Would You (6 page)

“Those aren't curses, Audrey, those are insults. Come on.”

“You greasy, horn-mad hedge-pig! Thou shalt suck rabbits ere I speak with thee again!”

“Much better!”

“Thou hast offended greatly! Eat maggot pie, you pribbling swine! Eat until thy belly ripens and thy breath kills!”

“Good one, Zack!”

We could go on all night, once we get started.

Jumping into the Queen's Park fountain does not leave the same elated aftertaste pool-hopping does. Zack walks home with me, both of us sopping and pushing our bikes because after the first time I have to puke from the saddle, the effort of riding is way beyond my ability.

I guess they've turned the ringer back on, because it's the phone that wakes me. I wonder where my own phone is, it's been so long since I used it. Somehow the whole subject of Claire is something I can't talk about on the phone. Maybe that's a truth about Tragedy that I didn't know until now. What we thought were momentous events before, stuff we could discuss for days, there's no comparison.

I get downstairs and it's the same scene as yesterday: zombies and coffee, and despite the growing number of food donations on every surface, no one seems to be eating anything. Nobody's going to work either, so there's none of that
rushed
thing going on. Quite the opposite.

“Leight Pharmacy called,” says Mom. That's where
Claire was cashier this summer. “To say … they'll take her off the schedule.”

“The police are sending someone over this morning,” Dad tells me. “Can you lose the pajamas, please?”

“Do I have to speak to them?”

“No, darling,” says Mom. “Just look respectable in the background.”

I go back upstairs and put on clothes. Including Claire's black thing under my T-shirt.

The doorbell rings and I look at the clock. Not even nine. What am I doing up?

“Nat,” says Kate. Her voice cracks. She hugs me and I let her. She looks as if someone punched her in the nose, that's how dark the circles are around her eyes. Kate's got this amazing hair, like she stole it from an old painting: boisterous auburn curls, more like
coils.
But today, her hair is pulled back tightly, making her face pale and sad. I open the door wider so she can come in.

I look out and see a crowd of teenagers on the lawn: Carli, Mark, Feinstein, Tony, Stella, Val.

The girls are crying and the boys are glum. What is it about boys and crying? I've cried a thousand times in my life, probably. Or more, since that's only three times a
week for about six years. So have all the girls I know. But boys? Maybe if they've just lost the basketball game, they tear up. And they don't want you to see them, so it's embarrassing. Carson cried when he got a three-day suspension from school for lighting the towel dispenser on fire, but that was more about being afraid of his father. And Zack cried when his grandmother died. But he was nine.

Claire's friends are all staring at me. I feel this huge flashing sign above my head:
*NOT
AS
COOL
AS
BIG SISTER*

I pick up the newspaper lying there and go inside.

“Oh god, Mrs. J,” Kate is saying. “I… I…”

Mom hugs her. “You don't have to say anything,” she says. “I know how hard this is for all you kids.”

Suddenly Mom is a mom again, making Kate feel better. She's one of the moms other kids like, so it takes another kid, maybe, to make her sound normal.

“I went to the hospital to see her,” says Kate. “But they wouldn't—”

“No, sweetie. It's family only at the moment.”

I think about all the times Kate made Claire so mad, the way she needs to be the center of attention. Parents only care if a kid is polite to them. Parents never know about drama. I think, Who's in the spotlight now? but that's too ugly a thought to hold on to.

I had the closing shift at the Y yesterday, but I didn't show up and I didn't phone in. So I call, and Stephanie at the desk says, “Ohmygod, Natalie, are you okay? We heard about your sister and it's just the most terrible thing, are you okay?”

“I guess,” I say. “Under the circumstances.”

“Wait,” says Steph. “Big Doug wants to talk to you. He said if you called to get him no matter what.”

“Okay,” I say.

She patches me through.

“Douglas MacIntyre.”

“Uh, hi, Doug? It's Natalie Johnson.”

“Oh. Natalie.”

Will I ever say my name again, I wonder, without hearing the other person pause and be disturbed?

“I'm sorry I missed my shift yesterday,” I say.

“No, no, Natalie, we completely understand.”

No, you don't.

“Beth covered for you, no problem, came right in as soon as we heard. You going to need a few more days?”

I don't know what to say. He's telling me I don't have to work, but what else am I going to do? I'm only allowed in to see Claire for a few minutes at a time. And my friends are all working, so it's not like I've got anyone to loaf with. But does it look bad if I go to work? Will they think I'm a heartless freak if I do my shifts with my sister lying in a
coma? I still need the money, but doesn't that sound beyond selfish? But what if she's like this … what if it goes on … for, like, months?

“Natalie?”

“Uh, oh, hi—sorry, Doug. I'm here. I think maybe I kind of need to work. I need to be doing something. Is that okay? If I come in this afternoon and just stay on schedule?”

“Well, yes, of course, Natalie,” he says.

“I mean, there might be a day here or there,” I say, trying to keep the option open. “You know, if things change… but right now … I… it's good to be doing something….”

“Not a problem, Natalie. See you this afternoon.”

