The Beautiful Between (12 page)

“When he told you about me,” Kate finishes for me.

“Yeah.”

“That must have been so embarrassing.”

I look straight at Kate now. “Yes!” I say emphatically, kind of excitedly. “Yes, it really was.”

Jeremy comes in then. Kate looks at me and I know she’s not going to tell him what I’ve told her, because she doesn’t know whether I’ve told him about my dad.

“Who was on the phone, Jer?” she asks, and I’m glad she does because I never could. But as his sister, she has every right to invade his privacy.

“Mike Cohen. Spreading gossip as usual.”

“Funny,” I say. “You don’t generally think of boys as being gossips.”

“Sternin, boys are the worst gossips, believe me.”

“So what’s the gossip?” Kate asks.

“Brent Fisher and Marcy McDonald are breaking up.”

Kate makes a face like she’s tasted something sour. “Ugh. Marcy.”

“I know, kid. Serves her right.”

“Jesus Christ,” I say, feeling left out. “One of these days, one of you is going to have to tell me what happened with Marcy McDonald!”

Kate grins at me. “One of these days, one of us will.”

“Good comeback, kiddo,” Jeremy says approvingly.

“Are you kidding?” I groan. “She’s full of them. Kate always knows the right thing to say.”

“Anyway,” Kate says, “Brent’s a nice guy. Hope he’s the one who dumped her.”

“Kate,” Jeremy mock-admonishes. “I don’t like this nasty side of you.”

“Got it from you, big brother,” Kate says, and Jeremy pounces on her, gently and very carefully play-wrestling, and Kate dissolves into giggles. I allow myself a jealous glance at them and then go back to my Middle East reading.

We ride silently to my building. Jeremy always takes me home so we can share a couple of bedtime cigarettes. We almost never talk in the cab, so tonight’s silence doesn’t have any big implications. I’m thinking about Kate—about her family, being foolish enough to think that they might get away without telling her the truth about her disease, without even telling her that she had cancer at all. What did they think—that she wouldn’t figure it out when the chemo made her hair fall out? What did they say to the doctors to make them not insist upon telling her? That they would tell their daughter when the time was right, some other time, like maybe after this whole thing had blown over, which surely it would?

And I think about what Kate said, that her parents were weak not to tell her, no matter how hard it might have been for them. I think about my mother and me, the care we take to avoid confrontation, be it about my father, or about what I do every day after school with the Coles, or why I came home so late that Saturday night. My mother doesn’t ask. Tit for tat—I don’t ask, so she doesn’t either.

Weak, Kate called it. I never thought of my mother that way, but then, I did think that I had to be strong, strong enough to protect her from my questions. Like by inventing a deadbeat dad sunbathing in the desert, I could protect her from the truth. But she’s the one who knows who my dad really was, and I’m the one in the dark.

I’m sick of thinking about this. I want to think about something else, anything else. I think about Jeremy and Marcy McDonald. By the time we reach my block, I’ve built up quite a curiosity.

Outside my building, cigarette in hand, my curiosity gets the better of me.

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened with Marcy McDonald?”

Jeremy’s surprise is written on his face. I think he wonders why I even care.

“I’m sorry, Jer. I just … I just really want to know.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being girly or something. I just want to know.”

“I promised Kate I’d never tell.”

“Kate?”

He breaks his gaze; looks above me, behind me. “Yeah. She was embarrassed. I promised her.”

He still isn’t looking at me, so I hold the sleeve of his shirt. “Okay. I understand.”

“Okay.” Jeremy takes a last drag and flicks the cigarette onto the ground. “See you tomorrow,” he says, and heads toward the corner.

“Are you mad at me?” I say to his back. The possibility scares the absolute crap out of me.

Jeremy turns around. “Mad?”

“Yeah. For asking.”

Jeremy grins at me and without stepping any closer says, “Sternin, you got a lot to learn about me still, huh?”

I exhale. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath. I feel better and turn to walk into the lobby.

16

On Thursday, a couple of weeks before winter break, Jeremy tells me to meet him in the library at lunch.

“What for?”

“I have an idea,” he says mysteriously. I think this must be some kind of prank that his friends want to pull and they need me as an accomplice. The teachers would never suspect me.

They redid the library recently, so it doesn’t have that old-book smell you’d expect. It feels like there are more computers here than books. I manage to find a table entirely surrounded by bookshelves, except for one side that’s up against a window. I’m reading when Jeremy taps my shoulder.

“What’s this all about?”

“Okay.” Jeremy looks ridiculously excited. “Don’t take this the wrong way. Okay. If you don’t like this idea, I promise not to bring it up again.”

“Okay,” I say warily.

“I’m sure I can find things out for you.”

I look at him blankly. I have no idea what he’s talking about. My cluelessness must be written on my face, because Jeremy says, “About your father, I mean.”

