By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead (13 page)

— 5 DAYS —

I feel lighter today. In spirit or something. It’s Sunday. Day of rest. I log on and it still says
5 days
. Yesterday was five. Today is four. What’s the matter?

I log off and log on again.
5 days
. I keep logging off and logging on, logging off and logging on. I try the PC on my desk.
5 days
.

What’s wrong? Did Chip screw something up? You can’t trust machines. You can’t trust people.

I know what they’re doing—giving me an out. But I won’t take it. I’ll count the days down myself if I have to. As long as I stay, I’ll always be counting the days.

Kim pops her head in. “Daelyn? Let’s go to the art museum.”

What? Why?

Apparently there’s an exhibition of Amish quilts she’s been dying to see. “I used to quilt with my mother,” she says on the way. “I bet you didn’t know that.”

She never talks about her childhood. My grandmother died before I was born. No, I didn’t know she could quilt. I bet the whole secret life she’s been keeping from me explains why I’m the pathetic loser I am.

As I’m standing in the museum wondering why these quilts are on a wall instead of on someone’s bed keeping them warm, Kim stumbles backward and plops on a bench. She presses her fingers into her eyelids.

I go sit with her. She’s crying.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s nothing.”

Nothing. And everything.

I hate when my mom cries.

I want to put my arm around Kim, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I try. I really do.

I watch as visitors file through the room. They speak in hushed voices, oohing and ahhing as they point out patterns and shapes. “The exquisite needlework,” they whisper. “The handiwork.” Who has time to sew a quilt by hand? I wonder. Not Kim. How long does it take, anyway? I want to ask Kim, but . . .

It’s too late. She doesn’t have time to teach me how to sew.

It better not be stuck on five days forever. What did Chip do?

People move on and we’re alone. Kim says, “It’s peaceful here.” She blows her nose.

It’s enormous—a vaulted ceiling, stark white walls.

It feels cold. If we could wrap up in those quilts . . .

“How are you, sweetheart?” She takes my hand in both of hers and raises it to her lips.

I feel a crack in my wall.

“Have you tried speaking? The doctor said your vocal cords should’ve healed some by now.”

There’s no reason to speak. I have nothing to say.

All the years of therapy, the doctors, the pills, the motivational tapes and books and speakers, voices, voices in my head. Empty, empty words.

“You know I’m here for you. I always will be.” Kim leans into me and rests her head on my temple. My throat catches, but the weight of her skull bends my neck, and a sharp pang shoots through me. I’m glad I wore my brace.

I close my eyes. I remember this one time we went to the ocean, just Mom and me. We played on the warm beach. We built castles with moats, and I buried Mom in the sand up to her neck and she called out, “Help, help.” Just kidding around. That snaps me back and forth between past and present. We played until the tide came in. Then all the memories seep up from the grave where I thought I’d buried them.

“Oh, sweetie.”

Wetness on my face. Is that me? I swipe a tear away. The purging was supposed to make me feel better, not worse. I haven’t even gotten to the bad part.

— 4 DAYS —

Thank God the counter restarted. Not you personally, God. Just . . . thanks.

Kim shatters my cheery mood at breakfast. “I’m sorry, Daelyn. Your father and I both have afternoon meetings we can’t reschedule. Why doesn’t your school give us more warning when you have partial days?”

She waits for me to answer.

Kim, that’s not the question.

“Anyway, it works out fine. I took the liberty of stopping by your friend Santana’s house yesterday before I went grocery shopping.”

What?

“I talked to the mother. She’s . . . well, never mind. You’re to go over there at noon. Her shift starts at two, but Santana promised he’d stay with you.”

Alone? No.

I scrape back my chair and stand. Kim grabs my wrist. “Please, Daelyn. Don’t get upset.”

Upset? UPSET?

The pleading in Kim’s eyes . . .

I reclaim my hand from her and sit back down.

“I’m just so glad you have a friend.” She smiles. And winks.

There’s an earthquake inside me.

“Please,” she says again. “Do this for me?”

Do what, Kim? Lead a normal life? Too late. Way too late.

“It’s funny.” Kim sprinkles another packet of Splenda into her coffee. “He calls her Ariel.” She makes a face at Chip. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

You could’ve asked me, Kim, at least. I would have told you no.

I can’t spend time with Santana. I can’t allow attachment. It’s hard enough to sit by and know he has what I want, without even trying.

“Can they be trusted?” Chip glances up from the morning paper.

