Everything That Makes You (10 page)

It had been five days.

The world had been Marcusless for five days.

Fi hesitated at the back of the church. Standing on her right side, her mother leaned and whispered, “Where do you want to sit?”

Nowhere. I want to go home.
“I don't care,” she answered.

Her mother pointed the lot of them to a pew in the back. Just as they began to shuffle in, a boy Fi had never met before tugged on her arm. “Are you Fi Doyle?”

She nodded.

He smiled. “I'm Will, his cousin. Aunt Ellen told me to find you. They want you up front.”

“Oh.” Fi gestured to her family—and to Gwen and Trent, who she guessed counted as family, too. “My parents? And—”

“Yeah. Y'all come on.”

They followed Will the Cousin up front. So many people
were crammed into this small, sacred space. Hundreds of people she didn't know were saying good-bye to the boy she knew best.

Fi sat between her mother and Trent. Her mom pulled her close, until Fi's chin rested on her shoulder. Tucking into her mother reminded her of Marcus. But then, everything reminded her of Marcus.

Trent sat on the other side of her, solid and breathing. She hated him just a little for it.

The organ started playing, and what was left of the King family—mother, father, Jackson—processed up. The people she didn't know came to the pulpit, one after another, telling wonderful stories about Marcus. She thought about her own stories: Marcus telling her jokes over the phone; Marcus beating her at Scrabble—and then throwing the game; Marcus protecting her from
Cujo,
as she hid her face against his chest during the first, and only, horror movie they watched; Marcus kissing her; Marcus lying beside her, dragging his hands through her hair.

She wished her final memory of him was different—something funny or kind or adorable—not of a bony, nearly colorless boy, mumbling under a haze of drugs and unable to get out of bed.

She stared at the metal urn on the altar. Now he was only memories and the contents of a jar.

Back when Fi naively believed Marcus's bucket list conversations were purely philosophical—not because he really
needed to
think this thing out—
he'd said he wanted to be “picked clean and burned up.” At the time, she was horrified. Now she understood what he meant. He wanted to give whatever useful bits he had left to someone else. He'd spent the last part of his life waiting for the same favor.

She didn't realize she'd been crying until the service ended. Her mother gently nudged her upright, and Fi saw the dark wet of her mother's silk shoulder. “Sorry.”

Her mom waved her off. “Come on. We have to go to the reception.”

“We do?” Fi eyed the church of strangers, not sure if anyone here knew who she was.

“We do.”

They piled into the Doyles' minivan, and her dad followed a line of cars to the Kings' house.

In all the hours Fi had spent in this house, she'd never seen anyone here besides Mr. and Mrs. King, Jackson, and Marcus. Marcus had mentioned he had cousins, aunts, and uncles in town, but she'd only seen them in pictures.

His family's antisocial tendencies always felt strange to her. Her own parents knew
everybody.
The Doyles couldn't go to dinner, the grocery store, the gym without running into someone they knew from work or growing up here or just because he was somebody else's sister's husband's cousin or something.

The Kings, however, were a little insulated family island, and as far as she knew, she was the only visitor. So when
her family trailed her into the Kings' house for the reception, everything felt wrong. There was no odd smell from Mrs. King's homemade herbal remedies. All the lights were on. The place was packed with people.

Marcus would have loved it.

She burst into tears. Ryan grabbed a chair and helped her into it, while Trent knelt by her with a tissue. She hated making a scene, but she couldn't keep it in.

“You need anything?”

With a hiccup, Fi swallowed the latest round of sobs and looked up at Jackson. He stood in front of her, looking annoyed, flustered, and exhausted all at once. She stood, too, wiping her cheeks with her palms. She would not have Jackson looking down on her. She would not be weak with him.

“I'll be fine,” she said. They were still by the door—Fi hadn't even made it four steps inside before breaking down.

He pointed over his shoulder to the back of the house. “There's food and stuff back there.”

Food.
This place never had normal food just sitting out, where Marcus might accidentally inhale dairy. “Okay.”

