Secret for a Song (7 page)

I
insisted that he didn’t have to walk me to the car. Once I was back on the
road, I reached my hand across my chest, palpating for the forming abscess. It
was smaller than I remembered. I reached into my hoodie pocket and felt for the
syringe. Still there. I’d have to remember to do it tonight before I went to
bed. Inject early, inject often—that was my current slogan.

The
streets were icy, and I didn’t so much drive as slide home. When I got inside
the gates at The Mills, a quick look at Zee’s dashboard clock told me it was a
little past midnight. Mum was asleep; the house plunged into darkness.

Leaving
the yellow car in our driveway, I let myself in the front door and crept into
the kitchen in the darkness. I flipped on the lights over the sink and got myself
a drink of water. I’d left puddles of water behind me from the melted snow. I
wondered if Mum would ask me about them in the morning; if I’d tell her where
I’d been and with whom. I couldn’t picture us having a normal mother-daughter
conversation like that, though. Even my daydreams couldn’t conjure up something
that farfetched.  

My
eyes roved over her crafting nook, and I saw that the minuscule planks of wood
were gone. She must’ve finished the flooring. The roof was glazed; the window
trim had been painted a bright yellow. Everything was perfect, just so, idyllic.

I
set my glass down in the sink and walked over to the dollhouse, slipping the
syringe out of my hoodie pocket as I went. There was a tiny queen-size bed in
the master bedroom, made with precise hospital corners in a blue-and-gold duvet
and matching shams. I moved it to the side so the new wooden flooring
underneath was exposed. Using the sharp point of my syringe, I scored my
initials into the floor. Then, very carefully, I replaced the bed exactly as it
had been.

Once
the lights were out, I made my way through the shadows and up the stairs to my
own life-sized bedroom.

When
I woke up Saturday, my first thought was—as it had been yesterday—about Drew, about
how he’d almost kissed me when we’d hung out Thursday night. Which was an absurd
first thought to have, because there were more important things going on.

For
one, my abscess site felt swollen and hot. And for two, I was definitely
running a fever. I sat up and opened the top button of my pajamas, peering down
at my chest.

Yep,
definitely getting to abscess status.

I
pushed my knuckles into the tight, puffy skin for good measure, biting down on
my lip so I wouldn’t cry out. I put a hand to my forehead—101 at least. I
shivered as I made my way from the bed to the bathroom mirror, where I
gleefully took note of my reddened cheeks and cracked, dry lips. After a quick
teeth-brushing and hair-combing, I threw on some jeans and a pink sweater (it
brought out the redness in my skin) and went downstairs to find Mum.

She
was in the den, sipping tea and watching a show about antique shopping on TV. I
sat next to her, laid my head on her shoulder. I felt her stiffen.

“I
don’t feel so good, Mum.” The heat from my cheeks had to be blazing through to
her skin.

“You’re
running a fever. I can feel it through my clothes.”

“I
can believe it. I feel like shit.” I coughed to underscore my point.

There
was silence. Finally, she said my name in a tone that screamed, “Why are you
such a fucking miserable piece of shit?”

“What.”
Here it comes: the accusation.

“What
did you do?”

I
lifted my head and looked at her, but she wouldn’t look at me. She stared
steadfastly at the TV. “I didn’t do
anything
.”

“Why
are you running a fever?”

I
forced myself to not touch the abscess. My sweater covered it, so there was no
way she knew about it. One reason I was thankful to winter. “I don’t know.
Christ.
Did you think about the fact that maybe I’m just sick? How about some
sympathy?”

“Watch
your language.” She gulped down the rest of her tea and stood up. Abruptly, as
if she was just learning to walk, she tottered into the coffee table. A metal
vase went crashing to the floor. “Shit.” She bent down and picked it up, set it
back on the table. It fell over again.

Reaching
to right the vase, I said, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”
But she wouldn’t look at me as she made her way to the kitchen.

She
came back a minute later with some pills and a thermometer. I opened my mouth
and she stuck it under my tongue. When it beeped, she took it back out and
looked at it. “102. Do you want to go to the doctor?”

I
shook my head, wincing at the pain deep inside. “Just give me some ibuprofen,
please. And maybe a blanket and some warm milk?”

