Wake (53 page)

You miss her.

I don’t even want to look at her.

Yeah, ‘cause that’s why you got all shell-shocked by her absence yesterday.

Call her.

No.

You know you want to talk to her.

On some level I do miss talking to Willa. But what is there to talk about now? We can’t just go back to discussing music and Soc homework after…after what was said. The only thing left to say is…well , I’m not sure what, exactly, but I want to diffuse the tension. I’m tired of feeling it weigh on me.

This doesn’t strike me as the kind of conversation that should be had over the phone. I need to find a way to talk to her in private, face-to-face. But she probably doesn’t want to see me.

So I text her:
Do you have my Nightdodger CD?

I know she has it. I loaned it to her a week before our hike. Retrieving it will give me an excuse to go over to her house and see her. We can sit down and hash this out. I have a feeling it’ll take a while.

She replies:
You’re not getting that back.

Spitefull as ever, I see.

You’re being a child.

You’re being a prick.

This chick is driving me crazy.

Mom and Dad return from their gardening trip, damp with rain and seemingly optimistic about their plans for the area around the front porch. Mom sees me sitting up with my cell o and smiles.

“What are you playing?”

“Just puttering around.” I raise my bow and start playing her favorite song. I want to project a sense of normalcy to mask the fact that Elise and I still aren’t speaking and I’m having problems of my own. The music does comfort her; she hums along with it as she heads to the kitchen. It’s one of those simple, gentle melodies that make great love songs. This one has no lyrics, but it sounds loving nonetheless.

When the song ends I look up and see Mom and Dad slow-dancing in the kitchen. At least somebody’s happy.

Sunday

I step out of the shower, still annoyed that it’s morning already, and turn on the bathroom light. It takes me a few bleary seconds to notice the message written in the steam on the mirror:
Clear the air.
There’s a milkshake sitting on the counter. How the hell did Elise get in here without me noticing?

I still drink the milkshake. Her loopy words on the mirror feel like more of a demand than a suggestion.

I dry off, get dressed, and go downstairs to meet her. Dad is at the stove, trying and failing to flip-toss a pancake. It falls to the floor and Eric shouts, “Five second rule!” Mom is engrossed in the Sunday morning crossword, and Elise is nursing a giant cup of coffee with her knees pulled up. I walk around behind her chair and wrap an arm around her shoulders. She grunts tiredly as I kiss the top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Elise reaches a hand back to pat me on the head. I love that apologies can be this simple with her. “Thanks for the milkshake.”

“Sure.”

I pull my chair out and Elise says, “So how’s Willa?” She says it lightly, but I can hear the agenda in her tone. Mom looks up from the crossword with a smile. She’s just as interested in my response as Elise is.

“Invite her over now,” Dad says before I can answer. “I can make more batter.” I think he just wants an excuse to practice his flip-toss some more. Even if Willa and I were on good terms, it would be hard to sel her on the idea of pancakes fresh off the floor.

Elise gives me a pointed look and it dawns on me that the message in the mirror wasn’t solely about her. I have to end the situation with Willa.

“Actually, I was going to go over there.” I ask Mom if I can borrow her car.

Elise elbows me playfull y.

“No, you can’t come.”

“Why not?” she pretends to pout. She knows perfectly well why not. “I like Willa. She’s a good friend.”

The last two words bear a special emphasis, making it clear whom she’s still rooting for, if I still had any doubts.

“Forget it, Lise.”

*

I park down the street from the Kirk house and sit there for about five minutes, giving myself a pep talk.

Just go in, tie off the loose ends, say goodbye and pretend that I never knew Willa Kirk.

I don’t want to get out of the car. If I do that I will put in motion the end of my only friendship in this tiny, boring town. But is it a friendship worth keeping? I was vulnerable like Thomasina not so long ago. Willa probably would have treated me with the same lack of respect and compassion, and that knowledge is deeply disturbing.

When I finally do approach the house I’m relieved to find that her brother’s car isn’t in the driveway. I know I’m not his favorite person, and it bodes well for me that he isn’t around to shut down this conversation with Willa before it can even start.

