Lullaby of Love (13 page)

7:26. I squeeze the leather band of my watch, twisting it some on my wrist.
Damn.

I’ve got to head to the stadium.
I peer at the shadowed glass entrance one more time, maybe she came extra early, doubt it though, 6:50’s pretty early.
Nothing.

shay

“Hello—Jenny Giovanni here!” her voice booms into the receiver.
I can’t. . . dad  said call the department. . . make sure. . .  just call the department. Jenny will help. I have to tell Jenny.

“Jenny. . .”

She breaks right in. “Hey! How’d it go?! You have a surprise waiting for you in your room—
well
—partly in your room—I shoved the paper under your door as far as it would go. Look down—don’t step on it and bust your ass getting in. Big headline!
Front page
stuff!
‘Great Dane Sprints Past Harvard’—
all legs—something like that!”

“Jenny. . .”

I’m interrupted again; the reality of time settling into her. “
Hey—
you sick? Where are you—it’s 7:30?” Tears streak more violently down my cheeks, words won’t come.
“Shay?”

“Jenny,”
I try to swallow, just to get enough said.
“It’s my Mom. . .,”
I press my eyes closed, forcing down the streams of wetness, finding any control,
“she died last night. . .”

“. . .
Shay.”
A surge of empathy comes through the receiver.
“I’ll be right there. . . I’ll get a note to Professor Richards. . . for you. . . hang on, okay?”

dane

I scuff my shoe through the dirt on the side of the track, waiting for the signal to step on for my turn around.
Where was she?

“Dane!
Get goin’!”
My look penetrates the asshole with the whistle.

I head out onto the track, not into it and not really caring, not right now anyway.

“Again!”
This time coach burns into me.

Fine.
Fucker.
What’s gotten into me? I can’t think about her right now. Now, I’ve got everybody standing around waiting.

I gain my focus, for the moment anyway, and give them what they want.

shay

“Shay. . . I’m so sorry. . .,”
Uncle Elliott’s words are whispered privately, tenderly, in the busy airport as he puts one arm around my waist, reassuringly supporting me and reaching for the luggage from my hand. 
“I told your father I’d pick you up. . . the funeral director is there. . . well,. . . he’ll be waiting. . . let’s just get you home to him.”

Funeral director.
My lethargic body weighs into his, as his grip around my waist feels more stabilizing, and I’m guided to the waiting car.

How did this happen?

Why did this happen?

The trees flash past blurring more my cloudy wet vision. There are no words exchanged. Just the sound of my father’s voice and a statistic not meant to be my mom’s,
not her
.
The odds were low. Non-existent nearly. They didn’t want to worry me. No need. Keep her in school she said. Focused. Heart stent’s a normal procedure. Normal. Enough.
And then. . .
blood clot. . . heart attack.
My breathing staggers and I force my head further right, looking out of the window, squeezing the moist clump of tissues balled in my hand.

dane

Dammit!

She was happy—I’m sure of it.

I slap closed the textbook on the desk, and slide it down into my backpack, yanking it up from the floor.

One hour. One hour—waiting, watching—there’s no way I could’ve missed her again today.

I fumble the idea around in my head. I’ll skip lunch—go to the biology building—go inside—try to find her.
Yeah. Have to. I’ve got to know.

The campus is packed. Groups of people stand around carelessly, passively, blocking every bit of concrete alongside the street teaming with slow moving buses, inching at a crawl for their stops and full crosswalks.

Now that I’ve made up my mind my patience frays, and I doggedly stick to a straight path through the crowds, hearing grunts and profanities snapped at my back making my way.

“Shay, Shay Bennett,” I repeat. The impatient irritation in my voice gets met with a look over the top of her glasses. She reluctantly slides a directory in front of her and opens it. “Thanks,” I muster, not wanting to cause a problem.

“Shay Bennett. 3rd floor. Room 304,” she releases. I turn away looking for an elevator, or stairwell sign. “Hey, are you a student hear?” she calls at my back, headed to the stairs around the corner. “You shouldn’t be just wondering—without a purpose—. You know—you might need an appointment!”

The door slams closed behind me, and I take three steps at a time to level 3, catching a breath and opening the door.

I’ve got to be quiet.

Room 301, 302, I keep walking. I can see students in the classrooms. 303. There’s not a reflection of light from the glass on the next door. 304.
It’s dark. The note taped to the door says:
Out of office. See front desk.

What’s happened?

Front desk?

I look around, making my way back up the hall, not having noticed the small waiting area in front of the windows looking out over the campus, with an open door to a receptionist counter. I walk in.

No one.

Shit—it’s lunch—probably gone for an hour.

My agitation kicks off even more.
I’ll wait. Right here.
I turn to eye the chairs I see back through the doorway.

“Can I help you?”

I spin around to the voice. A slap of hands down the counter dragging herself in a rolly chair, slides to the center in view.
I recognize her.
Before I can get any words out. . .

“
Dane. . . right?” She searches my eyes, her half-critical expression easing.

“Yeah
,. . . you’re Shay’s friend. You were there Sunday.”

