Ghosting (20 page)

He’s giving me

his best dimpled smile,

but I’m not buying it.

I saw her give you pills,
I say.

He looks surprised,

his smile fading a little.

Yeah, just a few sleeping pills,
he says.
Sometimes I have trouble getting to sleep.

I give him a steady look.
Doesn’t your doctor give you stuff like that?

I ran out. Suzie was just lending a hand. Look, I won’t do it again,
he says, flashing me that smile again.

A couple of interns in scrubs walk by.

What’s she really giving you?
I ask.

Huh?

And where do you hide them, I mean from your parents?

He stares up at me.

I can read the expression on his face.

It’s saying, I thought

Chloe Carney was dumb.

Well?
I persist.

Percocet. Under the mattress,
he says.

Then he gets this look in his eyes,

like he can’t believe he just

told me that.

BRENDAN

Holy crap. Why’d I do that?

Tell her?

It’s okay,
Chloe says, putting her hand on my shoulder.

I shake my head.

What’ve you got, like magic powers?
I ask.
First Walter Smith and his rifle. Now me.

Chloe Carney puts her head back

and laughs.

And I swear to God, it’s one of the

nicest things I’ve heard in a long time.

Thursday, December 23

MAXIE

After lunch one day

right before winter break,

this guy with ginger hair

comes up to me.

He wears wire-rimmed glasses

and a T-shirt that says

IF DESCARTES WAS RIGHT

YOU WOULDN
’
T EXIST.

You’re Maxie Kalman, right?
he says.

Yes,
I say.

I’m Zander, editor of
Versions
,
the lit magazine,
he says,
and so far, the photos I’m getting are pretty lame. So I was just wondering if you’d like to submit stuff.

Uh, okay,
I reply, immediately thinking of the photo of the fake eye in Felix’s hand.

Great!

Then he digs into his backpack.

Oh, and I’ve got some poems. Would really like to pair them with some cool photos. See if they inspire you, okay?

I nod, taking the

pieces of paper

he hands me.

Great,
he says again.
I put my e-mail at the top there.

Then he gives me

a big smile

and walks off.

Leaning against

my locker,

I read the poems.

They’re actually a

series of haiku,

all with the theme of

good-bye

or

departure.

And they are

beautiful.

For some reason

they remind me of

that night.

So of course,

tears come to

my eyes.

But then an

amazing thing

happens.

I say No.

Not out loud

but inside my head,

and I deliberately shift to

thinking about

those haiku and

thinking about

the photos

I could take

to capture those

beautiful words.

My tears dry,

and I feel a

tiny,

warming

glimmer of

hopefulness.

Tuesday, December 28

BRENDAN

I’d been thinking about it for a long time

and decided it was time to visit Felix.

The guy who lost his eye

because of me.

Felix’s house is all handicap friendly, which is a relief.

Just need to wheel myself up to the door.

His mom is surprised to see me,

but she doesn’t say anything.

Felix is lying on his bed, eyes closed,

listening to an iPod.

I watch him for a few seconds,

then reach over and tap his leg.

Brendan, jeez,
he says, sitting up so suddenly he bumps his head on the headboard of his bed.
What’re you doing here?

I look at him closely.

Whoa dude, I heard you lost an eye.

I did,
Felix says. He points to his right eye.
It’s acrylic.

That’s freaking amazing,
I say.
Think I could get some acrylic legs?

He smiles, but like most of my attempts at

handicap humor it’s followed by an awkward silence.

So do you still smoke weed?
I ask.

Not so much,
he says.
Kind of lost the taste for it.

Yeah, I know. I’m not too into drinking anymore.

I don’t tell him that drinking alcohol

pretty much sucks,

since it means using the

catheter a hell of a lot more.

Plus it’s much easier to pop a pill

than pour a drink when you’re in a wheelchair.

So why
are
you here?
Felix asks.

Uh,
I begin,
I guess I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.

He looks at me, shaking his head,

but I forge on.

Yeah, I’m sorry about what happened, to you, to everyone. I was a dick, and if I could take back . . .

Felix interrupts me.

Shut up, Brendan,
he says.
You weren’t the only one.
We all messed up, and a bunch of stuff happened, kind of like a chain reaction. Or one of those Rube Goldberg contraptions.

I have no idea what the fuck

he’s talking about.

My face must’ve showed it,

because Felix laughs.

Okay, so you remember that old board game that was popular when we were kids, called Mouse Trap?
I nod.
Well, that night was like Mouse Trap. Yeah, you were a dick, I was too stoned, Chloe was a klutz, and Emma, well, Emma was Emma. And then there was a crazy dude with a shotgun.

I stare at him, then suddenly smile.

Nice. Way to sum up,
I say.

Thanks,
says Felix.
Feel like some guacamole?

Sure,
I say.

It’s the weirdest thing,
he says leading me down the hall.
But ever since I woke up I’m always craving guacamole.

He clears a chair from the kitchen table

so I can pull my wheelchair up to it.

I watch while he halves

a couple of avocadoes.

And then he starts smashing them into a bowl,

squeezing lime into them.

He looks like a real pro, chopping jalapeños

neatly dicing a large red onion.

It’s so flipping weird to have only one eye cry,
Felix says, wiping onion tears from his left eye.