I go up to the front door to knock and I catch a glimpse of Willa through the front window. She’s lying on the couch, sleeping. Should I wake her? I go to ring the doorbell, but then I hesitate. Maybe I should come back later. I shouldn’t wake her up… Or I could wake her up with something nicer than a doorbell.

I try the handle. It’s locked. Same with the side door off the garage. I go around to the back door and test the handle. It, at least, is open. I let myself in as quietly as possible, but Willa wakes up anyway. She comes into the kitchen and stops dead when she sees me standing there.

Willa looks like hell. She has dark circles under her eyes and her clothes seem to hang on her like a scarecrow without stuffing. Her hair is limp. Her face is pale. She looks…sick.

“I destroyed your CD. You can fuck off now.” Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for, but it’ll do.

“That’s a shame. I was gonna let you keep it.” It’s just a CD—a small price to pay for ending this with as few complications as possible. Willa doesn’t seem to care. Her face is completely blank.

“Um, can we talk?”

“I thought we’d already said it all.” She turns away from me and goes to the stove. I’ve upset her already, if she’s turning to cooking, or maybe she was still upset before I walked in.

“Smells good.” It smells like a holiday meal; like warm meat and vegetables and sweet, juicy gravy. It seems indecent to be hungry when I came here to cut ties, but I can’t help it.

Willa doesn’t answer me. I tug gently on the back of her sweater, hoping she’ll at least face me, but she doesn’t.

“You don’t look well.” She looks sore and pathetic. I’d give her a hug but she’d probably punch me for trying.

You’d do what now?

Nothing. It was just an errant thought.

“Neither do you,” she says dryly. I let go of her sweater. I should probably go; she doesn’t want to listen to me.

You’re giving up already?

It’s not the right time.

I don’t believe you.

Willa finally looks over her shoulder at me. Her eyes narrow and she frowns.

“You need carrots. And protein. What the hell have you been doing with yourself?”

She turns to open the cupboard and I almost smile. She wouldn’t want to feed me if she hated me entirely, right? Maybe we can talk this out like human beings and not have it turn into a fight. And that soup smells fantastic. Willa carefully scoops some out for me—heavy on the carrots—but her eyes are still sad. Normally they spark when she doles out the results of a successful recipe.

I start to wonder if she’s giving me food because she feels obligated. I don’t want to owe her anything.

“You don’t have to—”

“Eat,” she interrupts. “I’m not giving it to you to be friendly, so don’t waste your time feeling guilty. Just eat it.” I would, but she’s killing my appetite. If she’s not being friendly, than what is it that motivates her?

Pity? Guilt? Duty? Maybe I underestimated her sincerity when she said I didn’t deserve friends.

“I want to talk to you.”

Willa hands me a spoon. “Talking doesn’t work out so hot for us. Just eat.” She’s not going to let down her dismissive attitude. I’ll just have to work around it, or I’ll never get the opportunity to say what I want to say.

“I said stuff I shouldn’t have.”

Willa dismisses me again: “No shit. Let’s not beat a dead horse by discussing it, okay?” No dice. I came here to clear the air, not to mooch soup and sit in silence.

Elise did a more than adequate job of pointing out my screw-ups during my explanation of Wednesday. I have a feeling that Willa will be more amenable to discussion if I take responsibility for my wrongdoings first, so I open with: “I came here to apologize. Some of those things I said…” Should I insult myself or just keep it simple? “I really didn’t mean them.”

Willa throws the spoon into the sink. Shit. I should have insulted myself.

“well that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Which words
did
you mean?”

Nothing sucks worse than the moment in an argument when you realize that you might have brought a knife to a gunfight. I know I said some rude things to her, but I couldn’t possibly recount them all. I was angry—I wasn’t thinking through what I said. It was impulsive and heated. She probably remembers every nasty word to hold over my head, and I only remember the highlights.

“I was mad, okay?”

“Don’t get defensive,” she tells me flatly. “I know you were upset. There’s only one thing you said that I really care about anyway.”

