How to Be Brave (24 page)

“But I did. I decided that I couldn't watch her like that anymore. I decided that she needed to rest. I read her letter over and over and then I told my dad to tell the doctors. I told my dad she had to die.”

Evelyn looks back at the letter. I'm not sure if she's listening. I'm not sure if she can hear me.

“And, look. I can't make the decision for you. But I can tell you this…” I lean closer to her. “You have to live. You have people who love you. You have no other choice.” I reach across the cold metal rail for her hand. Static pierces our skin, and we both pull back from the shock.

“No, you can't make the choice for me.”

She hands the letter back to me.

“You're right,” I say. “You're totally right. I don't have the right to be angry with you, and I can't tell you what to do, or how to live your life.”

She gives me a cold, blank stare.

“All I can do is tell you that I'm here for you.”

She turns her head away from me.

“Look, I was a bitch for not calling you back,” I say. “I have very few people in my life. To be honest, I don't know you very well. But I like you. I want to be your friend for real. You're weird and funny and you made me do things I wouldn't have done on my own, and I never said thank you for that. So thank you.”

Nothing.

“We're all allowed to fuck up, you know. We all get to make mistakes.”

Still no words.

Just her and me and a crumpled letter. Wilting flowers.

She stares out the window, at the brick buildings blocking our view of the lake.

“What song is playing in your head right now?”

Evelyn looks at me and cracks a small smile.

“Beatles, of course. ‘Julia.'” And then she sings a line for me. “‘Half of what I say is meaningless—'”

“When you get out of here,” I say, “will you finish the list with Liss and me?”

Evelyn doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she closes her eyes, and I think maybe she's fallen asleep. Her breath is steady and full, like that of a child.

After a few long, heavy minutes, she opens her eyes.

She lets me take her hand. Her skin is cold, and I can feel her bones under the thin flesh.

“Yes,” she says. “I'd really, really love to.”

*   *   *

On the way out of the hospital, I check my phone. There are three texts from Daniel:

Text #1:
How's Evelyn? Let me know.

Text #2:
Movies are too asocial. Let's do something else.

Text #3:
You're downtown, right? Shall we meet at the aquarium? Do you like fish?

The first thing I notice is that he's a hypergrammatical texter, just like me.

The second thing I notice is that he wants to go to the aquarium.

He's a big dork, just like me.

Siiigh.

I text back:
Yes. That sounds perfect. Fish are fine, but I mostly love the sea horses.

Him:
We'll find the sea horses first. We'll search for the pregnant fathers. Maybe we'll witness a live birth. Maybe we'll be asked to be godparents.

Oh, he's ridiculously, incredibly, wonderfully awesome.

Me:
I'm naming my sea horse Vincent. He'll become a well-known master of maritime watercolors.

I write this as a reference to one of Marquez's lectures where he showed us a bunch of Van Gogh paintings of sailboats. Crossing fingers he gets it.

Him:
Here's hoping he doesn't drink too much and cut off his own fin.

YES.

Me:
Nice.

Him:
Scaling back on the fish puns so soon?

Me:
Oh my Cod. You are too much.

Him:
See you soon.

YES. YES. YES.

*   *   *

We meet out front and wait in the long line of tourists and families, and at first it's incredibly awkward, but then I ask him about college and then about his dad, and then we find our way to reciting Marquezisms and bands we like, and we both relax a bit, and I sort of have to pinch myself that this is really happening, that I'm really on a date with Daniel Antell. We make our way in and shuffle through the throngs of people. We visit the sharks and the jellies, the eels and piranhas. We find our sea horse family and name the smallest ones after some of our favorite artists—Frida (for Kahlo), Andy (for Warhol), Keith (for Haring), and, of course, little Vince.

We head up to a large, open amphitheater on the top floor where the dolphins are leaping and dancing, midshow. Even though it's crazy crowded, we find a few open seats in the back. Behind the dolphins' pool is a wide wall of windows that looks east, onto Lake Michigan.

There are little kids behind us, crying because they want to sit down, so we give them our seats and make our way down to the lowest level, where we are in an underwater cave. We crowd in to the window to see the dolphins and belugas. Little kids squeeze in front of us, and the crush of adults behind us pushes us together so that I have to angle in front of him, my back against his chest. I want to look at the dolphins' dance, now even more beautiful from this underwater perspective, but I'm blinded by the touch of his body that is so close to mine. I turn my chin to look at him, and he smiles. There's no way I'm drooling on him this time.

“Should we get out of here?” he asks.

I nod, even though I can't imagine any other place I'd rather be.

We make our way out of the crowded museum to the balcony, where the wind from the lake is whipping my hair. The show inside has ended, but we can still see the shadows of the dolphins through the amphitheater windows. It's such an odd thing, to see dolphins so close to a Midwestern lake.

“It must be so confusing for them,” I say. “To swim in that pool and never get to see the ocean anymore. They must wonder where the waves are. They must wonder about the sunset. I mean, it's so sad, right? From this angle, they never get to see it—only the sunrise.”

I feel like I'm rambling, filling the empty air between us with random thoughts, when he leans down and kisses me softly. It takes me by surprise at first, and I pull back. But then I take a deep breath. And I return the kiss. The wind whips wildly around us.

It's such a good first date.

We head south under the shadow of Soldier Field alongside Burnham Harbor, where we make fun of boat names (
Baby Tonga, Sail-la-Vie,
and
The Other Woman
). We come upon Sled Hill, right below the stadium. During the winter it's packed with lines of kids all waiting their turns to fly down the snow, but now it's quiet and empty, just a few sunbathers burning their skin. We climb to the top, a good thirty feet or so, take a seat. The skyline is beautiful from up here, and it's not quite as windy as down by the aquarium.

