What We Leave Behind (12 page)

The sweet Spanish lady did just that, walked me up about thirty stairs and then down several hallways until Jonas’s room came into view. “Gracias,” I said to her as we entered the room.

“
¿Tú hablas español?
” she asked.

I wanted to say that everybody knows how to say thank you in Spanish, but settled on, “Oh, no, no,” I repeated, “no habla español.” She was disappointed. I could tell.

“
Oh, okay señora, entonces adiós. Si me necesitas, por favor, llamame. Yo voy abajo
.”

“Okay. Adios, Gloria,” I called back to her, talking in this voice much louder than my own.

Since Jonas was asleep, I took the time to survey the room and the artifacts that shaped his life. When the stale, germy air reached my nostrils, I walked over to a window and let in a fresh breeze. Jonas was right there, peacefully asleep on his big boy bed with mountains of pillows piled around him. His heavy breathing filled the room, his lips slightly apart, hair splayed across the pillow in a tousled mess. Taking a seat on the white sheets, I reached over him, smoothing the matted hair away from his face. Being this close to him, on his bed, making sure everything about him was in place, I’d almost forgotten how confused I was. I only thought of crawling under the covers and curling up around him.

He was smiling at something, so I smiled along with him. Was it possible he was reading my mind again, knowing the dirty secrets that lived there? My eyes grazed the space beside the bed when the picture on the desk caught my eye. Of course it did. She was really pretty, just like he said. The picture was small, in a simple little frame that she probably gave to him, but there was no mistaking the way she could let herself be known.

Staring at the picture of Emily Cohen forced me to evaluate why I was there. I knew there was a side to my friendship with Jonas that was just that—friendship—but I also knew that his overt display of come-hither when he puked on my shoe had to be indicative of something powerful, even if this impulse and desire lurked only in his deep unconscious.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it
, I whispered to the fine Emily Cohen.

Jonas’s eyes fluttered before me, and I panicked that he had heard me. He rolled over and yelled into the pillow, “
Gloria? Hay quiero agua
.” And then, “
Por favor
.”

“
No habla español
,” I said.

It only took him a few seconds to raise himself up, turn in my direction, and see that I wasn’t Gloria.

“
No hablo
,” he corrected me, “
mi reina
.”

“Mi what?” I asked. “Is that some profane name in Spanish?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he laughed, yawning, then stretching his taut body across the rumpled sheets. Gloria walked in with a fresh glass of water. When she left, I said, “I thought I was the kid here.”

“You said it, I didn’t, and no, it’s not a profanity, it means, my queen.” He said this, his voice deeper than I’d remembered it being.
Breathe
, I told myself, noticing his smell all around me, his sweat pervading the air. I inhaled.

“I feel like shit,” he said, reaching for the cold liquid while I stole glances at his bare chest.

“At least you don’t smell like it,” I laughed, not able to help myself. “And you don’t look like it either.” Then, realizing I needed to be polite, I asked, “Have you eaten? Is there something I can get you?”

“My very own private nurse. I can get used to this.” He touched my leg and I jumped, the move surprising me. “I don’t need anything,” he said, “Just stay here and talk to me.”

I sat, very much aware of the proximity of our bodies. “I just saw your mom. I think she’s wondering what I’m doing here.”

“Jess,” he said, “sometimes I wish you’d come right out and say the things you want to say.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You’re here because you’re my friend, and in case you’re wondering about that, I’m glad you’re here, and lastly, I don’t care what my mother thinks or anyone else for that matter. I know what I know and everything else is just speculation.”

Silence fell between us while we retreated to our corners, he, blowing his nose, and me, reading into his words, scrutinizing each and every one until their collaborative effort resembled logic. “You were right about her,” I said, nodding toward the picture beside his bed. “She’s very pretty.”

“Em?" he asked, the name slicing through the air like a butcher knife. It was the endearing way he said it; I had to change the subject. “You must be hungry. Are you sure you don’t want me to call down for Gloria?”

“I’m fine. You’re nervous. Relax.”

