I'm Not Her (18 page)

“Gabbie, that’s not funny, give me the damn phone,” Dad calls in the background.

I click the phone off and throw it down on the floor, staring at it in horror. Why is a giggling woman answering my Dad’s phone at work?

Oh God. I don’t have the time, patience, or stomach to even think about it.

I glance at the couch, but Kristina’s eyes are closed and her breathing is slow and even. I chew my thumbnail, staring into space, wishing for someone to save me.

There’s a thunk at the front door and then the sound of the key turning in the keyhole. Mom bursts in with a handful of shopping bags. When she looks at my face and Kristina curled up on the couch beside me, she drops all the bags on the floor and rushes forward.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong with Kristina?”

“While you were out spending Dad’s money, Jeremy died.” My voice is robotic. I want to be mean. I want her to hurt.

Her face goes completely white. I don’t mention Dad’s lady friend or the visit from Devon. Neither seems important under the circumstances. Mom hurries to the couch and lays her hand on Kristina’s forehead. “What happened?”

“His mom called. A car accident. On the way here.” Both of us stare at Kristina as her chest moves up and down.

“I found some sleeping pills in your room,” I tell her. “I gave Kristina one.”

Mom’s lips tighten but she doesn’t say anything, just nods her head. Sorrow etches into her skin. I look closer and see how much she’s aged in the last few months. Wrinkles around her eyes. I guess trying to keep it all inside doesn’t work either.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” she says, and plunks down across from us in the love seat she handpicked to match her couch.

“No one is ever here.”

Mom rests her head in her hands and stares at the carpet.

I don’t offer her forgiveness. Neither of us speak. An image of Nick sitting beside me on the curb pops into my mind. Suddenly it seems imperative to see him. As if he is the one person in this world who can make me feel better.

If Jeremy can die, anyone can.

“I need to go somewhere.”

Mom looks up as if she forgot me being in the room with her. “What? Where?”

“I was invited to a party.”

“A party? Now? No, Tess. Under the circumstances…” Even as she shakes her head, I stand. I need to see him. Have to.

“I need to see someone. A friend who was supposed to take me. I need to explain why I didn’t come. In person.”

She stares at me, as if she can’t understand what I’m saying to her.

“I’ll bike over and be back in an hour. It’s at Gee’s house. It’s not far. Kristina won’t even know I’m gone. It’s important.”

I can’t explain to her my overwhelming desire to see Nick. I need to talk to him. Teenagers get sick. Teenagers die. There isn’t time to wait.

She lifts her shoulders up and stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. Me. Going to a party. To talk to a boy. But it doesn’t matter now. Things have changed around the Smith house. Finally, she nods her head. No questions about who the boy is. Or what I need to talk to him about. “Don’t be long, okay?”

I dash upstairs and change into the black jeans Mom bought me, staring into the mirror above my dresser. For a second I actually consider putting on some of Kristina’s makeup or something, and then frown at myself. Vanity is wrong. Jeremy is dead.

I grab a warm hoodie from the floor, pull it on, and hurry downstairs. Mom’s sitting on the couch now at Kristina’s side, holding her limp hand. My heart cracks more and I consider sitting with the two of them to cry and forget the rest of the world, but I force myself outside to deal with my life.

I hop on my bike and pedal as fast as I can to Gee’s house. Thank God it’s only a few blocks from ours. The air is cold and my thoughts are dark. When I reach her street, it’s easy to see her party is a big one. The street is lined with cars and, as I get closer, I can hear the faint whoops and the thump of loud bass emanating from her house.

I ride to her driveway and throw my bike down, ignoring a group of kids on the front lawn spraying each other with water guns. In this weather. I hope they all get sick with colds.

They ignore me as I tread up the sidewalk, open the front door, and step inside Gee’s house. Music blasts me in the front landing and the beat from it vibrates my hair. I smell pot and perfume and see a slight haze of smoke covering the house. With my shoes still on, I sneak past a couple pushed up against the wall making out, and peer inside the living room. The first person I spot is Clark. He’s sitting alone on a couch at the far side of the room. People stand in groups around him, holding beer bottles and coolers, dancing, mingling, and laughing. A group of girls are huddled on the couch across from him gossiping about something or someone. None of them know yet.

Jeremy is dead.

Clark looks lonely and I remember sitting on a similar couch at a similar party not so long ago, before we knew about Kristina. When Jeremy was still alive.

My heart kerplunks and I close my eyes, wishing it would all change back to the way it was. When I open them, Clark is still sitting on the couch. I am still the one who has to go over and tell him about his best friend. Taking deep breaths, staring at him, I try to think of the right words. In one instant, my information will change his whole life.

