Wake (68 page)

“It’s okay that you called me.”

His eyes remain closed, but he smiles like an angel. I hold him for a little while, listening to him breathe. I only know he’s awake because he doesn’t make that snuffling sound once.

“You’re soft,” he mumbles.

“Thank you.”

Jem tilts his head to look at my face, and for some reason he’s surprised. “Willa.” Who did he think I was?”

“Jem.”

His arm slides up my front until his hand latches on to my col ar. “Are you mad at me?”

I press my lips together to hide my smirk. I don’t want to laugh at a serious question. He’s already forgotten that we just discussed this.

“Yeah, Jem. Livid. Really, horribly mad at you.”

“No, no, no…” He takes my face between his hands, trying to be serious while I’m trying not to laugh.

“Don’t be mad. ‘Kay? Don’t. Just…knock it off.” I think he’s lost his train of thought already. His eyes have that passive, drugged up expression.

“Okay. But what will I do with all this cat food?”

“Um…” His hands relax on my face and he looks away, seriously considering the problem of all the non-existent cat food.

“Give it to the pigeons.”

“Oh yeah? Pigeons?”

“They’ll eat anything.” He reaches up to nest his hand in my hair with a sigh of contentment. “Shitty, bastard pigeons…”

I laugh and Jem whines in the back of his throat. “Stop wiggling,” he scolds me.

“I like you when you’re stoned.”

“I’m not stoned.”

“No?”

“No. Just…tired.”

I pet his head and tell him to sleep if he wants to.

“What time is it?”

If I tell him he’ll just ask again in five minutes, so I keep it vague. “Afternoon. Nap time.”

“I don’t have my shoes.”

“Where are you going?”

“I think I left them at the…thing…”

I pat Jem on the back. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll find your shoes later.”

“What do I need shoes for?”

“Napping.”

His brow crinkles over closed eyes. “That’s not right…” I smile and kiss his forehead.

“Go to sleep, Jem.”

Jem’s sleep is never deep or whole. He drifts between dozing and waking, unable to fully enter either state. He’s too drugged up to be conscious, but too well rested to slip into sleep. He lies still for periods of time, sometimes thirty minutes or more, until I’m almost sure he’s asleep. But he always comes back to the surface, asking what time it is or prompting for help with some ridiculous worry: “I think I left the book in the sink.” I enjoy these silly conversations and am guilty of goading him on once he gets roll ing.

“Pickles,” he murmurs as I massage lotion into his dry hands.

“You like pickles?”

“No. They’re bitter,” he says grumpily. His head lolls back on the pillow, eyes half-open. “Always complaining about something…” I laugh so hard I snort and Jem mimics me. Cheeky bastard. He snorts so hard he gives himself hiccups, and still has them twenty minutes later when Elise comes home from a friend’s house and climbs onto the bed for a visit. Jem lies on his side to face her while she chatters softly, telling him about her day in a gentle, indulgent voice. She knows he’s not able to keep up with the conversation, but a nice voice can be soothing. He interrupts every so often with soft remarks of, “Willa was here,” and “Where did Willa go? Is she coming back?” He’s so dazed he manages to lose track of the fact that I’m sitting right behind him the whole time, rubbing his back. still , it pleases me to be able to reach over and take his hand when he asks after me. My ‘sudden’ presence is enough to make him smile and sigh.

It takes so little to make Jem happy.

When Elise leaves to go do homework, Ivy comes in to give him his next dose of medicine. I expect Jem to get even loopier as a fresh dose of Oxy settles in his system, but he becomes sluggish instead.

His words are slow and slightly slurred. I sit at the end of the bed and give him a foot rub while we discuss streetlamps (they have eyes, don’t you know). It only takes a few minutes for Jem to lose the thread of the conversation and we drift into comfortable silence.

“Breakeven,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“The Script.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about until he says, “Play it.” His iPod isn’t in the nightstand drawer. I look to his laptop and turn the volume up on the speakers. He has a lot of songs by The Script, it turns out.

