Every Day (26 page)

“So you’re a girl who’s a boy?” she says.

“Something like that.” I sense she doesn’t want to get into it.

“And how far did you drive?”

“Three hours.”

“And what are you missing?”

“A couple of tests. A date with my girlfriend.”

“Do you think that’s fair?”

I’m stuck for a second. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“Look,” Rhiannon says, “I’m happy you’ve come all this way. Really, I am. But I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I’m cranky as hell, and this morning when I got your email, I just thought: Is all of this really fair? Not to me or to you. But to these … people whose lives you’re kidnapping.”

“Rhiannon, I’m always careful—”

“I know you are. And I know it’s just a day. But what if something completely unexpected was supposed to happen today? What if her girlfriend is planning this huge surprise party for her? What if her lab partner is going to fail out of class if she’s not there to help? What if—I don’t know. What if there’s this huge accident, and she’s supposed to be nearby to pull a baby to safety?”

“I know,” I tell her. “But what if
I’m
the one that something is supposed to happen to? What if I’m supposed to be here, and if I’m not, the world will go the wrong direction? In some infinitesimal but important way.”

“But shouldn’t her life come above yours?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re just the guest.”

I know this is true, but it’s shocking to hear her say it. She immediately moves to soften what sounds like an accusation.

“I’m not saying you’re any less important. You know I’m not. Right now, you are the person I love the most in the entire world.”

“Really?”

“What do you mean,
really
?”

“Yesterday you said you didn’t love me.”

“I was talking about the metalhead. Not you.”

Our food arrives, but Rhiannon just stabs the ketchup with her French fries.

“I love you, too, you know,” I say.

“I know,” she tells me. But she doesn’t seem any happier.

“We’re going to get through this. Every relationship has a hard part at the beginning. This is our hard part. It’s not like a puzzle piece where there’s an instant fit. With relationships, you have to shape the pieces on each end before they go perfectly together.”

“And your piece changes shape every day.”

“Only physically.”

“I know.” She finally eats one of the fries. “I guess I need to work on my piece more. There’s too much going on. And you being here—that adds to the too much.”

“I’ll go,” I say. “After lunch.”

“It’s not that I want you to. I just think I need you to.”

“I understand,” I say. And I do.

“Good.” She smiles. “Now, tell me about this date you’re going on tonight. If I don’t get to be with you, I want to know who does.”

I’ve texted Dawn to tell her I’m not in school, but the date is still on. We’re meeting for dinner after she’s done with field-hockey practice.

I get back to Vic’s house at the usual time he’d come back home from school. Safe in my room, I feel the usual set of predate jitters. I see that Vic has a large selection of ties in his closet, leading me to believe that he likes wearing them. So I put together a dapper outfit—maybe a little too dapper, but if what I’ve accessed about Dawn is true, I know she’ll appreciate it.

I whittle away the hours online. There’s no new email from Rhiannon, and there are eight new emails from Nathan, none of which I open. Then I go to Vic’s playlists and listen to some of the songs he’s listened to the most. I often find new music this way.

Finally, it’s a little before six and I’m out the door. It’s almost strange how much I’m looking forward to this. I want to be a part of something that works, no matter what the challenge.

Dawn does not disappoint. She loves the way Vic looks, using the word
debonair
instead of
dapper
. She is full of news of the day, and full of questions about what I’ve been up to. This is a delicate area—I don’t want him to be caught in a lie later on—so I tell her I simply had the impulse to take the day off. No tests, no hallways, just driving to somewhere I’ve never been before … as long as I was back in time for her. She fully supports this decision, and doesn’t even ask why I didn’t invite her along. This is, I hope, how Vic will remember the day.

I have to access rapid-fire in order to follow all Dawn’s reference points, but even still, it’s a good time. Vic’s memory of her is absolutely correct—she sees him so precisely, so wonderfully,
so offhandedly. She doesn’t broadcast her understanding at all. It’s just there.

I know their situation is different from ours. I know I am not Vic, just as Rhiannon is not Dawn. But part of me wants to make the analogy. Part of me wants us to transcend in the same way. Part of me wants love to be that strong, that powerful.

Both Vic and Dawn have their own cars, but at Dawn’s request, Vic follows her home, just so he can walk her to the door and they can have a proper goodnight kiss. I think this is sweet, and go along, walking hand in hand with Dawn up the front steps. I have no idea if her parents are home, but if she doesn’t care, neither do I. We get to the screen door and then hang there for a moment, like a courting couple from the 1950s. Then Dawn leans over and kisses me hard, and I kiss her back hard, and it’s not the door we’re propelled toward but the bushes. She’s pushing me back into the darkness, and I am taking all of her in, and it’s so intense that I lose my mind, or lose track of Vic’s mind so that I’m in my own mind completely, and I am kissing her and feeling it and out of my mouth comes the word
Rhiannon
. At first I don’t think Dawn’s heard it, but she pulls back for a second and asks me what I just said, and I tell her it’s like the song—doesn’t she know the song?—and I’ve always wondered what that word meant, but this is what it is, this is what it feels like, and Dawn says she has no idea what song I’m talking about, but it doesn’t matter, she’s used to my quirks by now, and I tell her I’ll play it for her later, but in the meantime there’s this and this and this. We are covered in leaves, my tie is caught on a branch, but it’s just so full of life that we don’t mind. We don’t mind any of it.