He opens a bag of tortilla chips

and pours them into a bowl.

My parents are getting divorced,
Felix says out of the blue.

I don’t know what to say.

That’s a bummer,
I finally manage.

Actually, no, it’s a good thing,
he says.
My dad is pretty fucked up.

Been there,
I say.

Yeah, I know,
he says.

He pushes the bowls of guacamole

and chips toward me.

I take a big scoop

and stuff it in my mouth.

Holy shit, this is great,
I say.

I take another big mouthful

and smile.

Best damn guac I’ve had,
I say.
You should open a restaurant.

Maybe I will,
he says.
I’ll call it One Eye Cry.

Excellent,
I say.

Thursday, January 6

CHLOE

“And the Question Is: Why Do I Care?”

My dad has been calling me

a lot more regularly, which is

really nice.

He even invited me to California

for spring break

which seems like a long way away,

but I’m psyched.

He also texted me a picture

of my little half sister,

who is actually really cute,

and said she’s excited to meet me.

He asks a lot about working

at the hospital. And I tell him stories,

like the one about an old lady

named Iris who’s so sweet,

but usually thinks I’m either

her daughter or Hillary Clinton.

I mean, Hillary? She might, at least,

think I’m Chelsea. Which makes Dad laugh,

and then I couldn’t believe it,

but out of the blue he suggests

that I think about applying to nursing school,

instead of Illinois State.

That he thinks I’m smart

enough to go to nursing school

pretty much blows my mind.

Then I tell him about this friend

of mine who I’m not that close to

but who I’m worried about,

worried that he might be

abusing drugs.

So my dad asks a few questions

And gives me some advice.

Mostly it helps just to talk about it

with someone.

But I’m still worried.

Monday, January 10

BRENDAN

I’m in my room, at my desk,

trying to concentrate on homework.

All my teachers came up with packets of stuff,

so I can graduate in June.

Math I can do, straightforward, uncomplicated.

But it’ll be a miracle if I pass English.

What am I saying? It’s not like anyone is

actually going to fail the crip in the wheelchair.

There’s a knock at the door

but before I can say anything,

Dad walks right in.

He’s got a piece of paper in his hand.

Good news, son,
he says.
Just heard from Sanford Weems, my buddy on the board at Princeton. Says here that as long as you can muster a 3.5, you have a decent chance of getting in.

I stare at the paper in his hand.

You did remind old Sanford that I’m not quite as good at lacrosse as I used to be?
I say.

He gives a grunt.

Mitigating circumstances,
he says.
Fortunately you test well, like me.

I take a deep breath, set down my pen,

and clear my throat.

I’m not applying to Princeton, Dad,
I say.

Of course you are,
he says.

No, I’m not. I’m applying to schools in Colorado and whichever one takes me, I’m going.

Dad looks at me,

his eyes boring into mine.

Listen son, I didn’t raise you to be a quitter. Keep your eye on the prize and you can accomplish anything you set out to.

I’m not quitting anything. I just want to go to school in Colorado.

Because it’s easier, because you can get by on minimum effort,
he says, moving closer to me, his eyes never leaving mine.
Listen up, Brendan. Here’s a quote by an athlete who lost a leg in a roadside bombing in Afghanistan. “You are only limited by the limits you put on yourself.”

I nod.

That’s a great quote, Dad. Inspiring. But I’ve made a
decision. I’m only applying to schools in Colorado.

You’re going to Princeton.

I’m not,
I say.

Then you’re doing it on your own dime.

Fine. I’ll get student loans.

We are only about two feet apart

and I can smell his rage.

He wants to hit me so bad it’s killing him.

But he can’t.

Because of the

wheelchair.

Fine. Pay for Colorado yourself. I’m done,
he spits out.

And he stalks out of the room,

slamming the door behind him.

Friday, January 14

MAXIE

They say it is the coldest winter in

eighty years.

And I believe it.

Colorado is cold,

but in Colorado

you’d get

12 inches of snow

and subzero temps

and the next day

it’d be

40 degrees

and sunny.

This January in Illinois

the bone-chilling weather is

unrelenting.

Gray frigid day

followed by

gray frigid day.

One day it even plummets to

25 degrees

below zero.

Wind chill

70 below.

They close the public schools

and people are cautioned

to stay indoors.

The North Shore Channel,

a drainage canal

built at the beginning

of the century,

which runs all the way from

Wilmette Harbor

to the

Chicago River

in the city,

freezes solid, the first time

that has happened

in anyone’s memory.

In the days that follow,

when the temperature

rises by a few degrees,

but is still double digits

below freezing,

a Mr. Artie Phelps

gets the idea

to set up ice-skating on the

North Shore Channel.

Mr. Phelps is the type of

fanatical dad

who fills his backyard every winter

with a homemade

skating rink,

for his kids and all the kids

in the neighborhood.

So he takes his mini Zamboni

down to the North Shore Channel,

smoothing

and grooming for a

good

long

way.

My dad is friends with Artie Phelps

and has always been crazy about

ice-skating,

so on a Friday night

he convinces Mom and me

to come check it out.

One of the haiku that

Zander gave me

is about

winter and

cold and

ice,

so even though I’m not a

big ice-skating fan,