A loud giggle pops my consciousness, followed by a drunken whoop from the staircase down the other hallway. I glance over and see Nick stumble as he grabs at Bree. She’s giggling as he paws at the front of her shirt. He touches her boob and then presses his face in the middle of her shirt and makes a loud raspberry sound. She pulls him up, and she’s laughing as they exchange a loud wet kiss, and then he glances over and sees me watching.

Weariness overcomes me and I turn away and focus on Clark and walk slowly over to him. Nick is just a boy. Another boy needs me right now.

Clark’s face lights up when he sees me and it’s embarrassing. And sad. Because he is my friend. And because I’m about to tell him horrible, awful news.

Clark stands and points at the seat beside him. “Hey. Gee said you were going to be here. I’m glad you came.”

He smiles but it fades when he sees my frown.

“Gee is my cousin,” he says, misinterpreting my mood.

Understanding dawns on me, but there are much bigger things to worry about. Bigger things than unrequited love and false kisses.

“We have to talk,” I tell him, and sit and take his hand and squeeze it hard.

“What?” he asks.

He sounds nervous, as if he’s picked up my vibe. As I’m searching for the right way to break the news, there’s a loud bang beside us and then a body crashes against my knees.

“Well…lookee here.” Nick stumbles and plops down on the couch beside me. Bree giggles beside him and hangs on, trying to pull him up, but he abruptly shakes her off his arm. “It’s Tesh,” he slurs. “Holding hands with her boyfriend. Thought you said you couldn’t make this party, little Tessie.” He snorts drunkenly and leans closer. “Didn’t want anyone at your house to see your friend Nick? Bet you also didn’t tell your boyfriend you were supposed to be my date tonight? This why you blew me off?”

“What are you talking about, Nicky?” Bree whines.

I glare at both of them and then punch Nick on the arm to get him away from me. “You offered me a ride, that’s it. Go away, Nick. You’re drunk. Just go away.” I punch him again, harder, hating him for being drunk, for being with Bree. For a moment, I wish he were dead and then my heart stops, remembering the reality. Jeremy. This is stupid. A boy is dead. Nick is drunk. Just drunk and stupid.

I jump off the couch, glaring at him, and put a hand out to Clark. “Come on, Clark.”

“No. I want to talk, Tess.” Nick flashes an intoxicated grin at Clark. “Remember when you came to my house when you wanted to talk. Remember when you kissed me.”

“I don’t frickin’ believe you,” I shout.

People stare at me but there’s too much going on to worry about this.

I pull on Clark’s arm. “Come on.”

Clark stands and blocks me from Nick, back in bodyguard mode.

Nick slurs a swear word and attempts to get up, but Bree straddles his lap and starts kissing his neck. She makes disgusting slurping sounds and it takes concentration to ignore them. I grab Clark’s hand and pull him quickly toward the front door of Gee’s house.

“Was he supposed to be your date tonight?” he asks, and we slip past more partyers and step outside into the cool night air.

“No. Never mind him. Really.” It’s irrelevant and stupid. So is Nick.

The kids with the water guns are gone. I shiver and sit down on the top stair on the front porch. Clark sits down beside me.

“I’m so sorry, Clark,” I say, and look into his eyes. “It’s about Jeremy.”

***

When I get home from the party, Kristina’s already woken from her medicated sleep. Mom is snuggled up beside her on the couch, holding her hand. I plunk down on the other side of Kristina and put my head on her shoulder.

A short time later, Dad walks in the door and finds the three of us on the couch. He stares at us but I can’t even look at him without wanting to vomit. In an uncertain voice, he asks what’s wrong.

“Kristina’s friend Jeremy was in a car accident tonight,” Mom tells him. “He died.”

Dad doesn’t move. And then suddenly, he just crumples. He collapses into the chair beside the couch, puts his head in his hands, and his shoulders shake. For the second time in my life, I see my Dad cry. He sits like that for a while and Kristina starts to cry again. I wish there was something I could do, some way of helping cope with the grief. And then I have an idea and stand.

Dad looks up at me, questions in his eyes. I have to pretend that I never called him. And I think he pretends our home number never came up on his call display. We say nothing.

I grab the laptop from the dining room table where Dad has set up a temporary office and bring it to the couch.

“Do you want to do a memorial page for Jeremy?” I ask Kristina in a soft voice.

She trembles a little and then nods.

And so I sit beside her and together we design a Facebook page for Jeremy. We find pictures of him on his page and post them to his memorial site. A tear slips from my eye when I see the picture of Kristina and me from the party where we met Jeremy.

We add links to the page and within the next hour there are over three hundred signatures and wall posts on the page. Technology spreads the word fast. Jeremy is already being remembered.

