The Death of Us (10 page)

“It sounds weird, but I was just imagining being a great sea explorer, there being gods and monsters on the next island. I’ve always been really into
The Odyssey.
My dad used to read it to me as a kid. Not really kid-appropriate. I never understood everything he was saying, but I loved it all the same.”

Kurt sticks his head round from the side of the boat. He says, “Beautiful water today. Might swim later.”

“The Sirens calling you?” I pause, not sure he’ll know what I’m talking about. God, I’m such a nerd.

“Yep,” he says, “strap me to the mast.” So he gets the reference. He says, “What? You think editors don’t read?”

“No, I just …”

He laughs. “I always wanted to go to Greece. My birth-dad was Greek. If he hadn’t died, I dunno. Greece seems like a cool place. Who knows, if we’d moved there when I was born, stuff like that. Kidfantasy stuff.” He loops his thumbs in his jeans. “All that to say, I read Homer. It stuck in my head. So,
you look like you’ve got a good handle on the boat. Xander’s teaching you to steer?”

“It’s not as hard as driving a car. Do you know I drove the instructor’s car into a fire hydrant in my second Driver’s Ed class?”

“I heard the rumour,” he says. “Didn’t know it was you.”

“I’m the worst driver ever.”

Xander laughs. “You should have told me that before, Captain!”

Kurt jumps down so he’s standing level with me. I stare out at the horizon. Xander takes a beer from a cooler and leans against the rail, the sun on his face. He closes his eyes.

Ivy comes down next to Kurt and laces her fingers with his. A tiny pulse jumps in my chest. I think of those hospital machines that show the heart flatlining and then jumping to life again.

Xander says, without opening his eyes, “Who’s hungry?”

“Definitely,” says Ivy. “What have we got?” She rests her head against Kurt’s chest.

I watch his face as he puts his chin on the top of her head and quickly strokes her hair.

“It’s all there,” says Xander. “Bread, ham, cheese, beer.”

Ivy moves away, stands next to Xander now and smiles at me. “We’ll get it ready,” she says. She busies herself lifting a bag from the cooler.

I glance once more at Kurt. Our eyes meet. Awkward. I say to Ivy, “Let’s go down below deck, we can prep everything there.”

The boat stays steady, perfectly on course as we make our way into the tiny galley. Ivy smells of sugar and vanilla. She passes me the bread and I lay the slices on a small counter. The boat jolts and she stumbles against me.

“Sorry,” I say.

She laughs, then says, “Kurt’s nice, hey?”

I guess so.

“You never thought about him, you know, like that?”

“I don’t know. He’s never been interested.” I press my lips together to try and stop myself sighing too loudly.

She says softly, “What?”

“You just make it all look so easy.”

“Easy?”

“Just … guys, life.”

She squirts mayo on the bread. I plop down slices of cheese and ham.

“Guys are like dogs.”

I laugh. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”

She squeezes my hand. “Let’s eat, then I’ll tell you all about how to get the hang of men.”

That evening, Dad hovers at my bedroom door. “Calliope,” he says. He’s the only one ever to still call me by my full name.

I’m in the middle of texting Ivy. I glance at him.

His lips move as if he’s considering what to say, then he blurts, “I hear Ivy’s back in town.”

“Did Mom put you up to this?”

“I know it’s not easy. I remember being your age. Things were a little … a little simpler then, it seems.”

“Dad, I’m fine. Really. I’m not … whatever you think. I’m just … fine.” I chuck down my cell and go to kiss him on the cheek. He smells freshly showered.

My cell starts ringing.

He ruffles my hair and says, “Never mind. You answer that.” He gives me an impenetrable look, then ambles away.

I return to the bed, flop down,
a fish out of water,
and answer my cell. It’s Ivy. Her voice is bubbly, cheerful. “Kurt’s asked us to a party at his house tomorrow,” she says. “Tell your parents you’re staying the night at mine.”

The line replays in my head:
A fish out of water.
I ignore it.

“Sounds good,” I say. Maybe I can tell my parents I’m going out with Rebecca. Thinking about Rebecca makes my mouth a little dry. I should call her.

“What are you gonna wear?” Ivy asks.

“I don’t know. Any suggestions? I wish I could come over now and raid your clothes.”

“Come over.”

“I can’t.” I’ve already been out all day. I flip onto my tummy. “I’m going to see my granny in the morning. Apparently she’s not doing great. Then I’m working in the afternoon.”

“Can I come?”

“To the gallery?”

“No, to see your granny.”

“Why? I mean, well, what for?”

“Just to be
nice.
Don’t sick people like having visitors? And old people too. Old, sick people … Plus, I’m kinda interested in this running-away war bride thing.”

“I guess so. She loves talking about that. Okay, yeah. Around ten?”

“Sure.” She says, “Now, Kurt’s party. I’m gonna wear something short. And sexy.”

“And white, right?”

“Right.” She laughs. Throaty.

“I’ll have to figure out how to get Mom to let me go.” A reckless feeling shivers through me.

“What’s up?” Ivy says into the sudden silence.

“I dunno. Nothing. It’ll be fine.”

“Sure. See you tomorrow. Can’t wait.”

I
glance at the black coffee. I can’t drink it. Inertia. I don’t like it about myself, wish I could be more decisive, but when things get tough I blank out. Freeze.

It was the only way to protect myself when I was a little kid. When my mom tore up the world around me. There’s no way to explain to most people, people like Callie or Xander, that life can be so bad sometimes the only way to deal with it is
to pretend none of it’s happening. Or, the opposite. Life can be so good, the possibility of the future so awesome that the only way to protect yourself from ruining it is to sit back. Let the opportunity slide by.

