Secret for a Song (16 page)

T
hey
discharged me later that day. My liver might still suffer the consequences of
my actions, but only time would tell for sure. Other than that, I was fine.

 The
process was always the same: the nurse unhooked me, the doctor came in, told me
I needed to see a therapist, and finished up our talk with a God-help-ya look.
Pinched mouth, raised eyebrows—it was always the same.

They
told me they’d spoken with Dr. Stone’s receptionist, who said she’d have the
good doctor call me himself. This was the hospital’s version of hot potato. No
one wanted the douchebag patient who
wanted
to stay sick—I was the dregs
of society relegated to the shrinks. The shrinks would take anyone.

Mum
was waiting downstairs for me, sipping a coffee. I started to wonder if it
really was coffee, and then stopped myself. I wasn’t going down that road. When
she saw me, she closed her newspaper and stood. “Ready?”

“Why
are you here?” I asked. “It’s not like you can drive me home.”

Her
face closed off, went blank. She was like an Etch-a-Sketch; jar her too much
and she erased herself. “They wouldn’t discharge you without someone here to
see you home.”

I
smirked and jingled the car keys. “It’s a case of the sick leading the sick.”

She
didn’t respond.

Back
at home, she melted away into the shadows of the house and I went to my room to
get my cell phone. Drew had said he’d texted me last night; I was curious to
see what he’d said, how worried he’d been. But the screen was blank—my phone
was dead. I plugged it into my charger, and while it was sucking up enough
juice for me to turn it on, went downstairs to grab a snack.

My
dad was in the kitchen, making himself an espresso. When I walked in, he smiled
a quick, distracted sort of smile while he fiddled with the machine. “Hey,
sweetheart.”

“Hi.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall: 10:15 AM. “Running late today?”

“Ah,
I’ve got a flight out at noon. I’m going to be in Arizona for a week or two.”
He didn’t mention me having just been discharged from the hospital, but I
wasn’t surprised. If there was something unpleasant going on, my dad left the
state.

His
Blackberry buzzed on the counter. He cursed under his breath. “Just leave it.
It’s probably that asshat lawyer again, trying to get me to answer. Guy’s like
a goddamn Pitbull.”

My
mind flashed back to the day of Jack’s birthday party. Noah Preston was the
attorney his parents couldn’t afford. I’d wondered where I knew the name from,
and now I remembered: Preston was the name of the lawyer my dad didn’t want to
talk to.

I
looked down at the Blackberry screen. Noah Preston wanted something from my dad—a
meeting. And Jack’s parents and Drew wanted Noah Preston’s time. Quid pro quo.

I
grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Have a good flight,” I said, my wheels spinning. I had some research to do.

Back
upstairs I booted up my Mac and switched on my cell phone. Surely enough, I had
four missed texts and two missed calls from Drew.

R
u ok?

Pietce
said you’re in ER. Pls text me back.

Don’t
want to bug u but wprried.

 Ctl
me.

I
guessed the last one was “Call me.” I read the texts over and over again. He
had had a hard time getting the words out. I wondered if he’d been embarrassed
about the mangled words, but too worried to delete them and try again. My heart
hurt for him, for his pride and for the inevitable encroaching evidence of his
disease. I listened to his voicemail.

“Hey
Saylor, it’s Drew. Um, I’ve been texting you. Don’t mean to bother you, but
Pierce said he saw you in the ER and I’m worried. Really worried. Okay, just
call me when you get this and you have a minute, okay? All right.”

I
felt a deep warmth radiate through me at the concern in his voice, as if I’d
been wrapped in a heated blanket. I liked that he worried about me—worried so
much, in fact, that he wasn’t afraid to look desperate about wanting to hear
from me. I liked that a lot. I stared at his texts again, at the words he’d
tried so hard to form, and an idea began to form in my mind.

But
first, I had to research Noah Preston.

It
didn’t take long for me to find Preston’s cell phone number on the internet.
Before I dialed, I went to the hallway and peered down into the living room.
There was no sound.

“Dad?”

He
must’ve left. I walked back to my room and dialed the number, wishing I didn’t
have to do it this way. I wasn’t good on the phone. That was something my
generation didn’t exactly have to be good at: we were texters, master Skype
conversationalists, and Twitter enthusiasts. Our phones functioned as cameras
and maps and music players. Using the phone to talk on was something old people
did. But Noah Preston belonged to that category, so I had to suck it up.

“Hello?”
His voice was rich and robust, and it reminded me of this very expensive bronze
body oil I’d bought once on vacation.

“Hi.
I’m looking for Noah Preston?”

“You
found him sweetheart.” He said it like
sweethaht
, as if he was from
Boston.

“Right.
My name is Saylor Grayson. Um, I think you know my dad.”

Silence.

“His
name is Victor Grayson? He’s an attorney.” I switched the cell phone to my
other hand and wiped my palm on my jeans.

“Oh
yes, the elusive Victor Grayson. And you say you’re his daughter? I’m
intrigued.”