“What about my father?” I say, still dumb.

“About his … about what happened to him. I’m sure I can find out more for you. From the oncologist, maybe.”

I look hard at Jeremy. Part of me is angry. It will be easier for him to find out than it has been for me.

But Jeremy’s right: he can find things out for me. What’s more important to me—knowing the truth, or the way I find the truth? I’m not really sure what my answer is, actually. Because all this has to do with how I feel about the truth having been kept from me. How I feel about being left in the dark regarding the death of my own father, about my family.

So I have a decision to make. Do I want to find out because I’m ashamed that I don’t know, or do I want to find out because I just have to know? I think I need to know. I’ll take Jeremy’s help. He can ask questions I can’t ask. If nothing else, he’ll get me that much closer.

“Sternin?” I’ve been quiet for a few seconds, considering. Jeremy must think I’m mad, because he continues, “Only if you want me to. If you want me to stay out of it, I promise I won’t ever bring it up again—”

I interrupt: “No, Jer. It’s a good idea. You’re right.”

“I’m right?”

“You might be able to find something out. You already knew more than I did.” He nods. “At least, maybe you can find something out from the oncologist, get him to draw a comparison between your father and Kate.”

I immediately wish I hadn’t said this, but Jeremy enthusiastically agrees. “Exactly. I figured I could say, Remember that girl you mentioned, the one whose dad had leukemia like Kate? Let on that I think that’s how he died, and so I’m upset about Kate, having the same kind of sick, and play on the doctor’s sympathy—”

I look at Jeremy, my eyes wide. I can’t believe he just said that.

“Listen, Sternin,” he says, “I’m sorry, but I could use the distraction. It’d be nice for the cancer to be about something else, just for a while.”

“Okay,” I say, and nod. And I completely understand what he means. For me, investing myself in Jeremy’s life and family has been a distraction from my situation, so I can’t blame him for using my situation to distract him from his. At least he’s being honest about it. That’s more than I can say for myself.

Turns out, the oncologist, the Coles’ dear family friend, Dr. Graham Kleinbaum, is having dinner at the Coles’ next Wednesday. He’s not Kate’s doctor, because the Coles wanted a pediatric specialist, but Jeremy says his parents pretty much look to him before making any decisions about Kate’s treatment. In the last few weeks, there’s been some talk about a bone marrow transplant for Kate.

At first I think Jeremy is going to invite me over for dinner that night. I have dinner there all the time as it is; it wouldn’t be odd or anything if I was there. But he doesn’t, and I’m relieved. First of all, I don’t think Jeremy would be able to ask the doctor questions about my father if I was there, and second of all, I don’t know how I would be able to stop myself from asking questions, and that would be the worst humiliation of all—interrogating my father’s oncologist in front of the Coles. What if he remembered who I was and just started talking about it on his own, expecting that I would know about my father’s disease and I’d have to play dumb—or actually, play smart, pretending to know more than I do?

Jeremy comes over late on Wednesday. I pull on my coat and rush downstairs. I don’t know what I think I’m going to learn, since I’m so sure my father didn’t die of cancer after all, but I’m anxious, and the elevator has never seemed so slow. It’s freezing out, and the air is so dry I know my sheets will crackle with static electricity later. Jeremy’s hands are shoved in his pockets and his cigarette dangles precariously between his lips. We stand close. Jeremy promised me the play-by-play, but I just want to hear how it all ended—what he found out.

“We’re definitely moving forward with the bone marrow,” he begins, without saying hello or even giving me a cigarette.

“What?”

“The bone marrow. I go to get tested to see if I’m a match tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay.” I’m a little put out that he’s opening with this instead of with my father. I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help it.

“I’m nervous, though. I mean, I hope I’m a match, of course, but …” Jeremy’s voice trails off, and it looks like he’s about to cry. “My parents are so excited. They’re sure I’ll be a match; they’re sure this step is all that Kate needs. I don’t want to disappoint them. But I’m so scared.

“Isn’t that awful? I mean, of course I want to be a match and of course I don’t care what they have to do to me to get the marrow out for Kate. But I’m still so scared of how much it’ll hurt. God.”

I don’t know what to say. I mean, I would be scared too, but it’s strange to see Jeremy acting so frightened. Jeremy covers his eyes with the heels of his hands. I can see he’s pressing hard. I don’t know how to change the subject to my father.

“What else did the doctor say?” I ask, and when Jeremy looks at me, hard, I add, “About the procedure?”

“I don’t know. I stopped listening. He was talking percentages, success rates. I was getting angry, kind of, like, he was getting us so excited about this and at the same time he was telling us that there’s such a small chance it’ll even work. They’re so determined. My mother—like when she’s planning a party for one of her charities and everything’s up in the air and the caterer’s canceled and the tickets aren’t selling, she always knows how to get everything right so that it’s perfect on party night. She loves solving problems, getting all the answers. Like this is no different from that.”