She
handed me the pills and a glass of water, and watched as I took them. I’d been
known to hide them in between the couch cushions in the past. When I was done,
she went to the wicker basket at the side of the couch and retrieved a throw
blanket for me. “Would you like a book?”

“Yes,
please.”

I
didn’t really read the book she handed me. Instead, I reveled in the feeling of
the fever burning inside me, inflaming tissue and muscle. I cherished the
feeling of my mother sitting at my feet, casting worried glances my way every
few minutes. She thought I didn’t see her, but I did. I always did.

I’d
fallen asleep when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. Pulling it out, I
glanced at the screen.

Zee’s
cool with us hanging on to the car. Still on for the petition thing at 2? -Drew

I
texted back:
Yes. Pick you up at 1:45.

Mum
looked up, and I took it as a small sign of her interest in my life.

“It’s
a text from a friend I met at the hospital. He wants to know if I’m
volunteering again this afternoon.”

She
nodded, took a sip of tea. I waited for a question, a quiver of her eyebrow, a
twitch of her lip. Anything that would show me that she wanted to know more.
But her face was a wax mask, as always.

When
I went to Catholic mass with my grandma and mum as a little girl, the services
always fascinated me. What I found especially spellbinding was the changing of
the bread and wine (or grape juice) to the supposed actual flesh and blood of
Christ. My grandma said it was a mystery, that no one knew how it made that
magical transformation. When I got older, I learned the official word for the
process:
Transubstantiation
.

I
wasn’t even remotely a Catholic anymore, if I’d ever been one at all. But I
still believed in transubstantiation. I believed in my mother’s ability to
reverse-transubstantiate, to change from one substance to another; her flesh
and blood to smoke and shadows when I was near. 

I
left for Drew’s house close to one-thirty p.m. The ibuprofen had,
unfortunately, reduced my fever, so I’d managed to eat a few bites of lunch. I
was counting on walking around downtown with Drew to bring it raging back.

Mum
had disappeared into the bowels of the house, so she didn’t see me getting into
Zee’s car and driving off. I wondered what she’d think if she knew her
forbidding me to drive a car didn’t curtail my freedom to drive one after all.
Would she feel impotent anger like a normal parent would? I’d learned it was
nearly impossible to predict my mother’s feelings or behaviors, but it never
prevented me from trying. She was my Everest.

D
rew
came out of his apartment the moment I pulled into his parking spot, like he’d
been waiting for me at his window. He started toward me with a wave, gingerly
treading the grayish slush on the ground. His boots occasionally slid instead
of stepping firmly, and I watched as he clutched his cane tighter, his long
body listing like a boat in high winds. By the time he opened the door and got
in, concentration had etched deep worry lines beside his eyes and mouth.

“I
fucking hate this weather. Makes me feel like I’m going to face-plant with
every step.”

“Mm.”
I stared at him for a long moment, wondering if I should say what had been
hovering in my mind while I watched him walking toward me. The intricacies, the
customs and courtesies, of Drew’s world baffled me. And yet, I was supposed to
be a part of it. I was supposed to know how to broach delicate subjects.

When
he felt my eyes on him, he turned. I looked away quickly, but it was too
late—he’d seen me. “What?”

I
shook my head, but knew he wouldn’t let it go. “Nothing. It’s just... Have you considered
getting a wheelchair?”

He
had a look on his face I couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t anger or the look of
someone who’d taken offense at what I’d said. “Not until I absolutely fucking have
to, Grayson. Not until it’s either the chair or army crawling everywhere. Those
have to be my choices before I choose the fucking chair.”

He
said “the chair” like he was talking about the electric chair and going to his
death. And that’s when I realized what that expression was on his face:
resolve. It was completely and utterly foreign to me, this determination to
stay mobile for as long as possible. I’d give just about anything to be in a
wheelchair, to be the very symbol of handicap. People holding open doors for
you, peeking glances at you when they thought you weren’t looking—those were
the things my dreams were made of.

I
began to back out of the parking space that Drew’d never use. “So, where are we
headed first?”

I
pulled into a centrally-located parking garage so we could walk up and down the
streets that had the most shops. Downtown Ridgeland had a more liberal culture
than the rest of the city, and Drew felt it would be our best bet to get the
signatures. Most of the store owners were youngish and well-educated, their
principles in direct opposition to the crowd that owned the mini-mansions in
the outer boroughs of the city, like my parents did.

