Wake (31 page)

Jem looks down and nods uncomfortably. He knows how he looks.

“This,” I flick the poem, “is my side of things. Can you appreciate that maybe you remind me of some very painful shit that happened in my life? I mean in addition to being a jerk.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to leave you alone?”

“I want you to admit that your feelings aren’t the only ones that matter.”

“I’m sorry. You do matter. You matter a lot.”

He reaches out to grab the railing suddenly and sways a little.

“Are you okay?”

“Just got lightheaded there for a minute.” He turns and sits down on the stair before he can fall down.

“Do you need food? Juice?”

“No.”

I take a seat beside him and he snorts self-deprecatingly. “You know, I was so nervous to come over here and talk to you that I made myself sick.”

“Jeez, Harper.” I rub slow circles on his back. Jem carefully closes the cover on
Imaginary Maps
.

“Is it okay with you if I lay on the couch awhile longer?”

“Do you want my bed? That couch sags like ninety-year-old tits and the bed closer to the bathroom if you feel sick.” Jem quietly accepts the offer and we head upstairs. On second thought, I go back downstairs to grab the mop bucket out of the laundry room. If he’s dizzy as well as nauseated it’d be better if he didn’t have to try to run to the bathroom.

I sit on the desk chair, facing Jem where he’s curled up on his side. He barely fits length-wise in my twin bed.

“Why weren’t you at Elise’s party last night?” I don’t think he came downstairs the whole night.

“I was. I drifted in and out. Eric and I were supposed to be supervising, but it seemed like he had a handle on it.”

“What did you do?”

“I called some friends. Caught up with them and stuff.” That explains the cell phone on his floor.

“Sounds like fun.”

Jem snorts. “More like an exercise in jealousy.”

“How’s that?”

“They have lives. Places to go, people to see. I live in
Smiths Falls
and have no social life.”

“I take it you didn’t always scare people away?”

Jem scowls at me. “You know why people avoid me.”

“I know why you
think
they do.” Jem gives me a dry look, which I ignore. “You think you look creepy and that it puts people off. And yeah, you’re right, maybe it does freak a few people out, but that’s not enough to make you a complete pariah. People avoid you because you push them away with moodiness and jackassery.”

Jem stares at me for a few seconds like I haven’t got to the point yet, and then closes his eyes and sighs through his nose. “I wish I could have known you before I got sick.”

I have never felt more compel ed to smack this boy. I tell him that’s a stupid thing to wish.

“I know. Can’t turn back time.” He can be so dense it’s unbelievable.

“Everything I know about you from before points to the fact that I wouldn’t have liked you had I known you then, and you probably wouldn’t have liked me either.”

“You like me now?” Always with the difficult questions.

“You’re not unlikeable.”

“But do you?” he pushes quietly.

“Yes.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile. “I like you too.” There’s an awkward silence where I don’t know if I’m supposed to say something back. We both get a little shifty-eyed; studying benign objects around the room in between the searching glances we throw at each other.

He breaks the silence first. “Can you…?”

“What?”

“Can you come sit over here? I mean…your hand on my back felt really nice.” He seems so embarrassed just to ask. I can’t think of a reason why not, so I leave the chair and sit behind him on the bed, between his back and the wall. He relaxes just a little as I make circles on his back. The arms he has wrapped around his middle shift slightly, so he’s holding them up around his chest.

“Thanks.” He smiles sadly and snorts like something is funny in a pathetic sort of way.

“What was that for?”

“Yesterday you weren’t even willing to look at me, and today you’re being nice and touching me.”

“You’re being nice too.”

Jem reaches out and picks up my iPod off the nightstand. He holds it out to me questioningly, and I take it. We each take an earphone and I scrol through my playlists for an appropriate song. I choose “One Week” by the Barenaked Ladies. It’s apt. Jem picks the next one, “Iris” by The Goo Goo Dol s, and he drifts off to my second pick: “In the Sun” by Joseph Arthur. Jem’s sleep is swift and sound. He’s exhausted in so many ways. I take the earphone out gently when he begins to snore and sit back with my music, watching him sleep. When he begins to shiver slightly I get up and fold the blanket over him like a human burrito. That settles him for a little while, but then he begins to shake again and makes mewling sounds under his breath.