I
imagined him in a pinstripe suit, puffing away on a cigar in an office that
overlooked the sea. “Well, I know you’ve been trying to contact him. I’ve seen
your number on his phone.”

“Mm
hmm...”

He
was unflappable. In direct contrast, I was mopping sweat from my forehead. “I—I
wanted to make a deal with you.”

“What
could
I
possibly have that
you
want, m’dear?”

“It’s
not exactly for me. It’s for a friend. I can get you a meeting with my dad, but
only on the condition that you’ll meet with my friend and his parents.”

There
was a silence. Then: “Your friend, is he a potential client?”

“Yes.
And he doesn’t have a lot of money, but what he has to say is really, really
important. I want you to listen to him, to really consider his case. That’s all
I’m asking.”

“And
what if your father refuses to talk to me?”

I
shrugged, which was stupid considering Preston couldn’t see me. “I can get him
to come to you. It’s your job to hold his interest.”

After
a minute when I was sure he was going to hang up on me, Preston laughed. Loud
and hearty, as if we were old friends shooting the shit. “All right. You’ve got
my attention, Miss Grayson. I will meet with your friend and his parents. Have
them come by my office next Thursday at eleven a.m. sharp. And in turn, I
expect to have a meeting with your father the day after that. Shall we say
noon? You can specify the place.”

“That’s
great,” I said, grinning. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I
hung up, still grinning, and stared at my computer screen. I got Jack an
appointment with Noah Preston. I still didn’t know that he’d take on the case,
but he had to, right? No one could turn Jack away after meeting him and seeing
how badly off he was.

I
took a deep breath and pulled up Google. I had one more thing to do, and then I
was going to see if Drew wanted to hang out. After he’d fallen, I figured he
could use some cheering up.

H
ey.
Have something to tell you. Can I come over?

A
minute passed, then two. I went to the bathroom to get dressed. When I came
back, Drew still hadn’t answered.

Hello?

Still
nothing. I called him, but it turned over to voicemail.

“Hey,
it’s me...Saylor. Um, I was wondering if I could come over to hang out. I got discharged
a couple hours ago, and I have something fairly awesome to tell you. Call me.”

I
tried to remember if he’d mentioned having something to do today, but I
couldn’t think of anything. Besides, something poked and prodded at the back of
my mind, like a tongue with a sore tooth. This wasn’t like Drew. He wasn’t the
kind to not answer texts or voicemails. If he was busy, he’d text me back and
tell me that. This silence...something was wrong with it.

My
brain began throwing visions at me. Drew on the floor, helpless, fallen,
injured. Drew outside in the ice with a broken leg and no one to help him,
slowly succumbing to the deep sleep of hypothermia.

I
grabbed my car keys and phone and ran down the stairs.

I
knew driving like a maniac wasn’t the smartest thing to do on icy roads, but I
couldn’t help it. Every minute I wasn’t there was a minute longer Drew wasn’t
getting help. My brain had picked over the images so much that I was convinced
I’d find him outside in the snow. I just hoped he wasn’t dead when I got there.

My
eyes scanning the snow and ice, my breathing heavy and ragged, I pulled into
his parking space. He wasn’t outside as far as I could see. I turned off the
car and ran to his door, slipping and sliding as I went. How had I never
realized how horribly difficult the streets were to navigate in the winter,
unless you were completely healthy and sure on your feet? I rang his doorbell,
and while it dinged, I began to knock on his door.

“Drew,”
I said loudly, checking my cell phone with one hand to make sure he hadn’t
texted me back. “It’s Saylor. Open the door, please.”

I
could hear sounds through the door, muted and muffled. I pressed my ear against
it and realized it was Carousel Mayhem.

There
was a soft click, and I watched the doorknob twist, the door open a crack, then
another and another. Drew stood in front of me, his plaid shirt rumpled,
leaning heavily on his cane. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. He frowned
when he saw me, as if the light and my face combined were too much for him to
take in.

“Saylor?”

“Yeah.
I tried texting you. And calling you.” I held up my cell phone like evidence.
“Can I come in?”

Drew
rubbed a hand up and down his face, as if he was trying to wake up. “Yeah.
Yeah, of course.” He stood to the side so I could enter.

The
sounds of Carousel Mayhem got louder when I walked into his living room. There
was a trail of CD cases arranged in a straight line in the center of the room.
On the coffee table were two empty forty-ounce beer cans on their sides, a shot
glass, and an open, half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. Drew sank down on the floor
next to the table and poured himself another shot. He held it up to me in a
sort of salute and downed it in one go.

I
sat down on the floor next to him and crossed my legs. Passing my cell phone
from one hand to the other, I said, “Shitty day so far?”

Drew
looked up toward the ceiling, like he was thinking. “Pierce told me you were in
the ER and I couldn’t get a hold of you. I was terrified. Like, really fucking
terrified. Almost more terrified than I was when they told me I had FA. Then I
fell on my face trying to walk out of your hospital room, and the nurse tells
me I need a chair. I get home, call my doctor about the incident, and guess
what? He says it might just be time.” He looked at me, his eyes bright and
hard. “A fucking chair.” He poured himself another shot and downed it.

