Can't Always Get What You Want (27 page)

Some rational part of my brain reminds me that Martine is angry, and is just taking it out on me. But the emotional side of me feels like she might be right. Aaron’s dad, Gerald, says nothing, but regards me coolly. Although he’s retired from the army, he looks as though he could have stepped off the army base yesterday.

I stop my wild, hysterical speech when I notice Aaron’s eyes flutter open.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I whisper, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Martine mutters something in French.

Aaron jerks his head to the side and snaps something in French back at her. Her eyes widen fractionally, and she leans back in her chair. Gerald lets out a low grunt, and folds his arms. Aaron turns back to me and offers me my favorite wolfish grin. And for a brief moment, everything of the past six months disappears.

What did he say? Was he defending my honor?

I guess I’ll never know.

We all spend a strained afternoon together, and toward supper time, I offer to pick up some food. In the hospital corridor, I walk silently behind Martine and Gerald. They don’t even give me a cursory glance.

Don’t they understand that I really, truly love their son? That I want the best for Aaron too, and that my heart is breaking right along with theirs?

I need to tell them.

Butterflies are beating on my stomach from the inside out.

“Martine?” I say quietly.

She pauses, but doesn’t turn around.

“I want you to know that I love Aaron. With all of my heart. And nothing will ever change that.”

Her body remains perfectly still; the air around us is thick and heavy with things unsaid. She finally walks away. When she turns the corner, I swear I can hear muffled sobs.

—

That scene and other sad images color my thinking.

In the end, Aaron died peacefully. The docs and nurses kept him comfortable. He never seemed to be in any pain. His breathing became ragged and thready, slowly tapering off until…

And that was it.

Staring outside, I see a group of young women walk past the front of Samira’s house. They’re wearing either colorful maxi dresses or bright tank tops and shorts. They’re all smiling and laughing, so delighted with their perfect little lives.

How can they be so happy when my life is falling to pieces?

A surge of hatred lashes out of me, and I force myself to stare at the floor instead.

Lyrics from “Paint It Black” pop into my head. I frantically tear apart my room, looking for my CDs. I have never wanted, no…
needed,
to listen to a song as much as I do now. I plug it into the player and keep the song on repeat for the remainder of the day. Even though I’ve heard it a million times, it feels like I’m listening to it for the first time.

Certain lines affect me more than others. They feel like a slap to the face, a cold shard of glass in my chest.

I know it sounds cheesy, but I feel like this song was written for me.

Oh God, why did this have to happen? My eyes, my soul, my everything, feel so heavy. I crash onto the bed, and fall into a deep, black sleep.

—

“Wake up.”

My eyes flick open, and I see my mother leaning over me. Aunt Alex is standing on the other side of the room, looking at the pictures on my wall.

There are some of Sam and me, some of family, but they’re mostly of Aaron. I hope she doesn’t touch them. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand.

“What are you guys doing here?” I ask testily. My mom raises a single eyebrow, and I instantly regret my semi-outburst.

She sits down beside me on the bed, her long blond hair out of its strangled ponytail hold for once. “I was coming to see you tomorrow anyway, but Ravi called.”

I sit up a bit straighter. “Ravi? As in Samira’s
dad
Ravi
?”

“Yes. He said he’d listened to ‘Paint It Black’ on repeat for twelve hours. He said either we check on you or he was going to smash your stereo.”

Oops.

Did I really sleep all night with that song playing? It felt good, soothing even, to hear words that so closely echoed my own heart.

But I didn’t intend for anyone to worry about me any more than they already are. Everyone has been hovering, asking how I’m doing, how I’m coping, what my plans for the future are, if I want to see a counselor…

I can’t even think past the idea of having a shower today, let alone anything heavy.

“Are you okay, honey?”

I well up and sob into my hands. “What do you think?”

Mom wraps an arm around my shoulder. Even though I’ve been pushing people away, wanting space, it feels comforting having my mother’s arms around me. I wish I could be the size of a toddler again, so I could fit in her lap and feel completely protected and safe.

I notice Alex looking at us sadly, and then down at the small table wedged in the corner of my room.

The table is a disaster. Strewn with odds and ends that Aaron’s roommates brought over. Old T-shirts, essays he’d been working on, some of his books. And, perhaps the largest pile of all, a thick stack of peanut butter and jam jar labels.

He saved every single one of them.

It may look like a big pile of junk, but to me, that pile of junk is priceless.

Alex picks up the stack of labels and, not knowing what they mean to me, leans toward the overflowing garbage can in the corner of my room.

“NO!” I yell. I dash over and wrench the stack of plastic and paper from her hands, clutching it to my chest.

She and my mom stare at me.

“They…they’re important to me,” I say.

“Soph,” Alex begins, “I know you’re going through a rough time but, what was
that
all about?”

Anger knocks hard and fast in my chest and spreads out like a virus.

“They were Aaron’s,” I snap. “It was sort of a private joke between us.”

Her expression softens, and she exchanges a pointed look with my mother.

“What?” I demand.

“Well, sweetie, it’s just that…well…”

My mother shoots a pleading look at Alex.

“Dude, you’re acting like Weird Aunt Martha,” Alex explains.

That gets my attention.

Weird Aunt Martha was Mom and Alex’s great-aunt. She never married, never had any kids, and loved this Jack Russell terrier of hers named Pom-Pom.

Well, one day, Pom-Pom got old and died.

Rather than burying him or cremating him, she took his carcass to a taxidermist. Forever after he stood on all fours, as in real life, with the most fake-looking black eyes staring out.

Very creepy.

When Weird Aunt Martha sat down to watch the evening news, she would scoop up Pom-Pom’s rigid body, lay him across her lap, and pet him as she did every night for the fifteen years he was alive. It was heartbreaking, really.