The opening guitar riff of “Breakeven” is gentle and melodic. Jem sighs at the sound and relaxes against his pillow. I turn back to the bed, back to Jem’s ticklish feet. I like this song. It’s very…Jem. It’s also very like him to remember the track title and artist of a particular song at a time when he can’t name which way is up. The chorus is powerful. His chest rises with each crescendo, like he’s breathing in the music, nourished on its power.

Jem’s eyes are closed by the end of the song, so I lean over and switch off the music before the next track can start. I don’t want to disturb his rest.

“Willa,” he whispers.

“Yes?”

His voice is so quiet I can only make out his words by watching his lips move. “I need you.”

I scoot farther up the bed to be closer to him. “What do you need?”

Jem’s fingers clumsily tangle with the front of my shirt. “I want you.”

I pet his head. “You are so high.”

“I’m serious.” He blinks a few times, attempting to focus. I can see that it takes a great amount of effort just to look straight ahead. “I like you. I’m alive when I’m with you.”

“We’re not talking about this until you’re sober and coherent.”

“But…” He tugs on the front of my shirt, pulling me closer to him. I think he’s just confused and wants a hug, not
me
in any serious way. So I give him a hug, but he tries for a kiss.

“Not right now, okay?”

“I can pretend to be asleep,” he says sweetly. It’s a genuine offer, befuddled as he is, and I can’t help but chuckle.

“I like you,” he insists.

“I believe you.”

“Willa?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Holding his head over the basin while he pukes, I can’t help but think: this is exactly how we first met.

Green Jel -O included.

Thursday So much for that freshman not saying anything.

As far as I can tell , the game of telephone has spun the story like this: Jem and I kissed in the nurse’s office. Jem and I made out in the nurse’s office. Jem and I got to second base in the nurse’s office and are secretly dating. One rumor in particular—that he’s relapsed and I fooled around with him out of pity before he dies—I think must have been started by a malicious bitch indeed. Diane Garth comes to mind.

As I head to History I hear a cluster of freshmen whispering loudly: “But he’s bald! Gross!”

Up ahead I see Elise scurrying through the crowd, weaving between taller, larger people. She’s headed for me. Christ, she’s probably going to chew me out if she thinks the latter rumor is true.

Elise throws her arms around my waist in an enthusiastic hug. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” she squeals. Not exactly the reaction I was anticipating, unless she’s trying to kill me with kindness. Elise lets go and punches my shoulder. That’s more like it.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were dating my brother?” she hisses. “Why didn’t
he
tell me? I get left out of everything.”

Elise is quick to forgive this imagined exclusion. She links her arm with mine and makes me walk with her.

“How long has it been going on? Since that night on the porch? I bet it was.” Now I know which of many false tales she’s heard.

“We aren’t together.”

“But I heard—”

“Nothing happened.”

To my horror she pulls out a cell phone and starts texting.

“What are you doing?”

“Tell ing Carey she’s full of it.” Elise’s phone pings as the message sends. She pockets her phone and links her arm up with mine again. “So do you like my brother?”

I can hear her phone vibrating from here. News travels fast.

“It’s complicated.”

“Promise you’ll tell me first when you start dating?” Elise puts on big doe-eyes. She looks just like Jem when she does that, except he puts a little more effort into the pout.

“Don’t you mean
if
we start dating?”

“Nope.”

*

I don’t even bother to go home after school. I drive directly to the Harper house. It’s time to stop putting off this little chat, especially now that people think there’s more to Jem and I than we’ve discussed. My immediate to-do list has shortened to two items; to hell with everything else:

1. Sort out stuff with Jem.

2. Sort out the rest of my screwed-up life.

I think I can probably knock number one off the list this afternoon. The second one might take a decade or five.

Eric lets me into the house with a grin and calls out to the rest of the family that “the chef is here.”

“Sorry, I’m not here to cook.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Sorry.”

“How hard would I have to twist your arm to get another sandwich?”

I chuckle, but a muted voice from the living room cuts in before I can answer: “Leave her alone, man.”

Eric holds a hand out, inviting me into the living room. I find Jem sitting in the recliner under a blanket, eating a bowl of Jel -O. He looks more focused than yesterday, but his face is still sal ow.

I take a seat on the couch and he offers me a drink.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you hungry?”

