Phantom Limbs (7 page)

Willow Grove High’s graduation ceremony was Saturday morning, held outdoors at the downtown music pavilion. I went by myself with one of Dara’s extra tickets, and if I’d known how sad it was going to make me, I might have skipped it. Not so much because Dara was graduating, since frankly I sometimes felt like I’d never be rid of her, but because it meant the fracture of the closest thing I had to a brotherhood since Mason died. It hit me hard, watching some of my teammates march across that stage and out of my life. I’d never swum in high school without those guys; thanks to Dara, I made varsity my freshman year. They’d helped me improve, had supported me when I’d done badly and cheered for me when I’d done well. D’Amico especially. My freshman year, he was like a god to me, and when Coach put me on the “A” relay team with him this past season, I was giddy. I should have been happy for him to be graduating and moving on to the next big thing, but, honestly, I just felt sorry for myself that he was leaving.

And then there was Dara, the most talented one of us all, swimming on the “B” relay team, in early heats, battling it out with — and often losing to — girls who may have had two arms but didn’t have one-tenth her strength and skill. If I’d been her, I would’ve wanted to get as far away from swimming as possible. But she clung to it as if it were all there was in the world. And maybe for her, it was.

And the thing was, she was still good — not the best, but better than many, even if she was technically handicapped. She had adapted and compensated. Her dolphin kick in particular was unrivaled. Whereas most high school swimmers broke out of their underwaters long before the regulation limit, Dara powered through hers until the last possible second, using her advantage for all it was worth, cutting it so close to the fifteen-meter mark that I always feared she’d be DQ’d. But she never was. She was flawless. In most races she led the pack in those first fifteen meters, only to be overtaken when she came up and started her one-armed stroking. And even though I knew it was coming, it made my throat ache, every single time. After she finished her race, she’d stand on deck, watching the final heats intently, and I knew what she must be thinking: With two arms, she would own all those girls.

I looked for her to congratulate her afterward, but I couldn’t find her. A quick check of my phone showed a text from her ten minutes before:
I’m out of here. See you later.

I figured I’d at least congratulate D’Amico, who stood outside the pavilion surrounded by family, judging by the pack of similarly tall, towheaded, blue-eyed people with him. He spotted me and stepped away, holding up a
be right back
finger to them.

“Hey,” he said, coming over and giving me a hug.

“Hey, congratulations,” I started to say, but to my horror, my voice broke. Still hugging him, trying to steady my voice, I said, “Good luck at Kenyon, man. You’ll be great.” Jesus.
Pull it together, Mueller.
If I had realized I was going to bawl, I would have texted him my good wishes instead.

“You better come see me,” he said, stepping back and smiling at me. He pretended not to notice my emotional state. “You can stay in my dorm.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Anyway, we’ve still got the summer,” he said, punching me lightly in the arm. “And hey, they need guards at the pool,” he added, stepping back to his family. “You should apply. We’d have fun.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I managed to get out.

I turned and pushed my way through the crowd, texting my dad that I was ready for a ride.

With the graduates gone, the school year tapered down for the rest of us. Summer swim club was in full swing by late May. Dara worked me like a mule, and if I complained, I got the lecture: “Three years I’ve devoted to you, Mueller. You’re not going to crap out on me now.”

“But you’re not even going to be here to train me in two months,” I argued. “What happens then?”

“I told you not to worry about that.”

But I did worry about it. I was looking for any assurances I could find that my Dara days were numbered.

We were swimming outdoors for the summer while the high school pool underwent repairs. Summer had barely started and already I was tan. Hours upon hours I swam, thousands of yards a day. Plus Dara had me weight training at the gym until I was so sore I could barely lift my arms. I ate like a pig and slept like the dead — I had energy for nothing else. I fantasized daily about how I was going to break it to Dara that I was cutting back on training. But I could never bring myself to actually do it. For one thing, I was getting visibly stronger, which I liked. I also liked the idea of my name going up on the record board at the school pool one of these days — maybe even next season, with my medley relay team, if D’Amico’s replacement was strong enough. And maybe even in that hundred breast slot before I graduated. Some fucker had gone a 59-low back in 2005, so I had my work cut out for me.

Mostly, though, when it came down to it, I could stand being achy and exhausted more than I could stand fighting with Dara. Besides, it helped me pass the days until Meg’s return. And since learning that my mom had invited them for dinner their first night in, anything that distracted from my obsessing was a good thing.