“Well, maybe it isn’t.” Jeremy looks at me, shocked. “I just mean, well, I figure the doctor knows better than the rest of us. He’s supposed to be the best.” And then I see an opportunity to steer the conversation back to me, and even though I know I shouldn’t be so selfish, I say, “I’m sure that’s why my family chose him.” Without a cigarette, I can crush my hands into fists inside my pockets.

“Huh?”

“Why my parents went to him—to Dr. Kleinbaum, for my dad.”

Jeremy blinks. “Of course,” he says, and it’s like he’s remembered his manners, or remembered I’m there, or something. “I didn’t get anything about your dad, Sternin.”

“What?” I spit the word out hotly, watch the cloud that my breath makes.

“He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Did you ask?”

“Yes, but he said he couldn’t tell me anything.”

“Didn’t he say anything?”

“No.”

“Well, tell me what the conversation was.”

“I’m so tired, Sternin,” he says, and I can tell he’s expecting me to stop talking about my father—to reach out to him, give him a hug, rub his back, tell him it will be okay. But I don’t; I’m still thinking about my father. I’m still waiting for him to tell me about the conversation, and he knows it. Jeremy steps away from me, and my hair whips in front of me, so that I can’t see Jeremy’s face anymore. I realize he’d been blocking the wind for me.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” he says, and it’s strange not to be able to see him when he’s talking to me. I press my hair behind my ears. “Nothing that matters.” Jeremy says with finality, as though that’s that and there’s no point in talking anymore.

“It matters to me. You promised,” I insist. I sound like a spoiled five-year-old.

“Jesus, Sternin, he didn’t tell me anything. I’m sorry.” Jeremy’s voiced is raised. He doesn’t sound sorry.

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“Well, fuck it, Sternin”—he throws his hands in the air helplessly—“I’m dealing with some shit of my own here.”

“God, you didn’t even try, did you? You didn’t even try to talk to him about my dad. Did you even mention it to him at all?” My toes curl and clench inside my shoes.

“I told you, Sternin—what, you think I’m a liar now?”

“I don’t know what to think. You promised to help me and now you’re yelling at me like I made you do it. It was your fucking idea.”

“I tried. Jesus!” Jeremy is shouting now. “What the hell is the matter with you? You think your father dying over a decade ago matters anywhere near as much as my sister dying now?”

“Yes, I think it’s important,” I say, almost yelling. “I thought you did too.”

I can’t believe I said that. I can’t believe I’m being so selfish. I should be focused on Kate. I should remember that we can talk about my father some other time, sometime later; tomorrow, even. But I can’t; I’m too mad. I only confided in Jeremy because I thought he understood that it was important; I thought he understood me. But maybe he never did.

He’s back up on his throne now, a million miles away from me. My problems aren’t nearly as important as those of the royal family. Even if they’re not all that different.

I’m seething. I can’t remember having ever been this mad at someone. I only realize I’m crying because when the wind blows, my tears are cold against my face.

Quietly, like it’s the beginning of an apology, Jeremy says, “Look, Sternin,” but I cut him off.

“Fuck you, Jeremy.” My anger has made me feel strong. “I trusted you. Fuck you.” I turn away from him and stomp into my lobby and press for the elevator. I don’t turn around in case he’s still there, watching me as I wait like an idiot for the elevator to come. It’s taking forever. Of all the times for it not to be here. So much for a dramatic exit. I’m angry at the elevator now too. These things don’t happen to people who live in the suburbs.

But when it finally comes, I step inside and turn around, and as the door closes, I see that he’s not there anyway, not waiting to say anything more, and I’m sure he walked away just as soon as I turned my back to him.

Later, when I can’t sleep, I look again at the picture of my parents. I turn the light on this time, stare at my mother’s legs across my father’s lap, his hand supporting her back. I want the picture to tell me something; to reveal something about the man my father was, the life he and my mother had. But I’ve stared at it before; the picture has nothing else to tell me. I resist the urge to crumple it up before putting it back in its place between the pages of the book.

Jeremy isn’t in school on Thursday, which is also the last day before winter break begins. School will be out until the new year. I’m not surprised, since he said he was getting tested today. In the light of day, I can see that I should call him, see how it went, see if it hurt as much as he was scared it would. I consider leaving physics class—pretending to go to the bathroom and calling him. I go so far as to begin to scoot off the tall lab stool. The tips of my shoes hit the floor, but then I change my mind. I slide back onto my seat and stare straight ahead at the chalkboard. I can’t forget that Jeremy and I fought. I know I said awful things, and I can’t imagine he’d want to hear from me right now.