Bittersweet (4 page)

Wyatt dreamed the dream again. Fainter and through a prism of pink. Up and on his feet, he ventured to the window. He heard the pop pop pop as lights flashed. A splash of glass. A crush of chest. Screaming. Was it his? No, he didn’t think so. Wyatt hovered, lost between here and there, unsure of where he belonged. I’m okay. I’m okay. He was not okay. His lips parted. His body fell. He was nothing. He was everywhere.

 “Please,” said the one, the boy. “Don’t do this to her.” He whispered it like a secret, their secret, eternal.

The girl didn’t talk. She rained tears instead.

“Come on now, you’re a fighter,” said the boy. “Fight this. Fight now.”

But he wasn’t a fighter; he was a kid, a lonely kid, cold and shivering in the dark.

He was tired.

The world turned away.

He didn’t care if it turned back.

Wyatt woke this time when the door to his hospital room opened. A bouncing redhead from the dietary department rolled in with a smile inappropriate for the lunch she aimed to deliver. She wheeled past a dry erase board that listed his pain level as a scowl and parked in the corner next to Sandra.

“You’re still here?” Wyatt said to his cousin.

Sandra lifted the top from his lunch and snorted. Hot tea. Brown broth. Red jello. Yuck.

“The liquid diet lives another day,” she said and twirled a finger in celebration.

“Yeah, well, me too,” Wyatt said. He pressed the up button on his bed’s remote and his back panel shifted up—up enough for him to shove the lunch tray away.

“Eat,” Sandra hissed. “Or drink. Whatever it’s called. Either way, get some nourishment.” Her eyes, ginger in the light, widened enough to scold him. Despite the edging liner and the whipped lashes of mascara, shadowy bags entrenched under her orbs. His wasn’t the only mask to have cracked.

“You look bad,” Wyatt said.

“You look worse,” she said.

The cousins stared at each other.

“I don’t need you keeping vigil anymore,” Wyatt said. “I’m conscious now. You can go back to your life.”

In fact, Sandra and his father had been the only two to visit him faithfully. The grandfather he shared with her stopped by once, looking like Vincent Price in a mink coat. When he offered to foot the bill for Wyatt’s commitment in a residential treatment facility of his father’s choice, Wyatt’s dad threw him out, shaking and cursing, threatening to hurt him if he came back that way again.

Was that what Wyatt needed? Treatment? Or did his father know best?      

Sharp, stabbing pain scissored through his chest, cutting at some vital part and slicing the air away. Just as Wyatt opened his mouth to complain, his nurse wheeled her cart in, barely a head above all her various supplies.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said in that Louisiana drawl he’d come to know. “It’s me, Shelly Thomas.”

She introduced herself each day as if expecting him to forget. Who knew, maybe pain or morphine did erase the woes. Either way, Wyatt concentrated on exhaling and felt his pain ease fraction by fraction, stubborn inch by stubborn inch.

His nurse drew an idiotic smiley face on the dry erase board and scribbled ‘goal’ next to it, like she did every day. If Nurse Thomas thought she could wrangle that kind of smile out of him, then she set her sights way high indeed.

“How are you feeling, dumpling?” she said.

Like an actual dumpling.

“Great,” Wyatt rasped.

Her hazel eyes swept the length of him as if he’d told the truth instead. “Pain that bad, huh?”

No. Pain that good.

“You ever been shot?” Wyatt said instead. “It’s like a pinch, but explosive.”

Sandra snorted out a laugh. “I think I like you better as a gunshot victim. At the least, you’re more entertaining.”

That almost did get a smile from him. Nurse Thomas gave them one of those no nonsense looks best left for school teachers and strict moms. It told him she was some kid’s to love and not above good discipline either. He imagined her pouring juice in the morning and making sure all the homework was done.

Wyatt bet all the homework got done in her house.   

“To answer your question, my darling, I have not had the displeasure of being shot,” his nurse said. She reached into her cart, grabbed a thermometer, and stuffed it in his mouth. Shush the gesture said. When the beep came and his temperature met her approval, she moved on to taking his blood pressure. “And I thank God you escaped with your life.”

‘God.’ Did he thank God? Should he thank God? Wyatt just didn’t know.

“Let me get you something for your pain,” his nurse said.

Minutes later, morphine flooded his veins, milking free a sigh of relief. Wyatt had no idea he’d closed his eyes, but when he opened them, Nurse Thomas and the pain were gone.   

 “Give me my notebook,” he said to Sandra.

“So you can write Edy again? No!”

