100 Days (30 page)

 

98

MOIRA

DAY 3: JUNE 22

Agnes has been in the hospital for five days, but it may as well be five decades. People going out, people coming in.
Ball of confusion
. That old song my parents blast on the stereo sometimes about running and running and running, but not being able to hide.

I'm dizzy with all the new bits of information darting in and out of my head like minnows. “It's not looking good.” That's all the doctors have said for the past twenty-four hours (it's the only thing that sticks in my mind, anyway). And all I know is this: without Agnes there will be nothing. Just nothing at all worth having or seeing or doing.

I leave the hospital and drive the curvy road out to the reservoir without really knowing where I'm going. By the time I park near the trailhead, my face is wet with tears. I grab a handful of spare napkins from the glove box to mop up. Then I'm climbing the trail and standing breathless on the bank where the three of us stripped down to almost nothing less than a week ago. I stare at the spot where Boone stood in only his boxers. The sight of him was at least as responsible as the cold water was later for taking my breath away. It momentarily made me forget to worry about Agnes bobbing in the water nearby, bluish, but happier than I've maybe ever seen her.

What if we had done something differently, Boone and I? What if we'd been stern with her for once? What if we had simply said,
No, Agnes. We're not going out to the reservoir, and that's final
?

But we didn't do those things. We didn't act like parents. We acted like teenagers, and Agnes acted like a teenager, too. In that water, the three of us had the kind of communion people flock to church on Sundays to find. And whether I like it or not, whether I agree with it or not, I know that's all Agnes ever wanted.

 

99

BOONE

DAY 2: JUNE 23

I'm home again, but I can't stay too long. I'm going to feed Diablo, check on Mom, and then get back to the ICU. Things could be over any minute now. That's what the doctors and nurses keep saying. Not in so many words, maybe, but they're constantly saying it with their eyes, with their concerned checking of the clipboards and monitors and printouts that seem to spit more worthless data into the air every time I turn around in that sterile nightmare of a room.

The gate to the paddock is open, and Diablo is gone. An image of our neighbor, Jackson Tate, appears in my mind.
Here we go again,
I think. I'm about 99 percent sure Rhoid Face will shoot the horse, if only to keep his word. If that's the case, I'll soon have two burials to attend.

But Diablo hasn't escaped at all. When I scan the pasture for one last look, shielding my eyes against the bright sunlight, I spot the horse out in the arena. Guiding him in slow figure eights from the saddle is my mother.

 

100

AGNES

DAY 1: JUNE 24

I open my eyes.

It's just for a millisecond, but it's long enough for Moira to whisper, “Agnes,” and reach for the button next to my bed that signals the nurses' station.

Moments later, I'm watching a nurse rush out to the waiting area, and then everyone follows her into my hospital room. They're all running—Mom, Dad, and Boone. Everyone's shouting, and that's me in the bed below, colorless as ash. My mother's hands are covering her mouth as if to trap the words and breath that might escape. My father is reaching toward me as if I might save him. And Boone. Boone just stands there behind everyone else, shaking his head in disbelief, smaller than I've ever seen him.

“She was here just a minute ago!” Moira cries to nobody in particular. “She opened her eyes and looked at me. Make her open her eyes!”

Their voices rise up toward me, intermingled like multicolored streams of smoke tangling together. They are wailing my name. My body's name.

The real me is drawn out into the hallway of the ICU, where a light flashes above the door of my room. Code blue. Over at the beverage dispenser, a guy in a hospital gown fills a cup with apple juice and wonders about the alarms going off. There's at least a six-inch gap all the way down the back of his gown. My little brother Obi was right. Human butts
are
hilarious. How did I never fully understand this until now?

