All the Major Constellations (19 page)

“ANDREW? DREW?”

Andrew woke to Marcia gently shaking his shoulder. Startled, he half rose from the waiting room couch, then sat back down. For a moment he wasn't quite sure where he was.

“Did you see her?” he asked.

“Did I see whom?” Marcia said. She sat next to him, her hand still on his shoulder, as if to restrain him.

“Janet's face. Her eyes.”

“I know.”

“I don't ever want to see someone look like that again,” he said. As he spoke he realized that his voice came out thin and whimpering. He cleared his throat. Marcia handed him her coffee. He took a sip and almost gagged.

“Sorry. It's battery acid,” she said.

“It's okay,” Andrew said. He flexed his shoulders and stood up.

“It's time,” she said.

“Okay,” Andrew said. He reached down and took her hand. As they walked out of the waiting room Andrew tossed the coffee cup in the trash. “Sorry,” he said, “that was yours.”

“It's okay. I'm done.” Marcia shivered.

“Are you cold?”

Marcia gripped his hand tighter and said, “A little.”

“I wish I had my sweatshirt to give you.”

“I know you do, Andrew.”

They stood outside Sara's door. “Janet is . . . ?” Andrew said.

“She wants us to say good-bye first. Then she'll go in.”

“Then we should stay here?”

“No. Her friends will stay. Lisa told me it's too painful for Janet to be with us now. So we'll say good-bye, leave, and contact Lisa later. That's the plan. Okay?”

“Okay, Marcia.”

“So, we can go in now.”

They stood perfectly still. Then he felt one of Marcia's shaking hands on the small of his back, guiding him forward. She came in behind him, as if to use his body as a human shield from some unknown attack.

They contemplated Sara one last time. The sheets were pulled back; someone must have cleaned her or put a fresh gown on her body.
Or perhaps that was Marcia again,
Andrew thought
with a shudder. He forced himself to take Sara in fully, although this was not how he wanted to remember her. Sara didn't look like herself or even like a sad sleeping version of herself. Her face and body were bloated and discolored. Blue and red and yellow. There must be some reason for that, he thought, some medical reason. But he didn't feel like asking Marcia about it, not now and not later. Not ever.

Marcia walked over to the bed and leaned in close to Sara. She whispered, “Sara? Sara? Remember our Spanish class's trip to Costa Rica? Remember the handsome Australian who sat next to you on the plane? The climber? Neither of you said a word but there was . . .
something
. This heat that you felt in the air between you and him. It distracted you from your fear of flying. And remember how you wished you'd said something to him and always regretted it? But somehow enjoyed the silence, too? And later, how you even enjoyed the regret? You didn't say these things, but I knew what you meant. I want to wish you those moments for all eternity. You're not serene. You're not playing a harp on some stupid fluffy clouds. You're feeling anxious and intrigued and . . . excited. All those feelings you had that made you feel so alive and so like yourself. I wish you to forever be in that moment. Flirting. I want that to be your heaven.” She moved even closer to Sara. She put her lips right up to Sara's ear and, hesitating just a moment, gently kissed the lobe.

Andrew stared.
I love having my earlobes kissed.
She'd said
it to Marcia, too. There was so much he didn't know about Marcia and Sara and their love for each other. So much he didn't know.

He wanted to say something special to Sara. Something meaningful and potent. Marcia took a few steps backward, her gaze fixed on Sara's face. The fingers of the two girls grazed gently apart as she moved away and Andrew stepped forward and knelt down. He could feel Marcia's eyes on him, but he whispered so low that he was sure Marcia couldn't hear him.

“Sara? Listen. Marcia will be okay. And so will I. And so will your mother. You can rest easy. Or not so easy, if that's better. Whatever Marcia said about excitement and regret—” Andrew trailed off and looked into Sara's face. He gently pried open one of her eyelids and examined the large, black, unseeing pupil. Marcia made a slight movement but did nothing. He drew back from Sara and stood up.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I'm ready.”