I think about Callie. Once at an editorial meeting, she told me she wanted to write a profile of her grandmother. I said, “I dunno. High-school kids read this, remember?”

“Yeah. She was a high-school kid too. Fell in love during high school and moved here, middle of nowhere, dusty train ride, got out of the train to meet her soldier in the backwater of Edenville. She wore a dress made from a parachute at their wedding. You’re telling me that’s not interesting for a high-school kid?”

“Cool it, Callie.”

“I don’t need to cool it. You just need to remember the whole world isn’t football and girls.”

“That’s what I’m all about?” I joked. “Football and girls?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You didn’t?”

She tucked her pen behind her ear. “Guess I did.”

I laughed. Put up my hands in surrender. “That’s right, all I care about is football and girls. You do the piece.”

She nodded, smiled. “Good.”

Xander sits opposite me in the hospital waiting room. He repeats from a few minutes ago, “Take it easy.” I realize he’s not talking to me at all, more saying it to himself. In TV shows about hospitals, everything is fast. Vital. Pulse of life and drama. Here, in real life, the place is stagnant. It reeks of cleaning fluid. Glares with eerie yellow light. Echoes with the cry of a patient from a faraway room, the soft pad of nurses’ shoes, the ring of a phone, the blurting of the TV.

A show about car crashes comes on. A show I would normally love. A race-car spins three times. Smashes against the buffers. Explodes into a ball of fire and light. A man crawls from the wreckage, blackened and screaming. I sit and watch. It’s sick but I’m rooted to the spot. Watching the next crash, and the next.

And then I hear a strangled sound. Xander is crying. He presses his face into his hands. Sobs shake his shoulders.

I look away. Powerless.

“Here we are,” Callie says. She uses her key to get into her grandmother’s apartment.

“You okay?” I whisper.

“Sure. Ish.”

I squeeze her arm. Her granny sits in a large floral armchair, her eyes all dreamy. When she sees us, she reaches for the teapot. “Hey, girls. You’re here. How lovely. Callie, Poppet. And you’re …”

Callie says, “This is Ivy.”

“Ivy. I’d never forget.”

Callie says, “Let me do that, Granny.”

Her grandmother refuses and pours tea. Adds milk. Hands me a china cup. It’s cold. Gross. It’s all a bit gross—old people aren’t really my thing, but the podcast I listened to yesterday mentioned that
the best way to grow as a person is to step outside
your comfort zone.
I’m totally outside it right now.

I say, “I like your place. Roses. Super pretty.” I’m talking about the wallpaper. Old people. I don’t have much experience but they’re not rocket science.

Callie’s granny says, “I remember when I had a rose garden. You like roses?”

“Of course.”

Callie’s granny goes to put her cup on the table, but misses the edge. The cup drops and shatters. Tea splashes everywhere. “Oh,” she cries. “I just don’t know what’s
wrong
with me today.”

Callie’s eyes get shiny. She’s completely paralyzed. Even though I don’t want to, I imagine what Callie would do and I jump up to grab a cloth from the kitchen. I wipe up, then find a broom, swiftly clear up the pieces.

“You’re a lovely girl, Ivy.” She seems to drift again. Then she says, “But how’s your poor mother, dear? Terrible for you.”

No fricking way.

Callie says, “Granny!”

“Yes, darling?”

Callie glances at me. Apologizing with her eyes.
Thanks for nothing.

Her granny slips to a new subject. “When I was growing up in England, I had a friend like you, Ivy. She was wonderful.”

Light is seeping from me. Callie swore she’d told no one—so now who else knows?

“She, my friend, passed away when we were young. It was so sad. I thought I’d never … She and I planned to come here together. She was in love with a soldier, like me. Ah, we had everything to live for. But enough gloominess. What are your summer plans, girls?”

Callie’s looking at the floor.

I say, “Oh, the usual.”

And the conversation meanders on. Callie’s granny slides from brisk and cheerful to strange and confused. At one point she sees a kitten dart across the floor. She asks me at least three more times about my mom. Each time, I feel the light inside me diminish further. Each time, Callie sends me an apologetic look and asks her granny to talk about something else.

Finally, finally it’s time to go.

When we get out the door, Callie gushes, “I didn’t tell her. Not everything. I glossed over it. I was only a kid. She would never have said anything
just now if she wasn’t so … just recovering. Mom thinks she might have had a mini-stroke. Granny’s just not herself.”

“You swear you didn’t tell anyone else?”

“I swear.”

I can forgive. I can let go.
Holding on to rage is like holding on to a burning stick
—my own self will be the only one damaged by anger. I struggle but I manage to say, “It’s no big deal.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Okay, so I don’t mean it just yet, but I will when I’ve let the anger drain away. I imagine bathwater emptying, dark feelings swirling down from my body. I
can
trust Callie. I convince myself. Yes, I can trust her.

She says, “You seem, I dunno, upset.”

“Can we talk about it later? I’ve got loads to do before I get ready for Kurt’s party tonight.”

“Ivy, I’m sorry.”

“We’ll talk later. Promise.”

My hair’s loose. I’m in a tight white dress. Toned.
At least all those sit-ups earlier were worth it. I remind myself as I head out the door:
I’m a beautiful person.
Xander honks his horn, ready to drive to Kurt’s house out of the city somewhere. I wave to him and his glance flicks down my body as he stammers a hello. Yeah, yeah. He’s trying so hard to be a nice boy but I know what he’s thinking. Some other gangly guy with vile teeth lounges shotgun. Introduces himself as Greg and goggle-eyes me with no attempt to hide it.