“We need to talk.”

Jem swallows and nods. He sets his half-empty bowl of Jel -O on the side table. “Here, or upstairs?”

“Are you well enough to move upstairs?”

Jem gives me an approximation of his cocky smirk. “I’m sick, not crippled.” He sets aside his blanket and stands up. I follow him up the stairs, keeping to his slow pace so he won’t feel pressured to overexert himself. His socks shuffle across the rug and his pajamas hang on him in an unhealthy way. I touch his back without thinking, trying to locate the man within the scarecrow. Jem looks back at my hand and gives a small smile.

We don’t go to Jem’s bedroom. We go to the library instead, where we can both sit in chairs and pretend this is a civilized discussion. We take the two squashy chairs in the reading nook. Jem looks cold already, so before we start talking I head down the hall and come back with a blanket for him.

“Thanks,” he says as I tuck the bottom edge under his feet. I want to tickle his toes, but he would probably kick me.

“How long were you here last night?” he asks. Can’t blame him for not remembering clearly.

“A few hours. Maybe four or five.”

“That long?” I would have stayed the night if I thought he needed me.

“You were saying funny things.”

Jem sighs ruefull y. “Did I say anything embarrassing?”

“Oh, plenty.” I smile as he buries his head in his hands with a groan. “I liked ‘Breakeven,’ though. High Jem has great taste in music.”

“I played ‘Breakeven’?”

“You told me to put it on, yeah.”

Jem’s face turns the exact shade of a ripe tomato. “Oh Christ…” he mutters.

“What? It’s a great song. It really calmed you down last night.”

Jem rubs the back of his neck, fidgeting uncomfortably. “When we got home from Ottawa…I played that song for about an hour straight,” he admits. “I was thinking about you…and Ava.”

“I’m sorry.” I think that’s my third apology. Pity words don’t erase actions. This isn’t where I wanted to begin our conversation about ‘seeing each other,’ but that night in Ottawa has to come up at some point, so we might as well get it out of the way early.

Jem looks me in the eye. “Did it hurt you to go with her?”

I was hurting before she got anywhere near me.

“Yes.”

There’s a look in his eyes that says
good.
I deserve that. “It hurt me to watch you go.”

“I’m sorry.” That’s four.

“Can I say something?”

“Of course.”

“But you have to promise not to get angry or snippy.”

My eyes narrow. I hate being asked to promise stuff like that. Why do people always make others swear not to get mad right before saying something that would rightfully piss anybody off?

“You’re doing it already,” he says. I take a deep breath and try to dispel my irritation. “About Ava…” He stops himself and takes a long pause to think. I tell him not to blow a fuse and he tells me not to joke.

“This is serious.”

“So get on with it.”

Jem looks across at me and swallows before speaking. “I wanted you to want me,” he whispers. “Not her.” Jem rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable again. I am such a shit.

“I’m sorry.” Five. He doesn’t respond. “It’s getting easier, I think,” I tell him. “Being vulnerable.” A few weeks ago he wouldn’t even tell me what kind of cancer he had. It’s not much of a compliment, but it’s the best I can do towards an apology for my own lousy ability to bare myself in conversations like these.

“well it isn’t. You could meet me halfway, you know.”

“Trying.” And failing, with a triple encore.

Jem purses his lips and sighs. “Anything you want to say?”

I hope he already knows this, but it still warrants saying. “I didn’t want her.”

Jem can’t look me in the eye. “After we agreed to start over…it was like you gave up. Like you’d never even wanted me. I thought you’d confused liking me with…something else. Like being friends was an easy way out.”

There’s a pain behind my ribs that I used to kill with cigarettes and other such poisons.

“You didn’t want me,” I point out. “What did it matter if I wanted you?”

“Some people fight for what they want,” he says quietly.

“Fighting is just the first step to getting beaten down.”

Jem looks up at me with pain in his eyes. “You’re damaged, Kirk.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I hate what you did…but I can’t shake the fact that you…” He trails off, biting his lip. He can’t think without fidgeting. “I feel
good
when I’m with you. I feel like me, and whole.” His cheeks turn pinker with every word. “I want you to feel that way about me.”