I'm trying to concentrate on Frosted Flakes, but the headline in the newspaper is distracting me. The picture is Claire wearing her mortorboard and gown.

I'm in the bathroom upstairs with my forehead pressed against the window, catching the minute's worth of cool glass before it warms to match my skin. Dad and his brother are in the backyard with half the lawn mowed. But now they're standing close together, Mike's arm around my father. Just standing there. I imagine my hand pulling back and smashing through the window, the jagged shards shredding my knuckles and ripping my wrist, scarlet blood pouring out, staining the lacy curtain. I imagine the surprised look on the men's faces if I did that.

Coach McCafferty is not one of the policemen, so it's all business, from what I can hear. Kind noises at the door
and then into the living room for questions. I hear Dad's voice going up.

“You're telling me the driver was not at fault? You're telling me
Claire
was to blame? Have you spoken to this young man? Or are you suggesting—”

But Mom cuts in to stop him with words too calm and quiet for me to catch at the top of the stairs. How could Claire be to blame? She's in a coma and the driver isn't.

Dad starts again. “Let me get this straight…”

I know Mom is pulling on his arm, trying to make him listen, be still. That's all we need. To make some lawyer-messed-up case out of this.

I start to close my bedroom door, but then I change my mind. I tiptoe down the stairs to listen. But they're in the hall already, saying goodbyes. “We'll be in touch,” says one of the policemen.

And they go. How could it possibly matter? Could any answer change anything?

No one else is getting the phone, so I do, and I regret it within seconds.

Taylor got back from the cottage late last night, so she just heard about Claire. She's crying so hard she has to hang
up. Then she calls again and hangs up again, and then her mother calls, but I pretend there's someone at the door and I hang up. Mrs. Flint is someone I cannot deal with.

No more than nine minutes later there
is
someone at the door, and it's Mrs. Witchy Flint holding a plate of brownies. Taylor, with her face all red and puffy, has stopped halfway up the walk, as if she's six again and shy, coming for a playdate. But I know, from all the times before, that really she's dreading whatever is about to come out of her mother's mouth.

“How's your mother?” says Mrs. Flint, holding on to the brownies. “My Taylor's been in a dreadful state since she learned the terrible news, and we can't stop thinking of dear Claire.” She manages not to say it, but I can hear her thinking, Thank heavens it's not My Taylor.

“Uh, Mom is resting,” I say.

“I always knew those summer parties … All week Taylor was begging us to come back into town for the weekend, kept telling us she was missing the best parties and her life would be ruined…. Well, can you imagine? If she'd been here, she might have been mowed down right alongside Claire!”

“Mmmm,” I say. Taylor waves her hands at me, denouncing any connection to this woman, and then puts her hands over her eyes.

“She'll certainly be a little more willing to listen to her
mother's instincts from now on. Wouldn't you say? Once again, teen drinking—”

“Claire wasn't drinking, Mrs. Flint,” I say. “And it wasn't a teenager driving. Nobody was drinking.”

“Oh, I doubt that's true, Natalie. There's always something to hide in these situations.”

I want to punch her. “Are those brownies for us?” I say. Or are you just holding them as bait so I'll have to listen to you?

She hands me the plate. “Tell your mother I'll stop by again. If there's anything we can do, just give us a dingle.”

“Uh, thanks, Mrs. Flint.”

“Claire was Taylor's oldest friend.”

Taylor has crept closer, behind her mother.

“Was?” I say. “She's not dead.”

They both wince. “Oh my god, Natalie! Don't say that!” cries Taylor.

“Taylor, dear,” says her mother. “Let's get you home.”

“Yes,” I say. “It's upsetting for all of us.”

I shut the door.

Mrs. Flint only happens to be first. Gina shows up with this huge bowl of strawberries. Maeve Benson, who runs
the health-food store, arrives with a bag of organic lettuce and a tray of carob nut clusters. Kate comes back with her mother and a plate of warm scones. I'm getting used to people throwing their arms around me, but the kitchen seems to be inhabited by extra bodies all the time. My brain wants to flee, but somehow I end up sitting there while they talk, first about Claire and then recipes and how hot it is and then about the sticky topic of college. Mom starts to cry again.

“I should be calling the registrar,” she says. “Letting them know.”

“Don't worry,” says Kate's mother. “I'll do that for you. Nothing is so urgent as saving your strength for Claire.”

Claire has a name for this little crowd of women who have poured a thousand cups of tea at our table; she calls it Mommy's Coven. We have our covens too. Claire has Kate and Taylor and Carli. I've got Audrey and Leila—and even Zack. Mom has Gina and Maeve and Shelley.

“Nat,” says Kate. She tilts her head to say, Upstairs? So I go with her, and when we get to our room, she turns to me and says, “Are you mad at me?”

Somehow it makes me feel better that she's thinking about herself. So I don't have to.

“Of course not,” I say. “I'm just, you know, blown into a billion bits.”

“Yeah,” she says. “You must be.” And she starts to cry.

I have this guilty twinge, knowing that really she does love Claire.

“I miss her so much!” she wails. Even if she loves herself more.

Mom makes our room the thing she flips out about. Flips. All. The. Way. Out.