I think he's going to kiss me again.

So I kiss him first.

And it's so good.

“What do you want to do now?” he asks.

I tell him about the list (most of it). I tell him that I want to run down the hill, but I also tell him I don't know how. “I'm just freaking scared,” I say.

“What are you scared of?”

I don't really want to let him know that I'm a big wimp and I'm pretty much afraid of everything, but I'm the one who started this stupid conversation, so now I have to say it. “Well, first of all, I'm scared of heights.”

“Um…” He laughs. “This is a hill, not a mountain.”

“Yeah, okay. Well, then I'm just scared of the downward perpetual motion. Of falling, plain and simple. Of tumbling down and hurting myself. Of spraining an ankle or busting a knee or something.”

“Anything else?” He smiles.

“Well, no. I think that's it.” I punch him lightly in the arm. “What about you? Aren't you scared of anything?”

His face changes. The smile that I love so much disappears. “Sure.” He shrugs.

“Like what?”

“Losing my dad.”

I nod. “Yeah. I was scared of that too, for my mom. I'm not scared of dying, though,” I say. “It's worse being left behind, don't you think?”

“I don't know yet.” He pauses for a moment, looking out at the lake, and then the smile returns. “But both scenarios have to be much worse than running down this hill, which will take all of six seconds.”

I laugh.

“So why do you want to do it so badly, then?” he asks. “Why is this hill calling out to you?”

I have to think about this. I remember my father, when I was younger, telling me about his childhood in Greece, about how he used to run in the mountains, up and down the hills, that he was a mountain goat, a child of the woods, free and fearless. I don't ever remember feeling that way as a child. I'm a city mouse. I know nothing about running outside, let alone down a hill.

“To feel human,” I say.

So Daniel shows me how to do it: The trick, as he shows me, is not to go toe-heel, toe-heel, as one might think, but to go heel-arch-ball, heel-arch-ball, just as if you were walking. He knows this from hiking with his dad in Oregon, well, before his dad got sick. “Just respect the laws of physics,” he says. “Use the entire surface area of your feet, and allow gravity to be your friend.”

“The laws of physics? I hardly passed chemistry.…”

“Just use your feet, and go slowly, at first. Then, pick up speed, and let yourself be.”

I run down the hill, just like he shows me how.

It's pretty easy, when you know what to do.

And with that, I've completed numbers 1, 13, and 14 all in one day.

 

16

Of course, the very next day the envelope comes from the University of Illinois.

And it's a thin one.

I sit on the front steps of my building, rip open the envelope, and skim the letter: Your application … blah blah blah … carefully reviewed … blah blah blah … We are sorry to inform you … blah blah blah …

Shit.

Well then.

Dad's leaving for California, so my one option is to go with him, apply to a city college somewhere in the middle of L.A., and see what happens from there.

My other option is …

I have no other options.

Just when things were turning around. Just when I had friends again. And just when Daniel and I started whatever it is that we're starting. Of course the letter would come today.

Daniel and Liss are going to U of I.

And I'm not.

Now what.

*   *   *

It's the last week of school, and we're all checked out, and the teachers could care less and everyone's talking about summer road trips and dorm rooms and prereqs for fall. I get daily texts from Liss to join her and her new friends, Avery and Chloe, and the others for lunch, and so I do. Turns out they're okay, I guess. I don't have to love them like she does, but it's nice to be included for once. What matters most is that we still have afternoons together, just her and me, and those feel like the old days.

I get hourly texts from Evelyn with little notes about the—and I quote—
shitty-ass hospital food
and the young male doctors who are
beyond sexxxy
.

And I get hourly kisses from Daniel, which are the best.

I never thought I'd be the one to say this, but I wish high school weren't ending so soon.

On the last Thursday before graduation, Marquez calls me over after class, and for once, he doesn't ask me to go sit outside on a bench. “Congratulations on a great year,” he says, shaking my hand.

“Thanks.”

“Sit down. What are your plans for fall?”

“Not sure.” I shrug. I tell him about the U of I and my move to California. “I don't really want to go, though. I'm not sure how I can tell my dad that. I was hoping to get accepted to U of I just so I could stay in Illinois. It would have been a great excuse. I just don't see myself as a California girl.”

“What about Columbia College? They have rolling admissions. It might not be too late. Go online and fill out the application, and I'll make a couple of phone calls. I can't promise anything, but you never know. If not in the fall, maybe in the spring? You're going to do art, right?”

Oh. Wow. What?

“To be perfectly honest, I hadn't thought about what I'm going to do, but that would be amazing if you could—”

He interrupts me and puts up his hand. “You are going to do art. That much I know.”

Really? Is this what I want? To be an artist?

To live the same life as her?

I watched her swim in colors and drown herself on the flat surfaces of canvas and ask questions about the universe without living in it.

I watched her sit in her studio, sketching, reading, painting, destroying—for hours and hours, days and days sometimes—disconnected from us, from her body, from what was real.

I watched her deteriorate. I watched her wither. I watched her shrivel.

Obesity, diabetes, heart disease, kidney failure, sepsis, death.

She didn't choose this life, but she didn't fight against it, either.

And here I am, an artist. Starting out, just like her.

What is it that
I
want?

“Do I have to decide right now?” I say this aloud, but I know the answer right as I finish the question.

Marquez looks surprised and, frankly, a little disappointed, but then he says finally, “No, you don't have to decide anything. You have to live your life. No one else is going to do it for you.”

I hear my mom's words:
Be brave, Georgia
.

The bravest thing I could do right now is to step out into the unknown, away from her.

Maybe I will go to art school.

Maybe I won't.

But I know that there are other options. Other items that aren't on the list. Other lists, long lists, that have yet to be written.