The moment I think of my brother, a window at the end of the hall beckons me toward it. It's open just a crack, but as soon as I wonder if I could fit through the opening, I'm already outside, high above the hospital roof. I'm part of the night air. I look down and see the west-side park where Moira and I sat on the swings not too long ago. To the left of it, I recognize our high school and, farther on, the tree-lined street where Dad and Jamey live. I pause to focus on their house, and then I'm in their room, watching Jamey sleep from above. It wasn't really fair, the way I always judged her. I get that now. I did it because I thought she was judging me, but the truth about Jamey is that she's doing the best she can, just like most other people. My stepmother stirs a little and turns over.

Obi and Nevaeh come briefly to mind, and then I'm in their room, too, floating near their lime-green bookcase. I don't want to wake them, so I don't stay too long.
I love you guys,
I think in their direction.
Be good.

Isaiah's next. I hover above where he's sleeping, not wanting to wake him, either. But he wakes up anyway, says, “Hey, Agnes.” I'm so shocked by the sound of his voice and the fact that he's looking right at me that I almost don't say anything at first. There's no time like the present, though, so I finally say,
Hey, Isaiah.
I don't say it with my mouth, since I no longer seem to be in possession of that or any other body part. Instead, I think the words at him, the same way I thought my love at Obi and Nevvie.
See you around, okay?

Isaiah smiles up at me. He's been sleeping with the covers pulled up to his chin and his fingers wrapped around the edge of his Star Wars comforter. He lifts those fingers now and gives me a sleepy little wave before closing his eyes again. An ache passes through me like a shadow passing over the sun. It's the ache of wanting to stay but needing to go. At the same time I register the sensation, I feel myself pulled away, almost like I'm being sucked into a giant vacuum. It draws me backward and away from everything—away from Isaiah, and the house, and the neighborhood, and the city, and the country, and the planet—away from the only life I have ever known.

 

EPILOGUE:

MOIRA

Not too long ago, it would have done my heart good to see a room full of people dressed in black from head to toe. Now it's just one more random detail to add to all the other details of the past week since Agnes died.

“It's wrong to have it here,” I whisper to Boone when he comes up the mortuary steps to shake my dad's hand and hug my mom. “Agnes would have preferred a park or the field where we buried Bingo.” I'm wearing the gray silk dress I made in home ec in honor of Agnes never getting to wear hers.

Boone's mom came with him to the memorial service. She's waiting for us at the top of the steps and looking a little pale and unsure about being surrounded by so many strangers.

“She started back on meds,” Boone whispers to me as we head up to meet her.

“Is that a good thing?” I whisper back.

“Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?”

There's an easel set up outside the big room where the service will be held. Inside the room, the Priscilla Ahn song Agnes loved most is playing, the one about a little girl who grows old and gray and dreams of flying away through the trees. Somebody found a new recording of it to play today, one that isn't all warbly like the one on her old mix tape. I can't really listen to the song now. I register the fact that it's playing, but that's all. If I let myself think about all the times Agnes made me listen to it while we were driving around in El-C, I won't be able to put one foot in front of the other and get through this. I'd collapse in a blubbering heap on the maroon carpet of the funeral home instead, and that would be that.

Agnes's dad, Jamey, and their kids are already seated in one of the front rows of seats. Our group sits in the front row opposite with Deb in the middle of us. Once we're all settled, I turn to survey the crowd. A bunch of teachers from school are here, and some students, too. I don't remember any of those kids paying much attention to Agnes when she was alive, but it hardly seems to matter now. Agnes's doctor is here with his wife and children. Also, Kitty from the senior center. She flashes a beaming smile at me and gives a little wave. Then she points up toward the ceiling and makes an A-okay sign with her fingers. She's wearing a floral silk pantsuit in a riot of colors.

Agnes,
I think at my best friend, wherever she is,
you are the most loved person I've ever known.

The music fades out, and Mr. Delaney goes up to the front of the room. He thanks everyone for being here and says that if anyone wants to say a few words, they are welcome to do so. Sitting next to me, Deb grabs my hand and grips it hard, like a lifeline.

