All the Major Constellations (18 page)

“I'VE GOT TO GO TO New Hampshire,” Andrew told his mother.

“That's where Sara is?” she said.

“And Marcia.”

“Are they okay?”

“I don't know. But I've got to go help. Will you take care of Becky for me? I'll be gone a few days, I think. I'm sorry.”

“It's all right. I can do it. What about work?”

“I fixed it with Neal.” Neal had been very understanding, but perhaps just the tiniest bit remote. Andrew was no longer the only summer hire who showed up stone sober. He was ashamed, but he had bigger problems to think about.

He picked up his keys. He'd already showered, packed, and written a list of instructions for his mother regarding Becky. The
one thing he hadn't done was call Marcia. He didn't want her to talk him out of coming, something he sensed she might do

“What's going on with Brian's case?” he asked, more out of consideration for her feelings than actual interest.

“It's complicated,” she said.

They rarely hugged. But he put his bag down and held her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she said, or at least that was what he thought she said. Her voice was muffled in his chest.

“I love you, Mom,” he said. “I know you feel bad about everything. It's not your fault.” She held him tighter. “If you ever want to leave,” he began, and he felt her stiffen in his arms. “I mean, if you ever want to change things, change your situation, I'll help. I'll help you.” She patted his back, once, twice, then she let him go.

• • •

During his three-hour drive, he thought about Marcia and the night they had become friends. They were eleven. She'd been alienated, friendless; he nearly so.

It'd been all over a game of Kick the Can.

Marcia. Little, weak, weird Marcia. The white girl with the foreign accent. Shy in an arrogant way, awkward, bone pale, the last picked in a pickup game of anything. Marcia in the cafeteria with a hot tray under her nose and a book held open by her elbow. Eating and reading. She could not do a single sit-up or push-up
in gym class. Her classmates had giggled at her behind her back, but they'd also left her alone.

Andrew had avoided feeling sorry for her. Already he'd known that pity and sorrow, feelings that were very natural to him, were not to be indulged or exposed. It was unmanly, something he'd understood without anyone having to tell him. He'd known to avoid the painful tug that scratched him raw. The dying baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and landed on the sidewalk in front of his house, the commercials about starving kids in Africa, his mother's face after a fight with his father, and the friendless loner with no father at all.

In the summertime and early autumn all the kids in the neighborhood assembled themselves for a nightly round of Kick the Can. A coffee can was placed in the center of the sidewalk. Then the designated can guard closed their eyes and counted to fifty while everyone else hid. The goal for the can guard was to find where people were hidden and then touch the can while shouting the names of those he had discovered. The goal for everyone else was to kick the can while the guard was away looking for the hidden players. Once the can was kicked, or all the players were discovered, the game was over.

As with all sports, Brian had dominated. He'd hid ingeniously close and sprinted out as soon as the guard had crept away. He was speedy and decisive. His confidence was thrilling. Even then, there'd been something remarkable about his skills, something special. Andrew had been aware of this beauty, this
specialness, aware of it and respectful of it. But Brian had not spoken to his brother during the game. He'd had his own set of friends.

One night Andrew had made an outrageous and ill-planned dash to kick the can. He'd been defeated as everyone had watched from their hiding places. After the first round was over, Brian had sneered at him. Andrew had drifted away, kicking rocks in front of him, imaginary cans, thinking thoughts long lost to him now.

Andrew had wandered with his hands shoved into his pockets, his face hidden beneath a baseball cap and a hooded sweatshirt. It had been late September, and the breeze had had just a snap of winter in it.

“Can sticker, can sticker!”

Andrew had heard the shouted taunt that was meant to humiliate the guard. A can sticker was a guard who was a coward because he was too afraid to venture out and find people, lest his can be kicked while he was away.

Marcia had been lying hidden in a bush when he discovered her. Rather, she'd crouched half under a bush and half under the rotted-out porch of an abandoned house. She'd been close enough to see the can and the activities around it, but far enough away so that she'd not actually been participating in the game.

Crouched and quivering, Marcia had sucked furiously on a lollipop and watched the game with a complicated expression on her face that Andrew had never forgotten.

“People were wondering where you were,” he'd said.

Marcia had looked up. At first she'd looked scared. Then she'd lowered her eyes only to raise them again slowly. Her expression had said,
Yeah, right
. Andrew had sat down next to her, and for a few minutes they'd watched the game in silence. Then he'd spoken.

“It's okay. Who cares, right?”

He'd nudged her shoulder with his.

“Right?” he'd asked again.

“Right,” she'd said.

IT WAS AN AMAZING HOSPITAL. It looked and felt like an upscale mall. Cafés, a bank, and even a dry cleaner lined the halls of the entryway. A security guard directed him to neurology. It turned out he was in the wrong building. He navigated to the correct building using various indoor bridges. The hospital reminded him very much of Avella. All this wealth, he mused, all these paintings and soft lights and grandeur. It was still a house of death and sickness, drugs and tubes and sharp metal instruments. He shivered, trying to push down his fear of the place.