“Shh,” I whisper, like he’s a restless child. I put an arm over him and adjust the edge of the blanket to keep the cooler air away from him. Jem curls further into himself, pressing his back against my front.

Some part of his unconscious mind realizes I’m warm, and he turns his head toward me in sleep. His neck is going to cramp like that.

“Lift your head,” I encourage him, even as I do it for him. I slip the pillow under his head and bundle the blanket a little tighter. Jem’s eyelids flutter.

He groans and I sit up on my elbow. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”

Jem licks his lips and forces his eyes open. He has a hellof a time of it, blinking tiredly as he tries to focus.

“I forgot my meds.”

It feels like all the air has gone out of the room at once. I haven’t felt that in awhile. It’s a sensation whose absence I never lament.

“Fuck.”

I fling back the edge of the blanket and pat down his pockets, looking for the little pill sorter I know he keeps. I find it in his front left pocket. There’s still a familiar pill in the ‘afternoon’ slot.

“I’ll get you some water.”

I take the stairs two at a time. I am such a screw up—to upset him so badly is one thing, but to upset him to the point where he forgets important medication is quite another. He wasn’t shivering in his sleep;

he wasn’t cold—he was in pain and starting to withdraw a little bit. It’s a nasty business to miss a dose of opiates after prolonged use.

I take the cup of water upstairs and help Jem sit up. His hands are shaking, so I slip the pill past his lips and help him steady the cup at his mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re
sorry?
I don’t care if you’re sorry—are you okay?”

“You look worried.” He tilts his head to the side curiously, like I’m the one being the idiot here.

“I look worried…” I shake my head. “I ought to bubble-wrap you, Harper.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Lay down.” He obeys like he’s scared of what I’ll do if he doesn’t. “Are you hurting?”

“Kirk,” he scolds me softly. I must be over-reacting. I do that when people mess with my head. I have serious issues with watching people endure pain.

“Sorry.” I set the pill sorter down on the nightstand and set myself down on my desk chair. “I’m sorry I messed you up so bad.”

“I’ve lived through worse.” I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from yelling at him:
Stop saying

shit like that! Your entire life isn’t a fucking disease!
But I’ve frightened him enough for one day, so I let it be.

“Okay then,” I say. “But I still intend to kill you.”

*

Jem stays for dinner. I make beet soup with fresh mint leaves. It’s a starter for Frank and I, and a main course for Jem. I’ve got mararoni in the oven and vegetables on the stove for the entrée. We’re just sitting down to eat when Luke shows up unexpectedly and lets himself in. He takes a chair like his presence is nothing out of the ordinary, and Frank asks him how Doug is doing. I wonder if he drove all this way for a meal or if he was in Smiths Falls already on some errand.

“Not bad,” Luke says. He lifts the cover on the soup pot and smells the contents. “Looks good.” He takes a helping and gets red lips along with the rest of us.

“Okay, where’s the real food?” he says when I get up to clear away three soup bowls. He jumps up to help me take the pork out of the oven and serve it.

Jem’s face is practically buried in his bowl. It would be easy to mistake his posture for eagerness to eat, but he’s spooning his soup slowly and his shoulders are hunched. Just working his way through his ‘fake’ food, I guess.

“How’s the soup?” I slide a serving of pork Frank’s way.

“It’s good. Thank you,” he says quietly. Luke tries to make conversation by asking Jem how he’s been since they last met, that night at Joe Moore’s house.

“Fine. Did you have fun last night?”

The question perplexes Luke. He looks to me for help, and I can only shrug. I don’t know what Jem is referring to.

“The party,” he says like we’re the slow ones.

“What party?” Luke elbows me.

“It was his sister’s birthday last night,” I tell Luke, and elbow him back.

“Cool. Sorry I missed it.”

Jem looks like he couldn’t possibly disagree any more.

“Hannah and I ended up going together.”

Jem looks from me to Luke with something like curiosity, or maybe suspicion. Luke steals a cherry tomato off my plate and Frank, who is never good at making conversation, asks Jem how Dr. Harper has been lately.