The two stared at each other, and Fi wasn't sure what to do. Her mother broke the tension. “Jackson, I am so sorry for your loss,” she said, placing her hand on his arm.

Jackson looked at Mrs. Doyle's hand on his arm and then at Mrs. Doyle. “Thanks.”

“Marcus was . . . well, he was wonderful, wasn't he?”

Jackson stepped backward. “I should check in with my parents.”

Mrs. Doyle brought her hand away from Jackson, resting it on Fi's back instead. “Of course,” her mom said.

“Still a charmer, isn't he?” Trent muttered as Jackson walked away.

“Shush.” Gwen poked him in the side. “His brother just died.”

Trent shrugged, and Fi sank back into her chair. She wasn't there long before Will the Cousin came looking for her. “Aunt Ellen and Uncle Peter wanted you to come back to the family room. Meet some of the family—if you're up to it.”

“Of course,” she said, faking her mother's calm.

The group of them walked through the house, Will fielding some pats on the shoulder as they went. In the family room, Fi stalled in front of the photos.

She'd always loved this room, how all four walls were covered in pictures—big ones, little ones, black-and-white, color—all hung with no particular pattern, just a chaos of family memories. Nearly all were from at least four years ago, when Marcus was still let out of the house.

“He was such a cute baby,” Mrs. King said, standing beside her.

Fi pointed to one of Marcus and Jackson together. Their arms were looped around each other's shoulders, like they might choke each other with brotherly affection. “How old are they?”

“Six? Maybe that's the zoo?” She tapped the frame, her finger lingering on the space over Marcus's shoulder. “That looks like a cage, doesn't it?” Shaking her head, she scanned the wall of photos. “There are so many here. It's hard to remember each one.”

“They were adorable.”

Mrs. King nodded, smiling. “Couldn't keep them apart.”

Fi looked over her shoulder to Jackson, who stood in a corner, his hand wrapped around the back of his neck as he stared out the window. “Will he be all right?”

Mrs. King followed Fi's gaze and sighed. “I hope so.”

Fi felt the tears burning in her eyes, her throat. Even though meeting Marcus's family would be the polite, proper thing—what her mother would do—Fi pointed to the sliding glass doors against the rear wall. “I might go get some air.”

“Take your time,” said Mrs. King. “Do you want to take some food out with you?”

Fi looked at the dining room table, loaded with hams and casseroles and brownies. “It's so weird seeing all that out.”

“Believe me, it's taking all my restraint not to throw it out the window and bleach the table.”

Despite everything, Fi laughed. Mrs. King did, too. It was only a second, though, before both petered out, like they simultaneously remembered there was nothing funny left, ever.

Fi pointed toward the sliding doors again. “I think I'll just, you know, sit.”

Fi pushed and pulled at the door handle, trying to force the panels open. Jackson came over, finally, reached past her hand and flicked the lock. She nearly fell into him as the glass door suddenly slid open.

Blushing, Fi wiped her hands on her skirt and mumbled, “Thanks.”

He nodded and went back to his vigil at the window.

Even though it was hot, Fi was glad for the fresh air, for the white noise of traffic rather than the droning sadness inside. There were a few chairs and a wrought-iron table in the center of the deck, but Fi walked to the steps and sat down. She and Marcus had never spent much time in the backyard. His mother was paranoid that a vicious strain of attack pollen would do him in.

He'd even said that exact thing a few months ago, when the trees had started to bloom and Fi was itching to get out of his stuffy house. She'd laughed at the joke.

Joke was on her.

It was a good backyard, too, with a huge magnolia right in the center—the best kind of climbing tree. Fi wished she didn't have a skirt on, that there weren't all these people here. She'd climb it right now and maybe never come down.

She heard the door slide open. Jackson crossed the deck and sat down on the steps like her. He sat a good foot away, his elbow resting on his knees, and stared at the yard like she'd been doing. “I fell out of that tree in second grade,” he said. “Broke my arm.”

Fi looked back to the tree. “I was just thinking it looked like a good climbing tree.”