Wyatt’s temper spiked, then flattened. He resisted the urge to inhale deep, knowing the bandages around his chest would restrain him. When the tickle of a cough came on, he cursed that too, knowing it would feel like thunder rammed through. He counted backwards, willing it away as his eyes began to water. Sandra sat up and immediately poured him a cup of water.

Wyatt coughed up what felt like a small child. He looked down, always expecting blood. There was none. He sighed in relief and took the water from Sandra.

“Give me the notebook,” he said again.

He followed her gaze to the wastebasket, where paper had been stuffed already. A mountain of letters to Edy sat there, angrily abandoned, unfinished.

“Wyatt,” Sandra said delicately. “She chose someone else, okay? It happens. Please accept it.”

He wanted her to shut up, go away, disappear. He hated the careful way she spoke to him or how she made plain what was obvious.

“I never said she didn’t,” Wyatt said. “Now can I have my notebook?”

Since he’d recovered well enough to manage it, he’d taken to writing, hesitantly at first, maniacally on occasion, and well into the night when the mood struck and pain rode high on near-blinding magnificence. He wrote even then. Especially then. Not necessarily to or about her, but only when his thoughts swung round that way.

Sometimes he wrote to Hassan.

Those went in the trash, too.

Why had Hassan tried to save him? Why had he stripped down and plugged up hemorrhaging holes in Wyatt’s body with the shirt from his back? Yeah, it was humane and anyone would say they’d do the same, but faced with it—faced with the opportunity to let someone they hate go—how easy, hard, possible would it have been to … do nothing? He didn’t know, but the question haunted him; the answer eluded him.

Hassan had tried to save his life. Who knows? Maybe he did save his life. And what had Wyatt found the air to say, with Hassan bent over him as his life ebbed away?

“Tell Edy I love her.”   

Then he drifted away.

Oh man.

Hassan shifted. The bed groaned and creaked under the sway of his weight. Weak winter sun bathed one side of his face, lying about a warmth that didn’t exist outdoors. He had an arm around Edy’s middle. He looked down just as she snuggled into him. He opened his eyes. Really opened his eyes.

The bedroom door was open.

The bedroom door was gone.

Hassan sat up and an icy draft abused his bare torso. Just as he squinted in the sunlight, Edy’s grandfather filled the doorway.

He was dressed in camouflage with a rifle on one shoulder.

“You. Up. Now.”

Water dropped into his belly. Ice froze his veins. Did Frank know he wore nothing under this blanket? Dumb question. The rifle was right there.

Hassan gusted out an exhale. Only he could flee violence in Boston to get gunned down on a Kentucky farm. Well, he didn’t care what Edy’s grandfather said. No one would shoot him naked. Which meant he had to actually get up. Hassan toed around for his boxers in bed, found them, and jerked his foot upward, all the while keeping an eye on her stoic grandpa.  He jarred Edy as he managed to pull the underwear back on.

She stirred and yawned leisurely. “Hassan! Awake or asleep. You get so fidgety sometimes.” She elbowed and half missed, face dreamy. But was she crazy? Did she think them back in Boston? He wanted to scream at her to at least wake up and watch him die.

That’s when she opened an eye, made a crazy cat sound, and sat bolt upright, dragging all the covers as she pinned them to her chest.

“Oh my God, are you serious?” Edy cried.

Her eyes brimmed as he climbed out of bed and into yesterday’s jeans. For Frank’s part, he stood as still as if painted on a wall. Except, he still had an eye on Hassan and a hand on his rifle. Was this a mind game of some sort? If so, dude had already won.

“Listen,” Edy said. “It’s not his fault. I pushed him into this. I always push him into … this.” She cringed. “Take it out on me. Please. I’m begging you.”

“Cake,” Hassan said as he shrugged into a sweatshirt. “Don’t.” He wouldn’t be able to walk out if she didn’t hold it together. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got this.”

“You’ve got what?” she cried. “Getting shot?”

She had a point there. He didn’t have the Green Mile thing down.

This would’ve been comical had it not actually been happening. But this was bravado, right? Frank couldn’t expect to get away with murdering him. Not that the thought held any comfort; he had to die for someone to try and get away with it all. He supposed the man before him could pull it off. He looked sharp and determined. Technically, Hassan figured, tons of people got away with murder all the time. He watched TV enough to know that. At that moment, he imagined a guy eating popcorn with a grin of accomplishment spread wide. It would only take Frank a pull of the trigger and a good idea to be that guy and ‘good idea’ was assuming Gaitlin police were sharp in the homicide department. He didn’t even want to get into the farmland good for burying behind the Reynolds’ house. So, yeah, rest in peace Hassan Pradhan.