When he reached the right floor, Marcia appeared around a corner almost instantly. She looked both surprised and relieved.

“I've been calling you. Something's wrong with your phone,” she said.

“That's weird,” he said. “What's up?”

She stared at him for some moments. “How did you know to come?” She started to cry.

“Where's Sara? Where is she?” he asked. He felt as if someone had dragged his heart out of his chest and plunged it into ice water.

“Sara had a stroke. Something about the fevers—not being able to find the source of the infection—”

“Marcia?” Lisa, one of Janet's friends from the cheese factory, came toward them. She looked grim.

“Why don't we go sit down?” Lisa said.

“What's going on? Just tell us,” Marcia said.

Lisa folded her hands behind her back.
Like a clergyman,
Andrew thought.

“Bavin and Roberts and the guy from Boston just confirmed. Sara is brain-dead.”

“But isn't— Isn't that—” Marcia said, wringing her little hands and twisting away from Lisa's now outstretched arms. “What percent? What parts? Dr. Roberts said that the brain is like real estate. And that some parts are valuable and others are practically worthless—”

“All of it, Marcia,” Lisa said.

Marcia stared at her. Andrew felt airless, numb, floating.
Stop!

“What happens next?” he asked.

“It's Janet's decision,” Lisa said.

Andrew hid his tears behind a cough and cleared his throat.
“I don't think Sara would have wanted . . .” he began.

“Don't worry,” Lisa said. She looked at Andrew, her expression blank. A chill shot through him as he thought of Laura and her endless, endless, emotionless calm. “They're going to pump her full of morphine and take her off the vent. It's just a question of when. Probably soon. There are some papers to sign, and Janet needs to—to compose herself.”

“How long does it take? I mean, after they take the vent out?” Andrew asked.

“Hours, sometimes even days,” Lisa said.

“And she won't suffer?” he pressed.

“Not with all the morphine,” Lisa said.

“Where is Janet?” Marcia said.

“Still with the doctors,” Lisa said. She patted Marcia's arm and then turned and walked back down the hall.

Marcia started to shake. Her whole body trembled with alarming velocity, even violence. She was a blur of flesh and clothes. A shimmering Marcia. Like in a cartoon or a movie. She began to sink to the floor. Andrew grabbed her, felt her body go limp, and then picked her up. He carried her to the empty waiting room and laid her down on one of the couches. Her face, like her eyes, looked gray. He stroked her forehead, which felt both hot and cold with sweat. A nurse came in and nudged him aside. She shook Marcia gently.

“Marcia, talk to me. Talk to me, sweetie,” the nurse said.

Marcia's eyes blinked rapidly, and Andrew could see the
whites fluttering beneath her lids. The effect was eerie. Then she opened her eyes fully and said, “Sorry.”

“You're all right, Marcia. Now, stay lying down for a minute, then sit up very slowly. Then sit for five minutes before you stand up. Better yet, eat something before you stand. Your friend here will help you. Right?” she said, turning toward Andrew. “Stay here until I get back,” she said as she hurried out the door.

Andrew got some soda and chocolate from the vending machines. He opened the can and handed it to Marcia. She was sitting up now. She took a few sips and gave it back to him.

“Sorry about that,” Marcia said.

“Stop apologizing,” he said. “Actually, it was kind of exciting.”

“You carried me in here?”

“I did.”

“Like a sack of potatoes or like Dracula and Mina?”

“The latter.”

“How romantic.”

“I thought so.”

She leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. Andrew drank some of the soda. The nurse came back in, took Marcia's blood pressure and pulse, and told her not to stand up for a few minutes. Marcia placed her fingertips in the inner corners of her eyes as if to stop the tears. He had done the same thing the night of Sara's accident.

“It's okay to cry,” Andrew said.

“I'm worn out from crying.”

“Eat some chocolate.”

Marcia took the chocolate bar and broke off a piece. Instead of putting it in her mouth, she held it in her fingers as she stared off into space. Then she spoke. “Remember when I went to see
King Lear
?”

“I do,” he said. Marcia had once taken a five-hour bus trip to New York City to see some acclaimed stage production of
King Lear
by herself when she was sixteen. She had left at five in the morning, caught the matinee performance, and returned at ten at night. She had told no one of her plans for her little day trip. Not even him and Sara.

“It was amazing. I liked the actress who played the Fool. She wasn't this supersad depressed Fool, like in all the movies. She was mischievous. She was light on her feet and funny and looked abnormally small, almost like a midget. But she had these huge green eyes. She looked made to be watched, you know?”

Andrew nodded. “Go on,” he said. Marcia seemed to be going into a kind of trance.