Can
you
? I want to scream.

“They seem fine,” Kim answers. “She asked me in for a cup of chai. I didn’t even know what it was. It’s this spicy tea. She’s very, um, earthy. The house is pristine, though. Lovely, actually. She’s an artist.”

I stand and leave the table.

Kim catches up with me in my room. “It’s only two and a half hours, Daelyn. You can’t sit on that bench for two and a half hours. And you’re absolutely forbidden to walk home.”

Watch me.

“I didn’t tell Ariel about . . .” She pauses. “You’re not being babysat, if that’s what you think.”

Abandoned, you mean.

“You’re doing so well; going to school, making friends . . .” That gleam in her eye.

Chip shadows Kim in the hall. I grab my book bag and charge them. They both jump aside.

Out at the car, I have to wait until Kim unlocks my door. She says to me or Chip, who’s still behind her, “Santana’s writing a memoir, of all things. Not writing. Filming. What is he, sixteen? Seventeen?”

The lock clicks and I fling open the door. Chip presses a hand to the window. Through my fog of anger, I hear him say, “Have a good day.”

Kim just guaranteed I won’t.

She’s still doing it, pushing me into situations I can’t handle, making me cope. She knows I can’t cope.

She backs out of the carport. Drizzle immediately films the window, and she flips on the windshield wipers. “I can tell he likes you.” Kim smiles at me. “A lot.”

It feels like a hunk of raw flesh is lodged in my throat.

Emily is absent today, so at least I don’t have to deal with
that
. No one else knows I’m alive, which means they won’t notice when I’m gone.

I can’t help wondering how long he has. More than four days, at least.

After school, at noon, they’re waiting at the gate, Santana and his mom. “Ariel, this is Daelyn. Daelyn, Ariel.” Santana circles a hand between us.

“Hello,” she says. Ariel clasps my hand and shakes it.

My book bag falls off my shoulder and Santana grabs it. I notice how thin his fingers are. Bony knuckles, like his knees. He takes the bag from me with his free hand, the one not holding the umbrella. I’m under siege.

Why is it raining again? I want to ask Santana. Blame him.

For the weather? That’s out of anyone’s control.

An arm slides around my waist and I stiffen. It’s Ariel. “Santana’s told me so much about you,” she says, pulling me into her side, out of the rain. She has a strong grip.

What has he said?

The sick girl. The freak.

The rain spatters the clear plastic umbrella dotted with little duckies, and Santana presses in on me too. The touch of him radiates shock waves through my body.

I wonder—is it possible—is the medication working? I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before. I have to stop taking my pills.

I feel as if I’m hovering, my feet never touching the ground as our momentum carries us up the steps to the porch. “Welcome to Sterilization Nation.” Santana shakes the umbrella over the railing.

“Oh, stop it.” Ariel smacks his back. She lets go of me and my first impulse is to flee.

Santana anticipates my move. He stabs the umbrella out in front of me and I plow into it.

“Back,” he says. He jabs at me until I’m at the door. Opening the door, he sweeps his arm in a low bow and goes, “Ladies?”

Ariel touches my wrist, then clenches it. Before I can dissociate, I feel the warmth of her flesh on mine. Those pills. She pulls me into the house. They’re poison.

The interior is warm, homey. It smells like cinnamon. I’ve only ever lived in cold, white condos.

“The sterilization procedures begin with shoes,” Santana says. He steps out of his wet flip-flops on the carpet runner. Ariel removes her rubber clogs. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she says to me.

When I hesitate, Santana goes, “I can’t convince her that there’s no statistical evidence linking muddy shoes with malignancy.”

“Stop it.” She lightly whaps Santana’s head. She’s taller than he is. And larger. She’s a large woman. Big-boned. Not fat. “Come to the kitchen for lunch after you’ve given Daelyn the tour.” She pads down the long hall that runs next to a stairway leading up. On the other side is the living room, I guess. It’s octagonal. A plasma TV takes up one whole wall. The chairs and couch are covered with sheets.

He raises his voice loud enough for Ariel to hear. “Take off your shoes. So you don’t spread my cancer cells.”

She doesn’t respond.

I recoil. What if my feet stink? He’s too close, making my pulse race. I take a step or two away from him, stumbling into the living room.

The intimacy of the house wraps around me. It feels like a home. My eyes stray to the living room ceiling and I almost catch my breath.

Santana says, “Yeah. She’s painting the ceiling.”