“Let’s go!” Frank said and Hassan jumped right into his Nikes.

Now would be a good time to form a plan.

“I’m coming,” Edy announced. “Wherever you’re talking him, I’m going.”

She jumped up; blanket and sheets wrapped around her, and made life a thousand times worse. Look. He loved her. Loved her past mountain tops, over desert ranges, and through shark-infested seas, yadda yadda. But the last thing he needed was her flaunting her nakedness right now.

“Outside,” Frank said and about faced out the door.

Edy maneuvered within a cocoon of blankets as she worked on getting dressed. Hassan grabbed his coat and followed Frank. He sped up when Edy shouted his name.

Around back, the property sloped well past the chicken coop. They followed it down and into a thicket of trees. Hassan counted and measured his breaths as they walked: in, out, slow. A branch snapped underfoot and Frank swung round, rifle ready. Hassan threw up his hands in defense. Nothing. Frank shot him a scowl and moved on, deeper into the woods.

Hassan thought about his mom as he walked and how her last thoughts of him had, no doubt, been angry ones. He thought about his dad and that oversized voice of his, booming with pride if Hassan got something half right. He tried to imagine not seeing either one of his parents again and couldn’t. He tried to imagine a way out of this situation and couldn’t.

Fangs flashed in a streak before him and Frank’s rifle swung for it. Hassan jerked. One snarl. One bang. One thud. Done.

“Whew,” Frank said. “Damn stray’s been harassing my chickens forever. Diseased by the looks of it, too.”

Hassan’s ears rung from the shot. He told himself he shook from the cold and only stood, immobilized, to gather thoughts.