“I can’t,” I admitted.

“You missed seeing me.”

I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“I missed you too,” he said.

Even with Emily Cohen’s eyes staring me down, when I was alone with Jonas, there was just the two of us. Her name was the only intrusion. “How much longer?”

“These things usually last a few days, but I won’t be going to the hospital for about a week. My dad’s very susceptible, and it’s best I stay away.  I hope I don’t get you sick, even if you’d make a cute patient."

I laughed. “The very worst.”

“I find that hard to believe, Miss Parker. Thus far, you’ve been pretty good at everything—dance partner, eloquent prose, CIA operative, tree climber—and you’ve even managed to make me feel better just by looking at you. Besides, if you were my patient, I’d take real good care of you.”

Jonas was saying too many nice things at once for me to look him in the eye, so I focused my attention on the view from the window instead. My eyes trained on the scenery while my fingers nervously fumbled, clasping and unclasping.

“Jess, I can’t change this,” he said. “She’s real.”

“I know,” I said, finding the courage to meet his eyes.

“But so are you. To me, you’re very real.”

The suggestion that hovered around us was palpable. “I want you in my life. You need to know that. It’s wrong, on so many levels, but I know what being around you makes me feel and I can’t pretend it doesn’t.”

Stop
, I was repeating, over and over in my head, but he didn’t hear. I turned back to the window and began to count the leaves on the tree thinking that the repetition would relieve me from his words.
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one
, but he kept on going.

“You’re always talking about life and how nothing is by chance, and there’s no such thing as a coincidence, so I know you understand what I’m saying and I know you agree.” I wouldn’t turn around. “Jess, do you hear me?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “And I think you drank too much cold medicine.”

He grabbed my arm and forced me to face him. “I like being around you. I like teasing you. I like arguing with you.”

My eyes pleaded with him to stop.

“I like seeing your face when you’re glad to see me and how you turn away so you think I won’t notice, and the way you squirm and fidget and twirl your hair when you’re nervous.” His fingers were searing through my flesh, much like his words. “I like watching you when you think nobody is, and the way you lick your top lip, and sometimes you bite on it too. See, you’re doing it right now. In a way, it’s like you’re already mine, like you’ve always been.”

How could I hate him when his words brought the steadiness of counting numbers to a screeching halt? They were words, I swear, but they could have very well been his hands, touching me all over. I didn’t understand what was happening. There was so much we were feeling for each other, yet so much that was holding us back, and Jonas’s obligation to Emily was only part of it. Let’s be real here, he and I were from different worlds, and what kind of boyfriend could he be to a high school senior?

I said, “The scary thing is that I do understand. I know all about the lines we can’t cross over. Things like feelings are harder to hold back.”

“Remember that day I took you driving?” he asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t remember what street we were on.  I don’t even know if it was sunny or raining. I just remember you next to me, and I was responsible for you, and I liked it. A lot.”

I began to feel afraid, the way he once said I should be. He would never hurt me, not in the physical sense. It was emotional vulnerability I was worried about. Beth once told me that power was the ultimate aphrodisiac. The idea of Jonas in charge excited me. “It's getting late,” I said. “You need some rest.”

“Don’t leave,” he said, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Someone like you will never be alone,” I answered.

“You’re wrong,
mi reina
, and I’ll tell you why. I met a girl this summer. She’s beautiful, she’s smart, kind, funny, and highly fanatical about her causes.” Then, turning seriously to me, he added, “And this girl, she got to me,” pointing to his chest, “in here, and you don’t know how alone I feel when she’s not around.”

A knife was no longer the suitable weapon to slice the quiet in the room. A chainsaw would have been needed.

“How was that for going deep?” he asked, his success visible across his face. “Too much?”

Yes
, I thought to myself,
No
, I changed my mind even quicker. It’s one thing to hear those things and another to believe them. “Do you hear yourself?” I asked, needing to avert the attention he threw my way. “Does your brain have any control over your mouth?”

“I know exactly what I'm saying, Jess.”