This is my vision—what I imagine I’ll pass through on my way to the light. The blue sky, the clouds, the rays of light.

“She’s the reincarnation of Michelangelo—she thinks. Never question the sanity of a woman who can render you defenseless with a look.” He smiles at me and my skin sizzles. I propel farther into the living room.

“It’s cool, though,” he says, padding in behind me, past me, his bare feet sticking on the hardwood floor. Suddenly all I see are his feet flying in the air. He’s tipped over backward onto the sheeted couch. “Check it out at this angle.”

Like what, on top of him?

I panic and make a beeline for the door.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” He’s up and on me before I can escape. “I have orders from your mother to keep you here.”

I wrench my wrist away from him and instinctively back into a corner.

He holds up both palms. “Sorry.”

Just . . . keep your hands off me.

His eyes change. They glint mischeviously. “Don’t even try to talk your way out of this, Daelyn. You are my captive now.” He rubs his hands together.
“Mooahaha.”

So you think. He takes a step forward and I shove him back hard.

He stretches out his tee and looks at it. “I’ll never wash this shirt.”

Shut up.

A teasing smile sits on his lips.

I slow my racing heart. Okay, he’s just messing with me.

“Shoes.” He points to my feet. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

My toes curl in my shoes.

Santana lets out a breath. “Play the game, Daelyn. That’s all you have to do.”

He sounds defeated. I know the feeling.

My shoes are St. Mary–approved loafers. It’s not like I’m stripping for him; I’d never do that. I slip off my shoes.

“Excellent,” Santana says. “Now we indulge Ariel by pretending to enjoy the macrobiotic feast she’s prepared.” He scoops the air and steps aside. “After you.”

Ariel says, “Not this again.”

Santana repeats, “I want a dog for my birthday.”

Ariel says to me, “He does this every year. He knows he’s not getting a dog. You got a computer,” she informs him.

Santana says, “That was a pity present.”

“A what?”

“It doesn’t have to be a huge, hairy dog. Or a purebred. In fact, I prefer a pound mutt.”

“No!” Ariel snaps.

Santana pouts.

“You’re only refusing because you think I’ll die and you’ll end up having to take care of my dog.”

“Stop it!” She pounds the table, rattling dishes.

There’s a long silence where the anger in the room is palpable. I want to go home.

Finally, Santana says, “I bet my father would get me a dog.”

Ariel throws up her hands. “Oh, here we go.” She places a hand on my arm, which makes me even more tense. “He keeps doing this to me,” she says. “Santana doesn’t have a father.”

Do I arch my eyebrows?

Santana takes a bite, then garbles, “Immaculate conception.”

Ariel gets up. She has a waist-long braid, graying, with frizzy bangs. Her hand touches my brace in back and I bend forward, over my bowl. She goes to the counter, lifts the pitcher, and refills my lemonade. “His father died before he was born. Even before we were married.”

Santana says, “Oh, you had to add that.”

“He was killed instantly in a rock slide when a boulder crushed his car.” Ariel sits between us, thank goodness.

Santana downs his whole glass of lemonade.

I concentrate on picking through this stew, or whatever it is. How does she know it was instant? He might have suffered.

Instant death is difficult to achieve by one’s own hand. Gunshot to the head. Explosive device.

Ariel adds, “We were getting ready for our wedding that afternoon.”

What?

Santana cuts in, “Daelyn doesn’t want to hear this.”

Now I do.

“I’d asked Santana’s father to run to the Safeway in Breckenridge to buy me some Maalox because I had an upset stomach.”

Santana rolls his eyes. “Here it comes.”

“Which turned out to be morning sickness.”

He groans. “Please. Not while we’re eating.” He angles his head at me. “Your suspicions are confirmed. I am a bastard.”

She grips his wrist. “You’re a love child.” To me she says, “I loved that man with all my heart.”

Santana goes, “He’s the only one who’d ever have her.”

She cranks his wrist hard. “I never married. Never met anyone I’d want to marry.”

“Right. Daelyn can blame my lame attempts at wooing her on the lack of a male influence in this house.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Ariel fake slaps his cheek. “Apparently your wooing paid off.”

Santana flushes. “Daelyn had to come. It wasn’t her choice.”

At least he gets that.

Now I like Ariel for making him blush. I duck my head and smile inwardly. Ariel refills my glass of lemonade again, even though I’ve only taken a couple of sips. Acidic liquids burn my throat.