Page 30 of What You Left Me

With my eyes shut, a flash of a dream comes to me. I could walk on water, but it hurt me. Burned me. I was trying to escape the pain and find a way out of Daniel’s pool when Martin appeared. He called out to me. I remember his face, which wasn’t quite his, but still I knew it was him. When I reached where he stood, he said, “I’m stuck,” and “I can’t wake up.” It looked like there was more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t.

Then Cameron woke me up.

It’s funny how dreams morph without notice, cutting out before you hit the ground from a fall or stopping right before a big reveal. Why couldn’t I let myself understand what my version of Martin wanted to say? I must be trying to make sense of how a person’s body can be alive but their mind asleep. Seeing Martin’s eyelids flutter, knowing he’s somewhere in there, but he’s too battered to get out. Heisstuck.

Yesterday, he was just the kid next to me at graduation. Lighthearted and goofy, working so hard to make me laugh that I started to forget how I’d sworn off boys. Now he’s the focus of everyone’s attention, all of us hoping against logic that he can pull through an accident that left half of him obliterated. Everyone in here must be clinging to their memories of him, afraid they could slip out of reach and become too distant to feel.

The alarming vigor with which Katie still weeps is both terrifying and amazing to me because it reminds me of how we are capable of feeling so deeply that it can torpedo through our very being. I bet she’s thinking of how she used to punch Martin’s arm when he annoyed her. Dare him to do something humiliating like eat dog food or hop the fence of the graveyard by the school. Katie must have had her own versions of all the power-play moves my older sisters had for me. Like any older sibling does, she probably exercised her power of seniority in between bursts of protectiveness.

Stone-faced Turrey must be wondering why he wasn’t in the car.

Maybe Brooke is letting absence make the heart grow fonder. Everyone might know they aren’t together, but now that Martin could be gone, every word he ever said or wrote takes on new meaning. Hormones get swapped for love in retrospect.

In a room full of retreading, mine is the weakest of all. I have less than twenty-four hours of reference to cling to, most of which was spent in this hospital constructing my impression of Martin through people who know him far better, making up a backstory and inner life for all of them.

But I might have been one of the last people to spend time with him.

My head and my heart don’t know what to make of it, and I suddenly wish I’d just listened to myself when my inner voice said to stop while I was ahead. I never listen to myself.

I’m in so deep.

The four of us commit to finding a spot. Nervous shifting makes the vinyl seats squeak louder than the two TVs overhead. A dance of sorts ensues, each of us shuffling back and forth as we try to discern what Daniel wants to do about his proximity to Turrey. Boldly, he shoulders up to him, placing me in the next seat and Cameron and Aminah on the floor in front of us. They lean back into our knees.

Brooke wafts the dampness of her washed hair toward me, smelling like a Hollister store mixed with Herbal Essences shampoo.

“I’m Brooke,” she says with an unthreatening smile. “I’ve been meaning to say hi.”

I introduce myself, and through a nod she welcomes me as a comrade, much like Katie and Turrey before her.

“Can you believe any of this?” Her hands coax her phone into waking. The lock screen photo is one of her and Martin at prom in matching shades of orange.

“No,” I answer, incapable of delving beneath simplicity into a situation so far beyond my grasp.

“Has anyone heard anything?” Aminah, the only one brave enough to ask, gently inquires.

“Someone came in and told us there have been complications. That was a while ago.”

“Wow,” I whisper.

The past two days of my life have been defined by waiting. Maybe all of life is defined by waiting. Waiting for food. Waiting for the bus. Waiting for test scores. Waiting for school to end. Waiting to graduate. Waiting to fix a problem. Waiting to fix the fix. Waiting to hear the fate of another person’s existence. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Death is just another milestone. Another thing we spend our whole lives working toward, waiting for, and it’s all over in an instant. We’re in a room designed solely for waiting, for building the bridge to the other side of something, and it seems that the little details that happen here, in between one thing and the next, are what define a life. So while I have the time, I’ll define mine how I see fit.

Maybe willpower alone can erase all of my problems.

Brooke has no shortage of questions to ask me. How do I know Martin? Where did I go to middle school? Who were my teachers? What classes did I take this year? How could we have both had gym fourth period? Who was my teacher? Did I ever see her there? Wouldn’t it have been cool if we had talked then? Where am I going to college? Am I as nervous as she is?

My last two answers hiccup off my tongue. I want to think of nothing beyond this very moment. I want to keep waiting.

Genuine enthusiasm shines out through Brooke’s eyes. Her ability to stay so engaged keeps me pulled inward, not wanting to give away too much too soon, stockpiling for conversations yet to come.

I think I understand how it works between her and Martin. It’s as if I can see it as he would, piecing together what Turrey told me with what I’m experiencing now. She’s stunning and charming and so free to share herself. So eager to know the people around her. So present in every moment. I see how that could make you love her, but it could also feel like too much in high doses.

She crosses her legs, and a flash of black ink pops out against the deep tan of her skin, just sneaking out from the hem of her leggings. “Real or fake?” I ask, my first attempt at being on the other side of the questioning.

Her eyes stop moving. Now they are still, gazing, almost startled. “You’re the first person to notice since I got it.” She tugs the legging down over the bumpy bone of her ankle so the ink is no longer visible. Before I can ask more, she’s rummaging through her purse. “I do a good fake one though. Can I?”

She digs out a black marker with a thin tip and starts drawing flowers on my arm. I almost ask more questions. I want to know more about her and Martin, but she starts humming a soft tune to herself, and I figure the distraction is nice for her. Another way to survive the waiting. Her sandpaper voice, full of gentle runs and steady rippling vibrato, calms me.