She gets up from the chair, coming through a doorway from behind the station, while I stay looking at her.

She slightly gestures her head for me to follow her to the chairs outside of the office.

“. . . About Shay. . .”

My mind can’t take in the news she just told me. It was kind of her—I’m grateful for it.

The phone from the office rings and she gets up to leave.

I slide to the edge of the seat and rest my forehead in the palms of my hands.

God. . . Shay. . .

shay

I can’t remember if the sun shined today, or the names of the faceless people speaking softly and sympathetically to me now. As grateful as I am for us not to be alone in this echoing house, for me, they are still guests in it and I feel some responsibility to be a hostess. But I’m tired. I’m tired, and I’m broken. And everywhere I look the rooms have the same view, people dressed in rigid black funeral clothing, talking quietly among themselves. . . and filling every space.

I begin to feel the rooms spinning in slow motion, as if I’m part of a colorless scene, in a children’s revolving light box, going round and round, until my eyes finally come to rest on my dad in his red chair facing the garden. I don’t think he’s moved from it since our hands parted, walking through the front door two hours ago.

There is someone sitting beside him. As I get nearer, through the crowd of people, I can see it’s Uncle Elliott. A small plate of uneaten bean casserole and a half full cup of coffee sit on the adjoining table between them. I lay my hand on dad’s resting on the armrest. As he looks up at me he forces an efforted smile, and the strain in his face grips me. Tears fill my eyes and I try to speak. He squeezes my hand in both of his. Before the tears flow and the pulsing force of withheld sobs bursts forth from my throat uncontrollably, I bend down to him and whisper as best I can,
“I’m going upstairs.”

I close the door behind me and lean my back against it.
Who makes up the rules of life—of death?
By now the tears are coming faster and the torrent of unfairness lashes about in my mind. I angrily force off the black clothes and rush for my bed gripping my pillow, burying my face down hard into it. Every controlled emotion of the day unleashes itself into a frenzied sob, until I’m convulsively gasping for air.

dane

I push the door shut on the locker, not walking away yet, just motionless.
Five days.
I lower my head a minute, taking time to collect myself from the long practice. . . and thinking of her.

“Good luck out there tomorrow.”

I sense the comment’s meant for me, haven’t been paying attention, but I think I’m the only one left hanging around the locker room, anyway. I turn to see Kip posting a reminder schedule of massage times on the cork board.

“Thanks.”

“You okay?” He passes by me, standing in the doorframe, checking.

“
Sure. . . just winding down.” I give a nod of reassurance.

“How ‘bout that leg?
Giving you any more problems?”

He’s got to be one of the most decent people the athletic department has, especially compared to the tool they signed as coach for the next couple of years. “Now and again, push past it pretty much though.”

“You think it needs to be looked at?” A little concern flickers in his expression.

“Nah, not a muscle, can tell that, just some phantom thing now and again—probably getting old.”

“Doubt that.” He pats the side of my arm as he starts to head off.

It’s not a muscle. He’s right though, if it gets any worse, and when I have time, I’ll have someone take a quick look at it.

shay

I listen to Uncle Elliott’s support.
They’ll come out. See me. Won’t be long. . . he promises. . .   He’ll help dad get things in order.

The
long drive to the airport sounded like the same words over, and over again, echoing carefully, sparingly, between my father and him.
You need to get back to school, for your good. Your mom would’ve wanted it that way. . . please. Don’t lose your place. Don’t worry. . . Don’t. . .
The words link together, until the hum of them leaves me.

Everything’s fractured.

I close my eyes remembering.

. . . She would’ve wanted it that way.

. . . I should’ve been home.

* * *

I reach forward and pay the fare for the cab, not moving, just waiting for him to get the one suitcase from the trunk I left here with two weeks ago.

The apartment is still.

My blanket is strewn across the bed, hanging off of the edge onto the floor. Things are frozen in place, the way they were on that night the call came. I release the handle of the luggage and let my sweater fall from my wrist, sifting down my leg, and walk over to my bed, sitting just on the edge.

I blink back tears to see my satchel stuffed up against the wall by my dresser and the front door. There’s an envelope on the floor.
Jenny’s handwriting. A card slid under the door.
I walk to it and bend down, but instead reach for the bag and search inside for the pocket, and that small folded piece of paper.

His voice is so gentle
when he answers.

“. . .
please come. . .”

dane

I turn off the light and turn to lock the door.

The sun is setting and the evening is quiet.
Only two words. But they were the two words I’ve been waiting to here.

The four blocks there will steady me. . . I’ll need to be calm for her.

She’s standing by the front door of the house.

She looks so frail.

I follow her inside the small dim apartment.

As she turns to close the door I see her fragility in the tremble of her hands, the sadness that consumes her, the tears escaping her cast down eyes now. I reach for her, gently lifting her up, cradling her small frame secure in my arms, and carry her to the bed. I pull the blanket around her, tucking it to her body and lie on the outside of it. I listen to her breathing, and slowly smooth her hair, holding her, not letting
go. . . never letting go.