“Mom got spooked after that,” he said. “Freaked out when I went up too far. Marcus and I would play under it a lot, though.”

She smiled. “Play what?”

“I don't know, kid stuff.”

They sat quietly after that, in each other's presence but not really. More like two bodies sharing the same space through a fragile truce.

She wasn't sure when this truce started, really. Ever since prom, when Fi was let in on
the secret
, Jackson had backed off. Maybe it was because she'd become as paranoid as he was—no need to remind her about hand washing, anymore.

Or maybe, it was because Marcus looked
so horrible,
Jackson didn't have the energy to care about Fi one way or the other.

Marcus was a big fat liar. He didn't get better. He didn't even make it out of the hospital. Well, she supposed he did, at the end. But hospice didn't count.

After those first tests on Marcus's white blood cells came back, everyone, including Marcus, notched up their tension level. There were additional bags clipped to his IV pole, more tests run. Each one came back worse and worse. The IV pole got an extendable arm to handle the growing medications. Marcus got hooked up to even more machines.

Instead of filling him up, all those IV bags just sucked him dry. He disappeared, piece by piece, before her eyes. Her
sweet, skinny Marcus got skinnier and skinnier, paler and paler, sleepier and sleepier. His room started looking more like an apartment than a hospital room. There were plants in the windowsill, cards, and a few crayon drawings from some younger cousins taped to the wall. An additional table was brought in so the Kings could eat dinner together.

She came over after school, spent as much of the weekend as was allowed. Five days after Hospital Prom, she'd gotten a reply from that email she'd sent to the Northwestern coach, the one meant to humor Marcus. Truly, she hadn't thought anything would come from it.

She'd been sitting by his bed, flipping through the emails on her phone, when she saw the NU address. She showed it to Marcus right after she read it—
So glad to hear from you Fi, yes, we actually might have a spot, last-minute injury from another recruit, why don't you come to the camp this summer, we'll discuss it then.
It was the first time he'd smiled—really,
really
smiled—in days.

She slid the phone back in her purse. “How much do you think she'll hate me when I cancel on her again?”

“Why would you cancel on her?”

Fi looked at him like the crazy person he was. “Marcus, don't be ridiculous. I'm not going away when you're like this.”

He clenched his jaw, like he always did when he got annoyed. But now the bones in his face were so prominent, he looked almost skeletal.

In the end, she made a deal with him she'd have been happy to keep. She'd go to camp if he got better.

She didn't study for exams. She walked through graduation like a zombie. Her parents took Ryan, Fi, Gwen, and Trent out to a depressing dinner where no one talked about Marcus, but everyone was thinking about it.

The Kings had a little cake—gluten-, egg-, and dairy-free—for her at the hospital. No one ate much of it. It was pretty awful.

Her graduation day was the same day the doctors brought up hospice.

Fi wasn't sure what it meant at first—she figured it was yet another experimental treatment. Even after she heard the doctors say to the Kings, “We want to make sure he's comfortable” and to Marcus, “Have you given any thoughts to what arrangements you'd like?” she still didn't get it.

“How much time does he have? Really?” Jackson asked.

Mrs. King grimaced at the question—but leaned forward to hear the answer all the same.

One of the doctors cleared his throat. Putting a hand on Marcus's skinny, skinny shoulder, he spoke right to him. “It's hard to say, of course. It depends on what you decide to do about medication. But the end could come soon—within the week.”

All the air left the room. Fi's heart shriveled in the vacuum.

Marcus had left the hospital the day after the discussion, insisting he wanted to die in his own home. His parents moved a bed downstairs, into the same dining room now covered in inappropriate meats, breads, and casseroles. Two days
later, he died in his sleep.

Fi had been with him the evening before it happened. She talked to him, looking into his eyes—but she couldn't be sure that he heard or saw her. By then, he was in so much pain—and on so many drugs—that it was hard to know if he registered her voice or her fingers intertwined with his. If he felt her tears drop onto his cheeks. She told him she needed him, she loved him, she didn't know what to do without him. He kept mumbling something that sounded like “soft with rot” over and over.