“Tourette’s, that’s it. Do you have Tourette’s?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“But it's wrong,” I found myself stammering, the dam in my throat riddled with tiny holes. I had to get off the bed, had to be away from him, both the beautiful words he spoke to me and the horribleness of his germs. I was shaking my head back and forth, combating the idea that maybe Jonas cared. “You can’t say these things to me and expect me to be unchanged by them. My mind can wrap around those words, but the rest of me can’t. They’re not mine to have.” I got up from the bed so he wouldn’t have to see the anguish on my face. There were some tissues strewn across the wood floor that I thought about picking up, but something else caught my eye. I bent down, picking up the shiny metal coin in my fingers, and laughed a boisterous laugh.

“It’s not easy keeping up with your multiple personalities,” he said.

“Fool’s gold,” I answered, holding up the sparkly coin.

Beth and I had sneaked into her brother’s room one boring afternoon and read through all his love letters. John was eighteen and the type of guy that all the girls were in love with. There were piles of them. We were eleven then, maybe twelve, but it didn’t stop me from stealing one of the letters. I just folded it up when Beth wasn’t looking and stuck it in my pocket. I know it sounds awful, but there were so many of them, I didn’t think he’d ever notice.

Jonas was waiting for me to share my revelation.

 “You wouldn’t understand,” I answered, knowing that the tale of the miner in the unsigned letter would explain almost everything. I studied the coin closely. “Is this real gold?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s one of Gloria’s kids. They’re always playing treasure hunt, and besides, what does it have to do with what we’re talking about?”

I placed it on the dresser, right beside the picture of Emily.

“There was this story I once read about miners and gold.”

I’d oftentimes thought about what happened to the girl who wrote the letter. She was crazy about John, that much I knew, but I couldn’t tell if the story was hers, or, like me, something she’d stolen. All these years later, and I guess it really doesn’t matter if the story’s the same.

“Miners and gold?” he asked. “Now you’ve lost me. Are you purposely trying to change the subject again? Did you hear anything I said before?”

I nodded. “I heard everything.” But I was thinking about the letter. She had written to John how she loved him, that their story reminded her of the miner who set out in search of gold with his pan. After months, possibly years, of searching, the miner had found it flowing through a narrow stream; but when he crossed the stream to get closer to the valuable treasure, the pan fell from his hands and tumbled down the mountain, leaving the man with nothing but his hands to contain the gold.

I could still read the words on the lavender piece of paper, that John was like the gold sifting through her fingers. And although the miner hadn’t wanted to be greedy—a few pieces of the precious metal were better than nothing—he still mourned for his loss and what might never be his.

It hurt just to look at Jonas. Like the miner’s story, I could only have a part of him, a tiny nugget, and how was I going to accept these terms without losing myself, without being true to me? It was there, the limitedness of what Jonas could give me, being handed to me in my greedy little hands, his eyes, his words. I could have siphoned them in and tried to ignore the obvious truths, but how could I?

I searched his face for the answers, willing him to see my thoughts. “I don’t know if that’s enough, Jonas. I want more.”

He was stuck somewhere in his head, my need swelling up around him.

“I don’t think it’s possible to give you anymore. I’ve already given you things I shouldn’t.”

I fought the urge to console him, but then our eyes would meet, and the guilt he tried to hide would stare back at me, echoing my sadness, and I’d forgive myself, forgive him.

He reached for me, his bare arms drawing me close. “Can’t this be enough?”

My gaze found the gold coin on his dresser. He said it again. “Can’t this be enough for you?” And my heart could no longer fight the reasoning of my brain. I squeezed my eyes shut and let Jonas’s arms find me.

Swallowing had become an entirely new experience; a response would be impossible to prepare. When I didn’t answer, he backed away, seeking refuge beneath the sheets. The moment had passed, but as I found my voice again, it whispered, “You need your rest,” and I got up from the bed. Before walking out the door, I turned to him and said, “Please get better.” And I said it because it was all I could say without saying too much, and I said it because the idea of not seeing him for another day was intolerable.