I
watched from the corners of my eye as Drew hobbled alongside me, slowing down
so people could pass him on either side when the sidewalk narrowed. I wondered
how long he’d last before I’d have to go get the car and take him home. Would
it be a blow to his manly ego? Would I have to step in and ask him to stop,
insist that it was time to go home, or would that be offensive? Did people with
major illnesses have that kind of authority with one another that outsiders
would never be permitted? There were so many ways in which I could go wrong. I
forced myself to take a few deep breaths and keep calm, see how this would play
out. For now, I wanted to just enjoy being out here with Drew.  

“Ah,”
he said, stopping under the green and white-striped awning of a store. The
smell of coffee was hot and strong in my nostrils. “First stop, French Press.”

A
bell on the door jingled when we went in and the young, cute male barista
looked up at us and smiled. “Hey guys. Welcome to French Press.”

“Thanks,”
I said.

But
he only had eyes for Drew. “What can I get you today?”

“I’ll
have a macchiato, please,” I replied.

He
glanced at me, nodded, and then looked back at Drew with a coy smile, waiting
for a response.

“I’m
actually good on coffee,” Drew said, pulling out papers from his messenger bag.
I couldn’t tell if he got that the barista had the hots for him. He was as calm
and collected as usual. “But I do have something I’d like you to take a look
at, if you have a minute.”

“Okay,”
the guy said, eying us warily now. He probably thought we were here to sell him
something.

Drew
handed him the papers. “That’s a petition for Jack Phillips, a
twenty-four-year-old man with end-stage lung cancer. The cancer has most
recently caused a brain infection amongst other issues, and Jack has virtually
no quality of life left. His dying wish is to have a physician prescribe him a
lethal cocktail, which will end his life mercifully, at home, on his own terms.
But New Hampshire currently doesn’t recognize physician assisted suicide as a
legal medical option. This petition could change that.”

The
barista was reading the papers with interest now, his eyes eating up the words.
“Physician assisted suicide. That’s like what they have over in Switzerland,
right?”

“Yes,
exactly,” Drew replied, his grip on his cane relaxed. I felt more nervous than
he looked.

“I
watched a YouTube video about this American dude who went to Switzerland to
die. He, like, had this awful disease and he could barely breathe, but they
wouldn’t grant him permission either.”

“Right
to Die,” Drew said. “That’s a powerful movie.”

“It
totally is,” the barista said, smiling again. “This is such an awesome thing
for you to do.”

“It’s
close to my heart,” Drew said simply. He didn’t explain that he had FA, that he
was maybe fighting for his own right to die one day.

The
barista signed the paper with a flourish and handed it back, his fingers
touching Drew’s. “I hope you get what you want,” he said.

“Thanks.”

When
we were back outside a few moments later, I realized I’d never gotten my
macchiato.

“Nice
work,” I said as we began to walk to the next store. “That was fast.”

Drew
stopped and took a mock bow, holding his hands out grandly. “Thank you, thank
you. I’m glad you noticed. I just have that magic touch.”

We
began to walk again, and I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well, you know, it helps when
the person you’re trying to sell on an idea has a ginormous crush on you.”

A
jogger jostled Drew as he ran by, and I grabbed his arm. When he’d recovered
his balance, he said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh,
come on.” I raised an eyebrow at his baffled expression. “You seriously didn’t
notice that dude smiling at you like you were the Mother Teresa to his orphan
child?”

“Emphatically
no,” Drew said. “But tell me one thing.” I looked at him, but he was staring
straight ahead as we walked. “Do you smile a lot when you have a crush on
someone?”

My
cheeks felt hot, but I didn’t think it was the fever coming back yet. Was Drew
flirting? “Like, me specifically?”

“Yeah,
you specifically.”

“I...honestly
don’t know the answer to that question.” I tried to laugh, but it just sounded
squeaky, like I was gasping for air. “I don’t think I flirt. At least, I don’t
know
how
to flirt. I’m not generally the flirty type.” I knew I was
babbling, but I couldn’t stop myself. This was the closest to girly I’d ever
been. I didn’t care for it too much.

“Interesting.”
Drew smiled at me, but before I could ask him what he meant by that, we were
turning into the next store, a place that sold rare used books.