After a while, people start going up one by one to tell their Agnes stories. Most of them talk about how sweet and inspiring she was, even though they barely knew my best friend. The more I listen, the more restless I become. My hair is tied back with the bluish gray chiffon scarf that Agnes and I used for our running game of keep-away. Rather than being a comfort, the scarf pulls at the sensitive baby hairs at the back of my neck. “I need to get out of here,” I whisper to Boone.

“It'll be over soon,” he whispers back.

After the last person has finished speaking, a slide show plays on a big TV screen at the front of the room. It's a collection of all the pictures Agnes took over the years. When her dad was looking for images to use for today, he found them all in a folder on her laptop, edited and everything. I don't want to look, but I can't stop myself.

Mostly, the slideshow is filled with pictures of her mom and her dad, Jamey and the siblings. The picture of me and Boone in grade school is there, as is the picture she snapped of Boone that day in the cafeteria when he and I almost got into a fistfight. There's one of Boone in sunglasses leaning against a locker, followed by a picture of me and Kitty at the senior center. There are some shots of us the day we buried Bingo, along with a bunch of self-portraits that I never knew she took. I look annoyed in most of the pictures I'm in. Seeing larger-than-life images of myself flashing across a screen for all to see would normally make me want to stick a fork through my eyeball. Now the experience hardly registers. I just feel numb.

*   *   *

When the service is over, I say good-bye to my parents. Boone drives his mom to the afternoon shift of her new job at the food bank before going home, and I drive Deb back to her house. I stay with her for a few hours, until she says she's ready to take a nap and that she'll be okay in the house by herself. That's when I head out to Boone's place.

There's something different about the inside of his house when I get there. Something's missing, but it takes me a minute to realize what it is: there are no jigsaw puzzles anywhere, not a single puzzle piece or box to be seen.

Just before sunset, Boone and I drive out into the back pasture. I sit close to him in the truck cab, in the middle of the long seat. Diablo, who has been out grazing, follows the truck, holding his head low and swinging it slowly from side to side as he walks. Boone parks near the tree line, and we get out. The air is heavy with the scent of vanilla from all the pine trees.

The spot we pick isn't far from where Bingo is buried. I visit my dog's grave for a few minutes, kneel down and talk to the mound of dirt in a voice that's too quiet for Boone to hear. He knows I'm ready when I stand up, look at him, and nod. My mom gave me a little earthenware jar for the portion of ashes Deb held back for us. I retrieve the jar from the truck now and walk back toward him. “We should say something,” I whisper.

Boone nods and looks down at the ground. “Agnes Delaney was an amazing person,” he begins.

“She was my best friend,” I add before falling silent. I don't know what else to say. It was careless of me to not have something more formal prepared. A lump starts to form in my throat, but it doesn't turn into anything worse, probably because I'm all cried out from the past week. Still, I can almost sense her there, above us maybe, somewhere up by the tops of the trees, urging me on.

I open the earthenware jar, cup Boone's hand in mine, and pour some of the gritty ashes into his palm. It's the smallest of handfuls; as tiny as she was, Agnes didn't leave too many ashes behind, especially once all the parts of her that could be donated to progeria research were taken away like she wanted. Boone and I each fling the ashes toward the trees. I take a breath and let it out.

As the dust that remains of my best friend swirls away from us on a warm breeze that seems to come from nowhere, I feel my lips forming into a smile. Boone looks perplexed until I say the words that have finally come, at just the right moment. “She knocked stuff over with her tail.”

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my parents, Nancy and Don, and the entire McInnes family: There's so much in this life that I couldn't have done and/or learned without you guys and gals. I love you all to the stars and back.

To Corwin Leonard for your unwavering support during the writing of this book and your excellent feedback on the manuscript at all stages.

To Allenna Leonard for your keen insights as a beta reader.

To Stacey Glick: agent, friend, and all-around brilliant book advocate.