And they’re comparing me to
her
?

“I am
not
just like Weird Aunt Martha,” I say.

“Fine. You’re Martha-esque.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Alex gestures around the room. “Your room is like a shrine. Are you wearing his clothes too?”

A black T-shirt, several sizes too big for me, hangs loosely around my torso.

“So what?” I retort. “It smells like him, and I miss him.”

They both look at me with such pity. I hate it.

“I know it’s hard,” my mom soothes. “It’s important to grieve, and you need to do this your own way. Take all the time you need.”

“But, she needs to let go eventually…” Alex says.

My mom hisses a snappy “Shh!” and we sit like that for a long time.

—

By the end of July, I feel kind of human again. At least I’ve started taking regular showers.

On the outside, I look more normal. But on the inside…

I can’t stop the churning chaos. It reminds me of a murky lake, with bits of sand and debris floating through the water. It makes it hard to see the light.

My thoughts flick back to the nurses who took care of Aaron. I felt so helpless, watching my sweet love in pain, dealing with mood swings and personality changes, headaches and vomiting. I couldn’t do a single damn thing about it.

But they could.

They made him feel better, and made a dignified, peaceful death a possibility for him. They were so attuned to his every breath and movement that I sometimes felt like they knew him better than I did.

I envy them.

I want to feel that sort of control, that sort of power. I wanted to feel that sort of connection with Aaron, like I could observe all the pieces of a puzzle and put them back together. Maybe if I could feel like that, then I wouldn’t feel like such a failure.

What—wait!

Could I…

Not giving myself a moment to reconsider or think it through, I rush out the door and head directly to the university. I march into the registrar’s office, and ask to see an academic adviser.

Before we’ve even sat down in her office, I spit out the question that has been burning my tongue for the past hour.

“I want to be a nurse. How do I make that happen?”

Chapter 23

Little Red Rooster

I fly out of work the second my shift ends. Tonight is Samira’s bachelorette party. A big group of us are staying for the weekend at her aunt’s house to drink wine, eat ourselves silly, and have mehndi done to our arms, hands, and feet.

Henna tattoos, in case you didn’t know. Don’t feel bad if you didn’t. When Sam invited me over for her “mehndi” party, I agreed enthusiast
ically.

And Googled it as soon as I got home.

God bless Google. I never have to look like an uninformed idiot again.

I race home, and find Samira and Brett chatting on my doorstep. I was expecting Sam—she’s driving me to her aunt’s house. I didn’t expect to see Brett, though.

It’s a welcome surprise. I haven’t seen him lately as much as I had been, since we’ve both been so busy.

“Hey, you two,” I chirp.

Brett opens his arms and I give him a brief kiss on the lips.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Just saying goodbye,” he replies, tucking a stray hair behind my ears. “I’ve missed you.”

Samira opens the front door with the spare key I’ve given her. “That, and I asked him to help us pack your crap into my car,” she says with a smirk.

“You’re being dramatic. I’m not taking that much!”

The door opens, revealing three large suitcases sitting in my foyer.

“How long are you staying again?” Brett asks.

“Two nights.”

He lifts one eyebrow.

“What? It’s not all clothes. I’ve packed makeup and hair stuff, outfits for the weekend, my wedding sari, gifts for everyone…”

Brett smiles and holds his hands up. “Okay, I get it. It’s all necessary.”

I take about twenty minutes to shower, get dressed, and make sure I’m presentable for the mehndi night. My skin is pink and glowing. I exfoliated within an inch of my life so the henna will last longer.

It takes Brett, Samira, and me several minutes to stuff my three suitcases into the trunk and backseat of Sam’s little car.

“Good thing I only packed a small bag,” she says.

Samira pushes up the sleeves of her shirt. There are beautiful swirling designs all the way up to her elbow.

“Sam! You’ve already got yours done!”

She smiles brightly back at me, while wedging my last suitcase into the backseat.

“I did mehndi last night with my mom and aunties. Tonight is for everyone else.”

“How long did this take?” I ask.

“Hmm, about two, maybe three hours? I forget. My aunts were very entertaining; I barely noticed the time.”

Wow. I don’t think I could sit still for that long. What if you have to pee? I guess I could ask. Then again, maybe not. I’m not sure I want to know.

I feel a long pair of arms wind around my waist from behind me. Brett’s lips press to my neck, inhaling the scent of my hair. I melt into his arms.

“Is that it, then?” he asks.

“I think so. Oops! No, I’ve still got one thing.”

I run back into the house and retrieve an apple pie from my kitchen island.

“Mom will be so happy that you’re bringing your apple pie,” Samira says. Nita has been after my recipe for Grandma Lucy’s apple pie for years. “Although it’s totally unnecessary. There’s going to be
soooo
much food.”

I shrug. “I didn’t want to show up empty-handed. Apple pie seems a bit boring, though. I’d thought about bringing a
croquembouche,
but…”

I’m distracted by Brett, sputtering across the kitchen.

“You okay?” I ask.

He smiles, laughing in between coughs. Tears are running out of his eyes.

“What?” I ask, joining in his laughter.

“Did you just say ‘cock and bush’?”

“What? No! ‘
Croquembouche.
’ It’s a French dessert.”

That sets him off again.

“Come on, funny man. No
croquembouche
for you.”

—

The drive to Samira’s aunt’s house takes about an hour. We eventually pull onto a long paved driveway winding through the trees.

Elegant iron lampposts are stationed every hundred feet or so, glowing softly in the early evening light. A large cream house comes into view. Calling it big would be an understate
ment. The grounds surrounding the house are exquisite, parklike. I see about twenty cars off to the side.