Falling into Place (17 page)

She thought of Kennie's parents, and Julia's, and how none of them were happy.

Liz believed love was unconditional, and the longer she sat on the couch and stared at the screen, where Jake's avatar was filling with bullets, the less convinced she was about the existence of love.

Still, she had to make sure. And since her theory didn't apply solely to romantic love, she called her mother.

The phone rang twelve times. Liz was about to hang up when her mother finally picked up.

“Liz?” Her mother's voice was frazzled and far away. “What is it?”

“Mom?” Liz had to clear her throat because her voice was so small. “Mom, I . . .”

She didn't know what to say.
Do you love me?
Even in her head, it sounded stupid.

Monica let the silence last for about five seconds. “Liz, can this wait? I thought this was an emergency. You know this is an international call, right? I'm in Rio right now, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember, Mom. I just—”

“Honey, I had to leave the meeting to answer this. I can barely understand what the man is saying as it is—his accent is so heavy. What do you need?”

What did she need? Liz Emerson knew what she needed. What she truly needed was help, but she didn't know the words to ask for it.

“Mom,” Liz finally whispered. “I think I'm sick.”

“Oh, well, there's some Tylenol in the pantry. You know that. I have to go, okay, Liz? I'll be back Wednesday—” Her mother paused and cleared her throat.

Of course she was coming back on Wednesday. Monica had missed New Year's and Easter and Halloween and the first snowfall, but she would never miss the anniversary of her husband's death.

“Wednesday. Stay warm. Drink some soup. Okay, I really need to go.” Monica hesitated, and her voice was distant when she said, “Love you, sweetie. Bye.”

CALL ENDED.

Liz stared at the screen. Her mother's words echoed through her head:
love you
. People threw them around so easily, as if they were nothing, as if they meant nothing.

She stood and popped Jake's game out of the Xbox, cracked it in half, and went to clean her room. Liz didn't want to leave any clues behind, and if anyone saw the state of her room, the accident story would be considerably less believable.

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L
iz's mother has noticed Liam.

She had been wondering where Liz's boyfriend was when she remembered the boy who had been sitting near the window since yesterday afternoon. She doesn't know that Liam was the one who called the police, or what he has to do with Liz, or even his name. She only knows that he has been sitting in the same place for a very long time.

So she buys him a cup of coffee.

Liam has his hood pulled down over his head, and his eyes are closed. Monica wonders briefly if he and Liz are dating, which would explain why Jake Derrick has not come, and why this boy has been here all night and all day. He's a nice-looking boy, very different from the other boys that Liz has brought home over the years, and she hopes that this one stays.

Monica sets down the coffee and begins to walk away, but Liam's quiet “Thank you” makes her stop, turn, and look at him again. A lump rises in her throat as he watches her; she can see clearly that he wants to ask for news but is too afraid of the answer. So Monica tries to smile and fails utterly, and then she walks away, leaving Liam with a crappy cup of coffee.

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W
hile Liam sips his coffee, a group of Liz's less-than-friends, more-than-acquaintances plays cards on the other side of the waiting room.

“Jacobsen was such a bitch about it,” one of them says. “Dude, he gave us homework. Yeah, like I'm going to do homework tonight. Liz is dying, and he expects us to memorize all of the irregulars in the preterit tense?”

“Yeah, Macmillan still made us take our test in AP Physics. ‘It's a college course' and all that shit,” says someone, laying down a nine of clubs.

Across the table, someone sighs. “Damn it. I fold.”

“And then,” Nine of Clubs continues, “she started talking about the physics of car crashes. Like, what the hell? Ever heard of fucking tact?”

He says it rather loudly. The few people who sit waiting for someone other than Liz Emerson look tempted to ask him the same question.

“Eliezer didn't make us do anything.” His name is Thomas Bane, and he and Liz had a brief fling earlier this year while she was on a break from Jake. “I think the guy was crying in the back room.”

“Or he was with Mr. Stephens. Doing something else in the back room.”

This, however, apparently crosses a line. Every head turns to glare at the speaker, and Thomas Bane says, “Dude. Not the time.”

They fall silent, staring at the cards. For a moment, I wonder if Liz was wrong. Maybe people really are less selfish in the face of pain.

Then someone else sighs.

“Damn,” he says. “I fold too.”

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S
he remembered the Emily Dickinson poem stenciled on the wall of the English room. She could see it as she drove, black words against a yellowing wall:

If I can stop one heart from breaking
,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching
,

Or cool one pain
,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again
,

I shall not live in vain
.

But she had, hadn't she? She had lived in vain. Second semester of sophomore year had just started. All of the winter teams were beginning to prepare for state tournaments, and spring athletes were getting in shape for their seasons. Julia had a dentist appointment that day, and when Liz finished her weight training, Kennie was still in dance practice. Liz stood alone in the gym lobby, scrolling through her messages, trying to tune out the echoing hoots of the basketball team as they finished their drills.

When she looked up again, half the boys had left, and the other half were huddled in a corner, laughing.

Liz heard the word
queer
and walked toward them. When she got closer, she realized that the solid mass of boy was not, in fact, a solid mass, but a number of sweaty, tall, laughing assholes surrounding Veronica Strauss.

Liz heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Kennie coming down the stairs with her jazz shoes in one hand. She was singing in a cheerfully off-key voice, beaming at Liz as she skipped across the gym lobby to join her. She stopped abruptly when she caught sight of the basketball boys.