Edy’s grandfather gave him a once over and snorted. “Now, that you’ve been sufficiently scared, let’s you and me talk expectations, you understand?” Hassan’s head bobbed in agreement. “I’d like to know the boy stupid enough or in love enough to lay down with a girl in her Kentucky granddaddy’s home. You see, this walk is so I can figure out which one you are.”

~~~

Edy flew from the bedroom as she buttoned her jeans and vaulted right in pursuit of Hassan. She found her grandmother boiling water in the kitchen.

Boiling water at a time like this.

“Where are they?” Edy demanded.

Her grandmother stood on tiptoe to reach for an overhead cabinet. Once open, she squinted at an assortment of boxes. “I’m looking for a small wooden container with Chinese—”

Edy wanted to fling herself from the kitchen, but her grandmother was that quick. She gripped her arm and squeezed. “What’s between them is theirs. You leave those boys to it.”

She stared at the woman. What brand of craziness was this? Hassan needed her; therefore, no one would get in her way.

Edy snatched free and rushed for the door. A gun blasted and she screamed.

The screaming didn’t stop. Not as she rounded the house at top speed. Not as she slipped when the ground gave way in an unexpected slope. Only when she tumbled into a roll and choked did Edy’s screams subside.

Face down in the dirt, her heart detonated, eviscerating itself on a kamikaze mission. Pain slapped her blind, gutted her hollow, and tossed her soul to the wind. A slow tremor built from her belly up; pressure like a ruptured dam. Hassan, she thought. Oh, please, don’t leave me Hassan.

Edy looked up to find her grandmother, grandfather, and Hassan standing over her.

“A chicken ran by. Did you see it?” her grandmother said.

“Let the girl alone,” her grandfather said. “I obviously scared her killing that wild dog. Not my intention.” He extended a hand.

Edy’s mouth sputtered. “Not your intention!” She scrambled off the ground, body juddering like a clock with slipshod springs. “Are you crazy? Did you take him out and pretend to shoot him as some form of discipline?” No wonder her mother was hardcore. 

Her granddad, for his part, looked uncomfortable. “The plan wasn’t to make either one of you think I’d shoot him, especially given what you’ve been through. What I wanted was to talk to Hassan, man to man, about his intentions toward you. Yes, I’m old fashioned. I’m an old man and I don’t apologize for that. Now, I recognize times have changed, but no kin of mine will get taken advantage of under my roof on my watch.”

Edy willed herself to still, and found amazingly, that she did. “He’s not taking advantage of me. He never has. He never would.”

“Yes. I get that impression, too.” Her grandfather started for the house with his rifle. His nutty wife scurried after.

Later, much later, after Edy had worn herself down with pacing, her outrage melted to relief. Her relief melted into shame. She owed her grandparents an incredible apology and when she found her grandmother in the living room, she made it known.

Edy put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry about earlier. I’m sorry we … disobeyed. I don’t know what we were thinking.” Her cheeks sparked and overheated.

Her grandmother smiled faintly. “I probably can guess.”

Edy doubted that, but she appreciated the sentiment. Especially when she was so far past wrong.

Her grandmother lit the fireplace. “We’ve been wondering why you’re really here. The two of you looked like folks on the run from the second I saw you. I wonder if the people you’re running from know how far you’re willing to go.”

She didn’t mean Reggie Knight and his gun. She didn’t mean police or the media either.

Edy’s grandmother looked up pointedly, pinning Edy at the place she stood.

“When the voices tell you to start trusting someone, you ought to perk up and listen.”

Edy swallowed. It seemed rude to ask if she was being figurative or literal.

“No more sleeping together under our roof, not unless you’re man and wife.”

Edy agreed. It didn’t seem like much to ask. As she had the thought, Hassan and her grandfather came in. He was without the rifle.

“Okay,” Frank said. “Let’s sit down and have a family discussion. Don’t leave a thing out.”

Family? Discussion? Edy looked around. Both grandparents looked so expectant. Hassan hovered, lips parted.

“I don’t understand,” she said. What could they possibly want from her?

“Trust us,” her grandmother said.

She exchanged a look with Hassan, then nearly lost her eyes when he nodded. He actually wanted to talk them. Had Frank thumped his head?

“They’re not so bad,” Hassan whispered. “And he wasn’t really going to shoot me.”

Edy made eye contact with him. Did he want to confide in them? If so, to what end? Did he think the answer to their problems—and they had plenty—would be solved by dumping their burdens on an adult?

Hassan met Edy’s look of disbelief with a shrug. Why not try? They were already on the losing team, in a relationship constantly facing extinction. Could they give honesty a try?

Their story flowed down in streams for her grandparents, stopped up with occasional questions. Both she and Hassan unloaded as the fire ebbed and blazed. They told the story of a girl and boy who could never be and only wished they could, of a girl and boy who dared try anyway. And here they sat with Wyatt dead or dying and uncertainty ahead.

“You could get her pregnant,” Edy’s grandmother said.

“Okay, what? No!” Hassan’s head swiveled round as Edy jerked, burned by the proposal.

“Mary, shush.” Her grandfather waved an arm before turning back to the two of them and rubbing his chin. He’d been doing that the whole time they told their story. “She thinks she’s a romantic,” he apologized. “And she doesn’t think things through.”

“A shotgun wedding,” her grandmother blurted. “Your daddy probably needs a shotgun on account of being from Boston, huh?”

“Why would he need …”

“Because that’s the way it works!” Her grandmother jerked back and sprayed the room with her imaginary machine gun, Capone-style. “You marry my daughter, copper, or get the lead,” she said in a voice with absurd bass.

“What?” Edy said. “Can someone help me with her?”

Edy’s grandfather shook his head. Hassan wore the grin of a man thrilled.

“I want her to do that again,” he said. “Let me film it this time.”

Her grandmother looked ready to cooperate until Frank waved her away. “No shotguns or portrayal of gun usage, pearl. I think we need options more civil than violence.”

Mary dropped to her favorite seat, the coffee table, and made a great show of pouting. “Well, that’s silly. What’s happening to them is not all that ‘civil.’ Being forced to turn away from your true self is, in itself, an act of violence.”

Edy thought of dancing, classically or otherwise, and how she’d treated it like a hobby on instruction. She thought of Harvard and not going there; she thought of arranged marriages and Hassan. She thought of pressing to the wall, cornered, beaten down, knocked out with worries. No more. Not for her.   

~~~

Edy powered on her laptop and a pinpoint of light whirled and pin wheeled before igniting into a sunburst. She logged on and got dumped at her desktop, where she stared at a pink ballet slipper until it faded into oblivion. The massive screen with its backlight scorched into her retinas. She dimmed the settings and went back to staring in the dark before wondering what she waited on.

She logged onto Facebook, but it so wasn’t her thing. It was so not her thing, in fact, that her last status update read:

edy phelps
: Leahy? West Roxbury? Please. South End’s coming for you! #Pradhan #Dyson

The West Roxbury game existed on another time continuum altogether, in a life where safety came with seat belts and passwords or double checking before crossing the street. Edy deleted her status with a heavy hand.

She moved on to staring at her profile picture next. She looked stupid. Stupid and young. Could she possibly have aged in the span of a few days? She thought of those people who went into shock and turned their hair white. That was real, wasn’t it? What was ‘real’, anyway? These days, not even she felt real to herself.