Most of the staff was occupied in another room where lots of machines beeped and whirred, people shouted at one another, and an unconscious person lay quiet and still. Quiet and still like the ocean of Laura's eyes, like her calm smile. He always thought about Laura. She was somehow constantly present in the back of his mind. Even at a moment like this. Thinking about her was a habit he couldn't break. They walked to the elevators.

Marcia looked exhausted. Her eyes were glazed and her
expression was blank, blank, blank. It could not have been less devoid of human emotion. He didn't know what to do next. He didn't know how to help her, or what to feel. Sara was dying. Soon she'd be gone. As the elevator doors closed Marcia said, “Let's go back to my room.”

THE PLACE WHERE MARCIA AND JANET had been staying was just five minutes from the hospital. It was a regular chain motel that had been purchased for the families of long-term patients. It looked industrial and anonymous and for this reason reminded Andrew of Laura's church. Marcia silently led him to her room.

“Did you stay with Janet?” he asked as she fumbled with her key. They were the first words he'd spoken since they left Sara's bedside.

“At first. Then another room opened up, so I relocated. It was better that way.”

They went inside and Marcia turned on the light. Andrew stifled a gasp. The room was a mess. Towels and clothes were strewn all over the floor. The garbage was overflowing with cartons of Chinese food and soda bottles. Books on neurology and
traumatic head injuries lay everywhere, open and heavily highlighted. Andrew picked up one of the books and flipped through its pages. Marcia's tidy, neurotically small handwriting—“the scrawl of Satan,” Sara had called it—was in the margins of almost every page.

“Sorry about the mess,” Marcia mumbled. She pulled the covers back from one of the queen-size beds and lay down. Andrew sat on the edge of the bed. Something sharp dug into him. It was a massive textbook. He picked it up. On the cover was a horrifying yet beautiful painting of a brain. It was a multicolored collage of every shade imaginable. It was like a rainbow vomiting a rainbow giving birth to a rainbow. The book was called
The Human Brain: A Symphony.

This is what Sara's brain must have looked like,
he thought.
A gorgeous fucking disaster.

“Do you think it's over?” he asked.

“Probably not,” Marcia said.

Her words made him sick. Sara was dying,
dying
, and here they sat.

“I'm so cold,” Marcia said.

Andrew flipped off his shoes and crawled in next to her. He pulled her close. They slept.

• • •

When he woke up, they were no longer touching. It was midnight. The room was dark except for the dim glare of the digital
clock. He couldn't even tell if Marcia was awake or asleep. Her breathing sounded ragged.

“Is it over?” he said.

“Maybe,” she said.

• • •

He heard the shower running and woke up again. It was two in the morning. He drifted in and out of consciousness. The shower stopped, and Marcia emerged wearing a ratty oversize T-shirt. Her hair was sopping wet. She turned off the light in the bathroom. She made her way over to the bed and tripped on something. They groped blindly for each other. Andrew found her arms and dragged her onto the bed.

“Marcia?” he said.

“Don't ask,” she said.

She flopped her head on his chest and slept. He stared into the darkness, blinking rapidly.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for thou art with me
. Laura dug her toes into the sand. The salty air blew back the amber strands from her face.
Look at me,
he begged. She shook her head. He reached his fingertips to her face, but as soon as he made contact her whole body dissolved under his touch. He pulled his hand away and screamed.

• • •

Three a.m. Marcia was on the phone. The lights were bright. He sat up. She put the phone down. Their eyes met. She shut off the light.

“She's gone,” Marcia said.

• • •

Four a.m. They'd spent the last hour crying.

“We should have sex,” Marcia said.

“We should
what
?”

“We should do something life affirming. Celebrate existence. That's what Sara would have wanted.”

“Don't be crazy.”

“I'm not. Don't you want to?”

“Kind of,” he said.

“Well?”

“You don't mean any of this. And I'm in love with Laura.”

“You had sex with that other girl.”

“That was a mistake. Let's resolve not to be crazy right now.”

“Fine,” she said, sounding relieved.

• • •

Five a.m. They no longer attempted sleep. They sat up in bed, eating old slices of pizza and drinking flat soda.

