry.”

  Father Mike chuckles and slaps Trevor on the back, as if they’re old pals. “No worries, young man. I agree. This is bizarre. We haven’t got a body.”

  I point at the wig in Trevor’s hand. “We have her hair.”

  Trevor holds up the wig. “What? No.”

  “Lexi wouldn’t want you carrying around fake hair for the rest of your life, Trevor.” I hold out my hand, hoping that he’ll turn over the wig willingly.

  He holds up the hair and turns it around and around. Then he gazes back over the edge of the roof. “We were going to take a trip to Canada together.”

  “Canada?” I ask.

  “Yeah, Droopy. Canada.” Trevor’s voice is rough and raw, and he hasn’t let go of the hair. “Lexi told me that ever since she was a little girl, she wanted to visit. Now she’ll never go.”

  Father Mike stands at the edge with Trevor. I join them and look down. One jump from here would probably kill us, and it would definitely hurt. “In heaven, you can visit any country you want.”

  Trevor clears his throat, and I wait for him to speak. I feel like I shouldn’t say anything. “I was supposed to be the one to die. It was always supposed to be me. Isn’t that fucked up, Father? Why’d God let that happen?”

  Father Mike pulls a small Bible out of his pocket and holds it in front of him like a shield. “It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.”

  Trevor glances at me. It’s a knowing look. A bond over shared guilt. Shared love of an amazing girl.

  “But why?” Trevor asks. “Why’d I get better when I should have died, and she died when she was supposed to be fine?”

  “No one can know the mind of God,” Father Mike says. “We have to trust that he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Bullshit,” I say.

  Father Mike glares at me, but he doesn’t reprimand. He knows that Trevor and I are beyond his ability to punish. “I like to think of God as an exceptionally smart scientist.”

  “Like Stephen Hawking?” Trevor asks.

  “Yes,” Father Mike says. “Now, I comprehend very little of what those scientists say, and I like to consider myself a smart man. But I trust that they know what they’re talking about. And when they do things that scare me, like turn on a device that could potentially create tiny black holes capable of destroying the world, I have to have faith that those scientists have everything under control.”

  Trevor laughs. “Your priest is awesome.”

  “But they don’t always,” I say, when Trevor is done laughing. “Sometimes scientists get it wrong.”

  “Maybe,” Father Mike says. “Or maybe they’re simply so much smarter than we are that we can’t fully understand their actions.” Father Mike closes his eyes and turns his face toward the sun. “I see puppies and rainbows and bacon cheeseburgers, and I think, ‘Gee, that God sure knows what he’s doing.’ Then things happen, like your friend Lexi dying, and it’s tougher to trust his plan. But that’s what faith is.”

  Trevor looks guilty. He shoves the hand not holding the wig into his pocket and stares over the edge. “Does that mean I’m supposed to be all happy that I lived and Lexi died? Because I can’t. Because it sucks.”

  Father Mike sighs and takes the wig from Trevor. At first, Trevor doesn’t want to surrender it, but he eventually does. “It means that those of us who are left behind have to live the best lives we can. Mourn her, but move on. Celebrate her by being great.”

  The words sting because I know that they’re not aimed solely at Trevor. I can’t think about anything but him right now. I’m here for him. For Lexi. “We should do this,” I say, motioning to the wig in Father Mike’s hand.

  “You’re not like any priest I’ve ever met,” Trevor says.

  “You’re not like any cancer patient I’ve ever met.”

  “Cancer-free,” Trevor says.

  Father Mike grins from ear to ear. “Good for you. Now you have no excuse not to clean up that potty mouth of yours.”

  “What do we do?” I ask. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t even be here. That Lexi was Trevor’s and he loved her and I could have gone to her real funeral if I hadn’t been a selfish jerk. But then Trevor smiles at me, like old times. “I don’t know what religion Lexi was.”

  “She didn’t believe in any of that supernatural crap,” Trevor says.

  I glance up at Trevor. “She changed her mind at the end.” He gives me a curious look but doesn’t ask how I know that, how I could know that. He just smiles.

  “Her mom was Baptist.”

  Father Mike nods and says, “I think I can handle this.” He places the wig on the ledge and steps back. The gentle breeze stirs the strands, but it’s not strong enough to dislodge it from its perch.

  “We come here today to honor Lexi. . . .”

  “Kripke,” Trevor says. “Alexis Kripke.” He frowns and wrinkles his brow, and he grips his tem
ples, rubbing his scarred fingers over his stubbled scalp. “I don’t know her middle name. I never asked. I don’t know.” He sheds tears and shakes with every breath he draws.

  I pull Trevor to me and let him bury his face in my chest. “It’s not important,” I tell him. “You knew the stuff that mattered. Like that she loved you.”

  “And that she actually kind of enjoyed all that beauty-queen stuff,” Trevor says. He sniffles. “She’d never tell her mom, though.”

  “She loved to eat honey out of the jar with her fingers.”

  “The first time she got her period, she was so afraid to tell her mom that she rode her bicycle to the store and asked some old lady in the deli to help her buy tampons.”

  These things make me laugh. With Trevor. For Lexi. For what a crazy, amazing, smart, and beautiful girl she was. I nod at Father Mike to continue.

  Father Mike coughs and says, “We come here today to mourn the passing and honor the life of Alexis Kripke.”

  Trevor pulls himself together and faces the wig. He holds my hand, and we face it together.

  Father Mike reads some verses from the Bible, some that I remember hearing when I was a kid and some that I’ve never heard before but that are soothing. I’m not sure if the Bible is a real book written by God or just a collection of stories for people who need help putting their hearts back together, but it’s comforting, and I try not to think about it. Father Mike doesn’t speak for too long. When he finishes, he smiles at Trevor.

  “Lexi rocked,” Trevor says. “She was smart and special, and she kissed liked whoa.” He grins when Father Mike groans. “Lexi saw me for me. She didn’t see my disease or the fact that I weighed less than she did. She saw me. She saw everyone, really. She saw right to the heart of who a person was and never judged them. Even Drew. She used to tell me that he was special. Broken but special, and that one day we’d never see him again because he’d finally gone out into the world to do something great. I always laughed, but I think she was right. She was always right.

  “I think I loved that girl.” Trevor looks at the wig and then out to the sky. “That’s it.”

  I lean over and whisper, “I think she loved you, too.” When I take Trevor’s place, I don’t know what to say. The wind is picking up a little, and I wonder if Lexi is up there or out there listening to us, watching us, waiting for us to move on. “I’m so sorry,” I say.