“I was, like,
really
into the play. Enchanted by it. But then I noticed this woman sitting two rows in front of me. She wore a white suit. Her head was bent down, and she was scribbling in the playbill for the entire length of the play, even during the intermission. I couldn't help but glance at her every once in a while. She was handsome, boyish-looking. She had short black hair, a strong face, you know?”

Andrew nodded.

“This woman was completely absorbed in whatever she was writing or drawing on her playbill. When the play ended, everyone stood to applaud. I clapped like crazy for the Fool. She minced up to the edge of the stage and curtsied in this way that was somehow a cross between a little girl playing dress-up and a boy making fun of a girl playing dress-up. The crowd laughed and shouted. It was, like, this frenzied thing. I was so overwhelmed that I had to sit down. And then I felt like someone was watching me. It was the woman in white. She was staring right at me and smiling. This mocking fucking smile. Then she stood up, dropped her playbill in her seat, and left.”

“What did you do?”

“I got up too. I pushed my way down the aisle of the crowd. I stepped on feet, elbowed stomachs, and trampled on five-hundred-dollar purses. And all the while, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the Fool on stage, bowing and smiling and winking. I lost track of the woman in white, but when I reached her seat, I saw the playbill lying there. I opened it, turned it over, and looked at every page. There were no drawings and no hidden messages. It was just a plain playbill. Blank. Empty. Nothing.”

By the time Marcia finished talking, the chocolate in her fingers had become a gooey mess. It had melted to the point where it had slid from her grasp and plopped on the floor. They stared at it. Then Andrew put his arm around her shoulders. She fell back into his chest and within moments was fast asleep.

She slept for a long time. The nurse came and went, did not
wake Marcia, and did not say anything to Andrew. An hour passed, maybe two, and Andrew's arm felt numb. He was afraid that if he moved, he might wake her up. But the truth was that he enjoyed cradling Marcia as she slept. There were the obvious pleasures of holding a cute girl. But beyond that was something else, something akin to the paternal feeling he sometimes experienced with his dog. Marcia was like that broken little bird that had fallen out of its nest. Very gently, very slowly, he readjusted his position so that he was more comfortable on the couch.

He thought about
King Lear
and wondered why that play meant so much to Marcia. And her experience in the theater with the woman in white and the Fool—what did that mean to her? What was she trying to say to him? Maybe nothing. Maybe it was just a raw moment in her life that she could not make sense of, and for some reason that moment had bearing on what she was going through now.
Sara.

Sara.

Andrew hadn't thought about Sara. Dying. Already dead. She was just an extension of the machinery keeping her alive. It could not be happening. She would open her eyes and make a joke, point her toes, stretch her arms, grin.

No, he knew there would be no miracles tonight. He knew she was gone. He'd always known.

He cupped Marcia's head in one of his hands and supported her back with the other as he slowly eased himself out from
under her. He lay her down on the couch and stood up. She snorted and rolled over. She did not wake.

As he walked toward Sara's room, he felt like he was inside a telescope. Everything near him seemed out of focus; only far ahead of him was the landscape sharp and clear. But the closer he came to her room, the blurrier it got. He reached the room. He stepped inside, keeping his eyes on the floor until the last possible moment, and then he looked up.

Sara was alone. No,
he
was alone. Because whatever was lying there in that bed—

Sara was horribly transformed. Her body was swollen, her face almost unrecognizable. What did that? The stroke? His eyes clouded with tears as he braced himself against the wall for support. He heard rather than felt himself gasping. Or was that the ventilator? Something in this room was lunging for air, barely getting enough, and coming back for more. Something.
Don't faint,
he thought. He found himself kneeling by her bedside—how had he gotten there? It wasn't important. He held her limp hand. Her palm was clammy and her fingers ice-cold and bloated. He ran his eyes up and down her, avoiding her face. Waterlogged. Blue skin, lilac veins. A drowning victim.
Gasp,
went the ventilator.

Andrew traced his fingertips up her arm and onto her shoulder. He looked at her face. Swollen. Ghastly. Still Sara. He kissed her forehead, then her hairline, then her hair.

He stood up and left the room. Janet was just outside the
door, a friend on either side of her. She came toward him like someone crawling up out of a pool of mud to grasp at weeds. He held her. They were silent. No one sobbed. Janet clung to him, and he felt her nails dig into his arms. Deeper and deeper went her ragged nails. He was sure she drew blood, but he willed himself not to flinch. Abruptly, she released him and stepped back. The look on her face was impossible. He lowered his eyes.
I never want to see that look in someone's face ever again. Not ever.
But he reached out his hand anyway, and she took it and squeezed.

Janet walked into the room, followed by Lisa and another friend, her flank of guards. The one who was not Lisa briefly hugged Andrew. He walked back down to the waiting room, where Marcia still slept.