I
watched his beautiful throat as it spasmed while the liquor went down. “Can I
have one?”

He
handed me the bottle and closed his eyes to listen to the music, his torso
swaying slightly.

I
did a shot and shuddered from the awful taste. But then the warmth began to
spread deep in the pit of my stomach, like a sun-baked ocean wave washing over
me. I pointed to the CD cases. “What’re those for?”

Drew
glanced in the direction I was pointing. “My own balance and coordination testing
center. I failed.”

I
could imagine it: Drew trying to walk a straight line using the CD cases as his
guide. His big feet tangling, his deceptively muscular legs buckling under his
weight, refusing to bend to his will. I saw him fall in a heap, crawl to the
liquor cabinet, try to drown himself in whiskey and sound waves.

I
scooted closer to him and put my arm around his waist. He went rigid for a
moment, staring straight ahead. But then he sank down, lowering his head so it rested
on my lap. He hugged me to him, as if he wanted to crawl inside me. He began to
cry, soft, quiet, defeated sobs.

I
stroked his hair. I said, “I love you.” My tears fell into his hair.

We
sat there, not speaking, not doing anything but listening to the music. When
the CD ended, I put in Mercury Rev and sat back in my spot, pulled his head
back onto my lap. He looked like he was falling asleep. I raked a curl off his
forehead.

What
was it about pain that made us crave oblivion? We liked to think that we, as a
species, were tough, that we could take anything, overpower anything, come out
on top every time. But make us face our own individual mortality and we’d lie
down and weep, curl in on ourselves, fade into empty space. We couldn’t deal.

I
traced the flat, hollowed out spots where my abscesses used to be. I stuffed
myself full of bacteria and disease, trying to outrun myself, my anonymous
existence in my own house. I numbed myself with physical pain because the
emotional stuff was too messy. I knew that. The shrinks had told me a thousand
times. What I didn’t know was how to stop.

In
that way I suppose Drew and I were the same: we were both defective with
expired warranties. They couldn’t send us back, couldn’t exchange us for
something bright and shiny and new.

I
kissed his forehead as Secret For A Song began to play, inhaling the soft warm
scent of boy—detergent and something musky-sweet. His eyelids fluttered open,
then fell closed again, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Don’t
ever leave,” he said.

“I
won’t,” I answered, closing my eyes and laying back against the couch to join
him wherever he was.

When
we finally woke up, Drew holding his head and wincing, it was pitch black
inside the house. I cracked the blinds and looked outside at the billowing gray
snow clouds, like the undersides of enormous doves flying overhead.

“It’s
four o’clock in the afternoon,” Drew said, behind me, staring at his cell phone
screen. “Did we really sleep five hours?”

“I
think we did.” My voice was husky, my brain foggy. “That’s the best nap I’ve ever
had.”

Drew
smiled at me and held out one hand; the other held his phone to his ear. I put
my hand in his and he pulled me down to his lap. I could hear my voice on his
voicemail—the message I’d left before.

“What’s
this something ‘fairly awesome’ you have to tell me?” he asked, kissing the
back of my head.

“Oh,”
I said, smiling at the memory. “I almost forgot! You’re never going to believe
this, but...” I turned around, straddling him so we were face to face. “I got
Jack and his parents a meeting with Noah Preston.”

Apparently
distracted by the fact that I was straddling him, Drew leaned forward and
kissed me. I was just getting into it when he broke off and looked at me, his
face a picture of disbelief. “Wait. Noah Preston the attorney?”

I
grinned, loving his “no way” face. “The very one.”

“How?
I mean, but he’s—how?”

“Let’s
just say I have connections.”

Drew
smiled, leaning in to kiss me. “I love your connections.”

We
were lying tangled up in each other on the floor when Drew’s cell phone rang.
He sat up and answered it while I traced circles around the small constellation
of beauty spots on his perfect back.

“Yeah,
this is him.” A pause. “Oh. Yes. He did tell me. Uh huh. Next Thursday at nine?
...That’s faster than I’d expected.” Another pause while he listened. “No,
that’s okay. I can make it. Thank you.” He hung up and set the phone on his
knee, staring straight ahead.

I
sat up, kissed his shoulder. “You okay?”

“That
was the physical therapist my doctor referred me to,” he said. “She wants me to
go in Thursday, get fitted for a chair.”

“I’ll
go with you,” I said.

He
remained staring straight ahead. “No. I want to go alone.”

“But—”

“Please.”
There was a tiny tremble in his voice that cut at me. “I just can’t have you
there when I’m going through that. Okay?”

I
hated myself so much in that moment. I wanted to flay myself open right then
and there so he could see just how putrid I was on the inside, how marred and
ugly and infected. I wanted him to know that he had absolutely nothing to be ashamed
of, that there were some people in this world riddled with scars of their own
choosing.

But
instead, I said, “Okay.”

And
I held him.