When the meal is done, I pack up a container of the leftover soup for Jem to take home. He might need a fill ing snack later to balance the strain of a trying day.

After the day I’ve had, I’m emotionally exhausted, but Luke is a bundle of energy, and it’s contagious.

He helps me with the dishes while Jem hangs back, quietly putting the dry dishes away. He watches me intently out of the corner of his eye, looking for something. Luke, in turn, is eying Jem. The way he does it makes me think that he wants Jem to leave. Clearly Jem thinks that too, because the moment the last dish is put away he quietly announces his intention to go home.

“I’ll walk you out.”

We hug goodbye in the foyer. Jem makes another unnecessary apology and says, “Thanks for the blanket last night.” He’s got this look on his face like he isn’t sure he phrased that right.

“You’re welcome.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up. There’s nothing left to say, so he quietly takes his leave. I stand by the screen door, watching him go to his car. He drives away quickly.

“You doing anything tonight?” Luke says from
right
behind me. I jump and he chuckles.

“You’re gangly as hell ; how can you walk so softly?”

“It’s a gift.” He smiles cheekily. “There’s a bonfire at my place tonight.”

It’s a Saturday and I’ve had a hard week. A night out of the house might actually be a good idea. I grab my jacket, call my plans across the house to Frank, and we’re off.

The bonfire is an excuse to dispose of the dead brush that the Thorpes have pruned from around their property, and is attended by a few of Luke’s friends, his sister Briana, Doug, and Mr. Thorpe. Everyone is in good spirits besides Briana, who maintains a sullen glare in between biting comments to the rest of the company.

“She’s been a real pain in the ass lately,” Luke says.

“Shut your stupid mouth, Luke,” she barks at him.

“Don’t listen.”

“I’ll leave if you don’t want me here.”

“No you won’t,” he laughs. “It’s your mission in life to annoy the crap out of people.” So she stays,

sitting like a bump on a log, sul enly tossing twigs into the fire. I don’t like to look at Briana. She’s stained and starving in places that can only be seen if you know what to look for. It gives me shivers. Luke mistakes these for cold and puts an arm around me. He’s getting touchy, but he’s warm, and we’re supposed to pretend that nothing happened, so I let him.

Luke drives me home when Frank calls to tell me that it’s getting late. It’s not, really, but he’s concerned and the Thorpes respect my brother too much to keep me here longer.

“Sorry about Briana,” Luke says as we pull out of the driveway.

“She’s alright.” I ask Luke what happened to her, and he tells me about Briana getting involved with the wrong people at school. She’s on probation for possession until July. Not so bad in the general scheme of things, but disturbing when I consider that she’s only fourteen.

“She’ll be okay.”

“I hope so. Her attitude is getting old.”

When Luke drops me off he tries to kiss me. I don’t let him.

“That stuff on the couch doesn’t mean anything, you know.”

Luke kisses my cheek instead. “Yet.”

That cocky, is he?

Sunday

I wake up at six and can’t fall back to sleep, so I get up and take a shower. I eat a big breakfast, read the morning paper, and barely wait till eight o’clock before getting in my car and heading over to the Harper house.

Ivy is awake when I get there—go figure. She lets me in and we chat over coffee while we wait for everyone else to wake up. Dr. Harper comes downstairs first and offers to make pancakes. Ivy declines.

Elise drifts in next, bleary-eyed with wild bed-head and pajamas pants about six inches too long. She pours herself a giant cup of coffee and tries to drown herself in it before saying good morning.

“How’d you sleep?” Ivy asks her.

Elise grunts dull y. “Did he wake you up?”

Ivy’s smile fades to a look of worry. “Again?”

Elise nods and lifts her mug. “And he
never
has nightmares after dialysis. Every freaking night, now.”

“Shit, I know,” Eric concurs loudly as he enters the kitchen. “How’d you hear him? Your room is all the way down the hall .”

“Light sleeper, remember?”

Eric opens the breadbox and Elise leans back on her chair legs, arm extended. He tosses her a muffin without looking.

“I think it’s the prednisone,” she says.

The Harpers are such gossips. They talk so casually behind Jem’s back and justify it with love.