“Hey,” she said. Kennie had a habit of drawing out her
heys
in an annoying fashion that Liz had had to adapt to or go insane, but this time it was quieter and confused. She too had caught sight of Veronica Strauss behind the polyester basketball shorts.

Liz looked around for the coach. He was cleaning his whistle on his shirt with his back to his team. Liz was almost certain that he was not deaf, but he was faithfully playing the part.

It was when the guys began touching Veronica that Liz finally thought
no
.

“Come on,” Zack Hayes was saying. His right arm was braced on the wall above Veronica's head, and his face was inches from hers. She was wincing, either from his breath or his lack of deodorant or fear; Liz suspected it was a mix of all three. “Babe, you can't know what you want if you haven't tried, right? How do you know that you don't like dick, huh?” He moved closer and put his other hand on the small of her back. “I mean, if you ever want to try . . . just ask.”

The basketball players were falling over themselves with laughter, but Liz, frankly, couldn't see what was funny. She hadn't gone to church since her father died, but Liz very clearly remembered a kind, gray-haired Sunday school teacher telling that everyone was different, and she should try very hard to love them all.

She had failed at that, of course.

The boys had begun to notice Liz, and they parted enough to let her through. She elbowed a number of them in their stomachs, and didn't apologize.

“Zack,” she said. “Get your shitty BO out of her face.”

Zack started, turned, and then relaxed again when he saw her. “Hey, Liz,” he said easily. “What's up?”

“What the hell?” said Liz.

“Oh.” Zack grinned. “We're just trying to, you know, convince Veronica here. I mean, it isn't like you aren't hot or anything,” he added in Veronica's direction. “I'm sure a ton of guys would sleep with you if you'd let them.”

“Zack,” Liz said. “Don't be an asshole.”

“What?” Zack moved away from Veronica and turned to face Liz. “Come on, Liz. You know it's not natural. I mean, she's probably just confused. Like, if—”

“Raping her won't convince her,” Liz said.

Zack stopped short, and the rest of the team fell silent. Liz held his gaze and dared him to say something. It was the first time she had ever said anything about the party, that party, and part of her wished that he would take the bait. She wanted to punch him. She knew how many girls Zack had slept with, and she how many of them hadn't wanted him there. He knew. His friends knew. The basketball team, if they hadn't known before, knew now.

But Zack only smirked. “What's up, Liz? Jake not keeping you happy? I mean, if you're feeling unsure, I can always, y' know, reorient you—”

“Fuck you,” Liz spat. “Why the hell do you have the right to tell her who she can love? Is it really any of your business?”

“Chill out, Liz,” Zack said. His lip was curling up in a sneer, and it was not an attractive look. “Listen, I'm just trying to do the right thing here. God hates fags, right?”

“I don't think God hates anyone,” Kennie said very quietly from behind them.

There was a small silence, and until that moment, Liz had been rather neutral on the whole gayness thing. But as she stared at Veronica standing in the corner with her hair in her eyes and half the basketball team around her, Liz realized that though she didn't know what was right, she knew that what Zack was doing was wrong.

“C'mon,
assholes
,” Zack said, smirking, and slowly the boys followed him, though not without throwing a number of dirty looks at Liz, not without muttering and laughing as they walked away. Kennie asked Veronica if she was okay, but in a distant sort of way, because they were from different social castes and this exchange broke a number of rules. Liz turned for the door, and Kennie followed after a moment, and they never spoke of it again.

The next day, Liz sat at lunch and someone made a vaguely homophobic joke and Liz gave the punch line—“Because God hates fags”—and they all laughed. She didn't meet Kennie's eyes, and when the laughter died and the conversation changed direction, Liz looked at the next table, where Zack sat with his group of friends.

I'm not one bit better, am I?

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L
iam had seen the entire thing.

He had driven back to school because he had left his phone in his locker, and on his way through the gym lobby, he saw Liz Emerson snapping at Zack Hayes, and it was an immensely satisfying sight.

It struck him that perhaps she thought just as many thoughts in a minute as he did, felt just as many emotions, inhaled and exhaled just as he did. And it was then that he began to fall in love with her for the second time, for the same reason that he had picked up his flute again: because he believed in broken things.

And I know it isn't his fault, not really, but I wish he would have told her. I wish he had told her.

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L
iz is being moved out of the ICU and into a private room. Monica cries when she hears the news. Julia wipes at her nose surreptitiously. Kennie bawls. Liam overhears and closes his eyes, and quietly thanks everything that will listen.

One visitor at a time, they are told. But the fact that they are allowed to visit at all is such an improvement that they can't help but hope.

The room is cold and dim and unfriendly, and Liz looks like hell. When Monica sees her, she feels such a strange mix of elation and sadness that her breath turns heavy and she almost cannot go on, but she does. She goes to Liz's bed and looks down at her daughter, and she wonders what her husband would have said if he were here.

“Elizabeth Michelle Emerson,” she whispers, stroking Liz's hair away from her face. She remembers being just two floors above here, holding Liz when she was still just a small bundle of pink in her arms. She remembers shifting Liz from one arm to the other so that she and her husband could sign the birth certificate beneath the name that they had chosen so carefully.

Through her tears, she says softly, “Please don't make me write it on a tombstone.”