A crowd gathers for the funeral. The church walls seem to strain to accommodate the bodies, but there isn’t enough space for everyone. People cram together, squished thigh to thigh in the pews, shoulder to shoulder in aisles. The back is standing room only. Not surprisingly, I don’t hear anyone complain. I hardly hear any sound at all except the occasional whisper, cough, or sniffle. Everyone wears dark colors, even kids who don’t usually follow rules or social customs. I guess it’s like that when someone young is snatched from the earth. It’s wrong on so many levels that thinking about it makes my already sad heart ache even harder.

Kristina is perched in her wheelchair at the end of the front row where Mrs. Jones asked her to sit with some of Jeremy’s family. Aunts and uncles, cousins, and a grandmother. Kristina and Mrs. Jones don’t know each other very well but, bonded by loss and a shared sickness, they grip hands. From Kristina’s wrist dangles the charm bracelet. I imagine the sound of the dancer clanging against the other charms she loved so much when she was a girl.

Mom and Dad sit on either side of me a couple of rows behind them. We got to the church early to get Kristina in without fuss. Mom took one look at the open casket and her face went white. Dad refused to look at it. I think it drove home how lucky we are, in the whole scheme of things. We didn’t have to say good-bye to Kristina. We just had to adjust to a new way of life.

At the front of the church, Kristina doesn’t search out any of her friends. Her eyes stay focused on the black casket. She’s wearing a black blouse and a now-baggy pair of black pants with one pant leg pinned up.

Clark Trent sits down the row from me with his parents. He’s wearing a suit that looks like he borrowed it from his dad. His dad wears a similar pair of dark glasses. Both of them absently push their glasses up on their nose from time to time. Clark’s eyes are red and when he spots me, he lifts his hand, but doesn’t smile.

Nick stands at the back of the church. His eyes meet mine when I crane my neck around and see him. We stare at each other for a moment, but he drops his gaze first. I want to hate him. For drinking. For not being who I thought he was, but it’s not the time or the place to mourn Nick.

Almost the whole high school shows up, but when the minister takes his place at the front of the church there’s silence while people wait for him to speak; only a few sniffles can be heard. I think we’re waiting for him to explain how something like this could happen to someone as good and young as Jeremy. But I already know bad things happen to people who don’t deserve it.

I hardly knew Jeremy, really. He was my sister’s friend, but I miss him too. I miss what he was to Kristina and how unfair it is that he was taken so early. I can’t believe we’ll never see him again.

Kristina and I sit on an overstuffed, expensive couch. Across from us is the city’s top psychologist. When Mom suggested help, Kristina agreed to go see the doctor, but only if I would come to the first few sessions with her. They agreed on the unusual treatment plan, even the doctor.

It’s weird, but it feels almost good, to be the one asked to help even though I haven’t done much but sit with her. It’s our second session with him and we’re back in his office. It’s huge and smells faintly like strawberry room freshener and male cologne. There’s a gigantic bookcase against one wall filled with books about psychology. I avoid staring at titles that feel close to home. Like the
Social Anxiety Workbook
.

To the right of the book shelf is a huge dark wooden desk with a laptop and printer sitting on top of it. The designated patient area is separated by an office chair and a love seat and the couch where we are seated. On the glass coffee table beside the couch there’s a box of Kleenex and a clock. As if to say, you can cry, but you’re on a time budget.

The doctor sits in the chair, facing us. One leg is crossed over the other and he’s leaning back, chewing on his pen cap, watching my sister, a notepad in front of him that he occasionally jots things down on.

“So,” the doctor says. He’s been talking to Kristina about the stages of grief. “How are you feeling about Jeremy?” the doctor asks.

Kristina makes a face and studies her fingernails. “I miss him.”

The clock ticks in the silence. I wonder if it’s on purpose that it’s so loud. To keep patients talking.

“Of course you do. But what else?” The doctor jots down a note.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to go through his notebook and read his observations about patients. What would I write about Kristina? She’s slouched over and leans a little bit over her amputated leg, as if trying to cover it. She looks uneasy in her own skin, as if she’s not familiar with her own body. The doctor wouldn’t know it, but it’s a completely different body language than Kristina had months before, when she was unaware of the cancer eating at her bones.

“I’m angry at him, and I don’t know why and it makes me mad.”

“Because he left you?” the doctor asks.

Her expression is almost petulant and she shifts around as if she’s trying to get comfortable. And can’t. “He was the only one who saw me as a whole person and now he’s gone.”

“Why aren’t you a whole person anymore?”

It’s a stupid question. I want to say something, but the doctor must sense it and subtly shakes his head at me.