“It was my fault,” Marcia said for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Stop it.”

“She wanted to stay in. Rent a movie and chill out. I was
the one who insisted on seeing
Un Chien Andalou
.”

“A thousand things could have happened that night. Or any night. Sara was a bad driver.”

“She wasn't.”

“We need to stop talking about this.”

Marcia lay back on the bed. Her hair was still damp. She shivered. Andrew threw the blanket over her. She pulled it up over her head.

“I guess I've always kind of had a crush on Sara,” Marcia said. Her voice was muffled beneath the blanket.

“Me too,” Andrew said through a mouthful of pizza.

“But I don't think I'm gay.”

“It doesn't matter. Sometimes it's more complicated than that.”

“I know.”

“Want to know something crazy? That guy John and I almost, like, did something. He kind of kissed me. Only I stopped it and just left.”

“Whoa.”

“I'm such an asshole.”

“Don't say that.”

“No, really. I provoked him. I invited it. I thought I was being nice or something. And I was drunk.”

“Is he okay?”

“I don't know.”

“Does his church know about him?”

“I think so. The kids do, anyway.”

“That's no good. I think that church is wicked conservative.”

“Really?” Andrew recalled the reggae in the soup kitchen and the almost hippie vibe that the youth group sometimes gave off. But that was the youth group.

“Really. I've heard things.”

“What things?” Andrew stopped eating and looked at her. She pulled the covers off her head and sat up.

“Ever heard of ‘pray away the gay'?”

“What? No shit. That can't be real.”

“Of course it's real.”

“So they'd just make him pray a lot? I mean, if they found out?” Andrew was thinking of Chip, who seemed extremely shifty. Who else was in charge over there?

“Pray a lot, or worse. Conversion therapy, aversion tactics. That shit gets very dark. Like torture,” Marcia said. She picked up his unfinished slice of pizza and nibbled at the crust.

“Fuck,” Andrew said. He thought back on all his interactions with John. John's affection and nervousness toward him, his pained expressions, his repressed sobs, his tentative kiss . . . his silhouette against the sun, standing on the mountain cliff and staring down.

“Fuck, fuck,
fuck
,” Andrew said. More action was required of him. Confide in an adult? Cheeve, Neal? No one seemed appropriate. What would Sara do?

“What time is it?” Marcia asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Early. Why do you ask?”

“I should call Kyle.”

“Who?”

“Kyle Donovitch. You know him. Sara had been out with him a few times.”

“Oh yeah, the jock. Why do you need to call him?”

“Um, let's see, because he was crazy about Sara, he sent flowers, and offered to help Janet in any way he could.”

“He did?” Andrew felt hot shame course through his body. He should have offered to help Janet, sent flowers. “Why didn't you tell me about him?”

“It wasn't that important. Also, I thought it would make you uncomfortable. You're so touchy about guys who play football.”

Andrew thought back to the days after the accident, when Kyle had followed him around the school. Andrew had ignored him, rebuffing any attempts at communication. Would Matt or John or Laura have been so unkind? Definitely not. Maybe there was something to this whole God business. But then again, both Sara and Marcia would've handled the situation more gracefully than he did. It wasn't about God, or the absence of God. It was about him, his own failure, his own prejudice and lack of compassion. He felt a sudden headache coming on. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. So he was judgmental about athletes. There was so much he didn't know about himself.

“You okay?” Marcia said.

“Yeah. Look, I'll start cleaning this place up while you call Kyle.”

Andrew found some garbage bags under the bathroom sink and collected all the trash. He tied off the bags and placed them in a neat pile by the door. Marcia had a brief but emotional conversation with Kyle. Andrew tried to be respectful and not listen in. By the time she got off the phone she was sobbing again. Andrew patted her back and handed her some tissues.

He collected all her clothes and books and threw them into her suitcase. He brushed his teeth and splashed cold water on his face. When he came out of the bathroom, Marcia was still in a heap on the bed.

“Come on. There's nothing more we can do here.”

Marcia groaned in response.

“Let's go,” he said. “Up and at 'em.”