That night there’s an email from Rhiannon.

No alarm wakes me the next day. Instead, I awake to find a mother—someone’s mother, my mother—sitting at the edge of my bed, watching me. She is sorry to wake me, I can see, but that sorrow is a minor part of a much larger sadness. She touches my leg lightly.

“It’s time to wake up,” she says quietly, as if she wants the transition from sleep to waking to be the easiest it can be. “I’ve hung your clothes on the door of the closet. We’ll be leaving in about forty-five minutes. Your father is … very upset. We all are. But he’s taking this particularly hard, so just … give him room, okay?”

While she’s talking to me, I don’t really have the focus to figure out who I am or what’s going on. But after she leaves and I see the dark suit hanging on the closet door, I piece it all together.

My grandfather has died, and I’m about to go to my first funeral.

I tell my mother I forgot to tell friends to cover me for homework, and get on the computer to let Rhiannon know that it’s not likely I’ll be able to see her today. From what I can tell, the service is at least two hours away. At least we won’t be spending the night.

My father has stayed in my parents’ bedroom for most of the morning, but as I’m hitting send on my message to Rhiannon, he emerges. He doesn’t just look upset—he looks newly blind. There is such loss in his eyes, and it permeates every other part of his body. A tie hangs feebly from his neck, barely knotted.

“Marc,” he says to me.
“Marc.”
This is my name, and coming from his lips right now it sounds like both an incantation and a cry of disbelief. I have no idea how to react.

Marc’s mother sweeps in.

“Oh, honey,” she says, wrapping her arms around her husband for a second, then pulling back to straighten his tie. She turns to me and asks me if I’m ready to go.

I clear the history, turn off the computer, and tell her I just need to put on my shoes.

The car ride to the funeral is largely silent. The news plays on the radio, but after the third loop, I don’t think any of us are listening. Instead, I imagine that Marc’s mother and father are doing the same thing that I’m doing—accessing memories of Marc’s grandfather.

Most of the memories I find are wordless. Silent, strong stretches of sitting together in fishing boats, waiting for a pull on the line. The sight of him sitting at the head of the
Thanksgiving table, carving the turkey like it was his birthright to do so. When I was younger, he took me to the zoo—all I can remember is the authority in his voice as he told me about the lions and the bears. I don’t remember the lions or the bears themselves, just the sense of them that he created.

There’s my grandmother’s death, before I really knew what death meant. She is the ghost in the background of all of these memories, but I am sure she is much more prominent in my parents’ thoughts. My own thoughts now turn to the last few months, the sight of my grandfather’s diminishment, the awkwardness between us as I grew taller than him and he seemed to shrink into himself, into age. His death was still a surprise—we knew it was coming, but not that particular day. My mother was the one to answer the phone. I didn’t have to hear her words to know something was wrong. She drove to my father’s office to tell him. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it.

It is my father who looks diminished now. As if when someone close to us dies, we momentarily trade places with them, in the moment right before. And as we get over it, we’re really living their life in reverse, from death to life, from sickness to health.

The fish in all the nearby lakes and rivers will be safe today, because it seems like every fisherman in the state of Maryland is here at the funeral. There are few suits to be seen, and fewer ties. My extended family is here, too—crying cousins, tearful aunts, stoic uncles. My father seems to be taking it the hardest, and he is the magnet for everyone else’s condolences. My mother and I stand at his side, and get nods and pats on the shoulder.

I feel like a complete imposter. I am observing, trying to record as much as I can for Marc’s memories, because I know he is going to want to have been here, is going to want to remember this.

I am not prepared for the open casket, to have Marc’s grandfather right there in front of me when we walk into the chapel. We are in the front row, and I can’t take my eyes off of it. This is what a body looks like with nothing inside. If I could step out of Marc for a moment—if he did not come back in—this is what he would look like. It’s very different from sleeping, no matter how much the undertaker has tried to make it look like sleeping.

Marc’s grandfather grew up in this town, and has been a member of this congregation for his whole life. There’s a lot to be said, and a lot of emotion in the saying of it. Even the preacher seems moved—so used to saying the words, but not for someone who he’s cared about. Marc’s father gets up to speak, and his body seems at war with his sentences—every time he tries to release one, his breath stops, his shoulders seize. Marc’s mother goes up and stands next to him. It looks like he’s going to ask her to read his words for him, but then he decides against it. Instead, he puts away the speech. He talks. He unspools the memories, and sometimes they have knots in them, and sometimes they are frayed, but they are the things he thinks of when he thinks about his father. Around him, the congregation laughs and cries and nods in recognition.