My stomach drops. I know exactly what she’s talking about.

“Maybe I didn’t mean it. I’m not sure.”

Willa points to the back door. “Get out of my house.” I’d better fix this quickly, before she shoves me out the door.

“I didn’t mean you haven’t suffered. But…it’s different. You haven’t lived in fear of your own life. You wouldn’t think like that—you wouldn’t take your life so lightly—if you had, I mean…um…” How do I explain that the fight to live is more difficult than the decision to die?

And you would know…?

Look at Meira.

“Is that what you came over here to say?” she asks.

“I came over to say a lot of things.” If she’ll let me.

Willa sighs and points to the dining table. “Eat first.” She turns away and pads down the hall . I’m not done talking to her yet.

“Willa?”

“I’m just getting dressed. Eat your damn soup already.” That last sentence gives me hope. She said it without heat, just her usual foul mouth. Her tone was almost fond, like the way she speaks when she tells me to shut the hell up for annoying her. And Good Lord, this soup is good… I’m plowing through it like it’s the last food on earth when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text message from Ava:
Have you

fixed your shit yet? Got a gig coming up. Want you to bring W.

Her enthusiasm is depressing.

Fixing it. Ending it. When’s the gig?

Ending? You are a fucking dipshit.
She punctuates that text with several aggressive emoticons.
Get

over yourself and be happy, damn it.

I’m at her house right now. Not a happy place.
I hit ‘send’ and look around the kitchen. I’m not sure how truthfull that text was. This kitchen is the site of a lot of stuff between Willa and I—soups and fights and bargaining, harsh words and gentle touches. I don’t want to give all that up just yet, but I can’t stand to let the reality of Willa’s mistakes slide by. I can’t condone what she did. I can’t see how we would make our way to being friends again, whether or not I want to be. I sort of hope this whole closure thing takes all afternoon, knowing it’ll be the last time I really talk to her.

I hear Willa’s footsteps on the stairs and I pocket my phone. The rest of my soup is gone in two big bites before she can even walk the length of the hall .

I’m not exactly sure why Willa ‘got dressed.’ She just seems to have traded grey sweatpants and a pajamas top for black sweatpants and a hoodie. But her hair seems to be combed, and she generally looks a little better than she did five minutes ago.

She takes one look at me and plugs in the electric kettle. Tea? Willa picks up my bowl and ladles more soup out for me.

“Thanks. I wasn’t sure if I should just take seconds without asking.” I’m barely back in her good graces, best not to push just yet.

Willa sets the bowl in front of me and then opens the freezer. She tosses me a strawberry yogurt pop.

She knows I love these. She wouldn’t give it to me if she was only feeding me out of pity or guilt, would she?

“Are we okay now?” I expected to have to work to set the stage for a civilized conversation.

Willa looks at me with that deeply penetrating expression. “We’re talking again.”

“About that…”

“Say it. Don’t dawdle.”

“We have things to discuss.”

“You didn’t get it all out on Wednesday?” She gives me that look that makes me feel totally exposed without saying a word. I apologize for the way I interrogated her on the hike, and she agrees to sit down at the table with me. Willa pulls her hood up and folds her arms as if she’s cold.

I can’t cut her down when she already looks so downtrodden and vulnerable. It’s like wringing a kitten’s neck. I lick my lips, stalling. It didn’t used to be this hard to just
talk
to her.

So talk.

“Tell me about the psych ward.”

“What’s there to tell ?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in one.”

Willa sighs resignedly. “Take a prison mentality, since most people who wind up in psych wards don’t do so voluntarily, and throw in the fact that half the people there live in an alternate reality, a third are going through hell trying to detox, and the rest are starving to death, and you have a psych ward.

Questions?”

“What group were you in?”

“I was in detox at first, but when I acted out they’d give me sedatives, so sometimes I fit in the ‘alternate reality’ group. I could come back to the rational surface when I skipped a dose, though.”

“You mean when you passed off your meds to a recovering addict?”