The night before she came back, she sent me the following message:

My dad was excited, too, but I could tell he was trying to keep a low profile about it. My mom was tense, but it seemed like she was trying to be positive. She and I were baking a rhubarb pie for the dinner. I hoped Meg still loved rhubarb pie. How many times had we sat drumming our fingers at my kitchen table, waiting for my mom to say the pie had cooled enough to cut into, which took eons? Mason had called it “boo-bar” pie. He always insisted he wanted a piece and then never ate it. He didn’t really like it — or any dessert that wasn’t made of chocolate — he just wanted to do whatever Meg and I were doing. Sometimes Meg would bail on our plans to go to the pool when Mason cried because he couldn’t come, too. Man, that used to piss me off. I loved spending time with her away from our parents’ watchful eyes — especially when it involved a bikini. At times like that, I thought Mason was a royal pain in the ass, and to this day I hate myself for that.

I stared at the screen and cracked my knuckles, wondering how to respond. Finally, I typed:

I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then I added:

I hit Send before I could change my mind. My palms started sweating as I waited for her response.

Finally, it came:

Okay, not hearing from her for three years had been heartbreaking, but I could never
hate
her. She should know that.
She
wished she knew what was going through
my
mind? She was the enigma, and she had been since she moved away.

I was tempted to put her fears at ease once and for all:
Not only could I never hate you
, I might say,
I could never even not love you.
But she had a boyfriend. And I still didn’t know what she wanted from me. I was afraid of sending her running again, before we even laid eyes on each other.

I had to err on the safe side.

She immediately wrote back:

Which was exactly what I wanted her to say, what I was baiting her to say.

And then she wrote:

I pushed away from the desk. Why did she have to go there when I was starting to feel good?

Yeah. I remembered “dumb fuck.”

One Christmas Meg gave Mason a dump truck, and Mason, who mispronounced everything, hollered, “Dumb fuck! Dumb fuck!” I about peed myself laughing. I think we were both a little sad when his speech improved to the point where “dumb fucks” became “dumb twucks.” He had dozens of them — they were his favorite thing.

Later, after Mason died, Meg and I would craft bald-faced lies for our parents to account for our absence when what we were really doing was riding our bikes miles down a busy highway to go to the cemetery. I just kept needing to go there, kept needing to be close to him. We’d sit at his grave, her arm around me — sometimes both arms — and we’d talk about him, about things like “dumb fucks,” about things that he said or did, sometimes laughing, but most often crying. She pulled me through days that were literally unbearable.

I glanced over at the screen. What was I supposed to say to her? I didn’t want to talk about dumb fucks and Mason — not now. She was asking too much — she was ruining something that was supposed to be good. I reached over and shut my computer. Not my best moment. Not by a long shot.

I picked up the photo of Mason I kept on my bedside table. It was one I had taken myself, the October he was almost two. He was sitting in a giant pile of leaves that my dad and I had raked, tossing them up around him. The sun hit his face and he was grinning, eyes closed. It was a gorgeous picture, with all the different colors and the play of the light. But the reason I loved it was because he was so damn happy.

I went to my closet and pulled a box out from under a stack of games and puzzles. Mason’s stuff. Things I took from his room when he was gone — things my parents didn’t even know I had. A pair of his pajamas. A pacifier. A small stuffed chipmunk named Chester. A yellow blanket that some great aunt or cousin made. The copy of
Goodnight Moon
that I bought him.

I paged through the book, remembering the parts he would recite along with me. I stared at the last page:
Goodnight noises everywhere.
We’d whisper that last line — I suppose because that’s the way my mom used to read it to me, back a million years ago before Mason was even born. When my world was perfect and safe and I was blissfully oblivious of the immense suffering that lay in store for me.

I took Mason’s pajamas out and held them to my face. A trace of his warm, sweet smell lingered, or maybe it was just my imagination. I closed my eyes and let the memories wash over me: His huge, dark eyes . . . The way his smile curved up around the pacifier he seemed to be surgically attached to . . . His gray Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and his puffy little elastic-waisted jeans . . . His little hands reaching around and hugging my legs when I walked in the door from school . . . His warmth as I picked him up . . . The smell of toast and jelly and baby wipes . . . The
thwuck
of his pacifier as I’d pull it out of his mouth so I could hear him talk . . . And that joyful little voice exclaiming, “O-mit! You home!”

Here’s the truth about healing. It’s a fucking myth — an idea they try to sell you on to keep you from killing yourself. You love someone and they leave, but they never entirely go away. You feel them there, acutely, like an amputated limb.

A BEAM OF LIGHT SHOT THROUGH THE narrow space between the blinds and the window frame, waking me from a dream about Mason. It was fading fast, but I could still hear his voice, still see his face, and I clung to the filaments of the other world until there were no strands left to cling to. It was the best thing and the worst thing, when he appeared in dreams: Being with him again was such an astonishing joy. But then, waking and remembering. No matter how much time passed, it blindsided me. Waking up from a dream and realizing he was dead never failed to feel new and terrible.