“Because I’m not. I have one leg.” She points down to her pant leg and her face goes red.

The doctor nods, but doesn’t say anything else. The silence kills me but I don’t break it.

Finally Kristina continues. “I kind of gave up after the operation. I couldn’t talk about it to my friends. All we had in common was sports. And makeup. Boys. Clothes. We never talked about things that really matter. But Jeremy talked about it so matter-of-factly. As if it didn’t change me. He helped me. He accepted me for exactly who I was, leg or not. He wasn’t afraid to look at me. No one else saw me the way he did.”

“What about your sister?” the doctor says, and I want to shake my head at him now. Tell him to leave me out of it. “She’s here. That means something, right?”

She glances at me. “Tess has always been…reserved. She’s harder to talk to.”

My face heats up and she smiles at me, almost apologetically. “But, she’s changed too. I mean, we’re both different, I guess. I know she’s trying.”

“You haven’t changed that much. You’re still kind of self-absorbed,” I add, trying to keep it real.

She makes a face at me, but a faint smile cracks through. I glance at the doctor to make sure joking around is acceptable behavior.

“How did her surgery make you feel?” the doctor asks me.

“I don’t know,” I say automatically. The clock ticks in the background. Timing me. Seeing how long I can go without shouting about how much my life has turned to suckage.

“It’s okay,” the doctor says, but I shake my head, refusing to elaborate. It’s too early. Too hard. I can’t tell Kristina how her cancer affected my life too. Losing out on the Honor Society. Losing my best friend. Being made a fool of in front of a boy she warned me about.

In comparison, my problems are insignificant. “I’m just kind of afraid she’s going to give up. Because Jeremy isn’t around for her.” I don’t look at Kristina but concentrate on the hem of my jeans.

The doctor stares at me for a moment and then jots down a note. I squirm in my seat with the urge to grab it from his hand. Read what he’s saying about me and my amateur evaluations.

The doctor turns his attention back on Kristina. “Are you?” he asks.

“I did.” She runs a hand over her stubbly short hair. She reminds me a little of a Chia Pet. But I don’t tell her that. “After the operation, I decided I wouldn’t use a prosthesis. Like what was the point? Pretending I have a leg when I don’t? Pretending to be normal? I knew no one would want to talk to me or hang out with me, so who cared if I could walk? Or wear pants and two shoes.”

I squirm but force myself to keep quiet.

“But Jeremy kept coming. Like I wasn’t any different. Acting like I was still me. Inside. As if my stump didn’t bother him at all. Didn’t change who I was.”

“You are still you,” I start to say but Kristina shakes her head and I close my mouth.

“You have to say that. You’re my sister. But Jeremy. He didn’t have to keep coming around. He did because he wanted to. He liked me. Me. For me, you know?” She sniffles and wipes under her eyes. “I never had a friend like him before.”

I feel guilty for calling Jeremy a stalker and wish for the millionth time we could have him back so I could tell him.

Kristina continues. “Day after day. His mom was sick, and he was busy catching up on school stuff, but he made time to see me. Every day. And it wasn’t because I was pretty. Or the captain of the volleyball team. He came to me. He cares about me. I mean, he cared.” A tear drops down her cheek, plopping on the fold of her pant leg. “When I couldn’t see the point of carrying on, he told me I could. He made me a stupid bet.” She stops and sniffles and I reach for the Kleenex, pull one from the box, and hand it to her.

“It was beyond awful, the stupid chemo. Getting sick for nothing. Losing my hair. For no reason. I still lost my leg. For nothing.” She blows her nose and breathes in and out, but the doctor and I stay silent.

“I’ll never have children,” she whispers. “I wanted to. Some day.”

Tears stream down her face, but she ignores them. “Jeremy was the best friend I ever had.”

“It was a tragedy,” the doctor says.

“Yeah. It was.” She hesitates, but then keeps talking. “I don’t understand why he’s the one who ended up dying. It should have been me. Lots of people die from bone cancer. Or from complications of the surgery. But I’m still here. I lost my leg, but I didn’t die. I thought I wanted to. I really did. I prayed to die. And then somehow I changed my mind. And because of my selfishness, because I didn’t die, he died instead of me. It should have been me. Not Jeremy. It’s my fault. He was coming to see me.”

Her shoulders shake and her face just crumples and her head drops to her chest as she cries.

I stare at the doctor, angry with him, but he says nothing and makes a note.

“Oh my God, Kristina. It’s not your fault.” I slide over right next to her and put my arms around her and glare at him.

The doctor clears his throat. He glances at his watch.

“We’ll talk more about this our next time. Tess, I’d like you to come back.”

The session is up.

There’s not always time to say everything.