Rule of Thirds, The (10 page)

6
:
46
: Turn my phone off. Then back on. Then off. Then on.

6
:
47
: Almost throw my phone against the wall but decide against it.

6
:
48
: Think of very bad things that may have happened to him. Five-car pileup. Hijacking. Wonder if I should walk through Emergency to see if he’s lying on a stretcher, waiting to get admitted after being in a hit-and-run accident.

Back inside, the atrium’s empty, so I walk down the hall to the cafeteria instead of the ER. Callie’s on cash. My hands are sweating.

“Hey Callie.”

She looks up from her magazine. “Hey, what’s up?” she says with a smile.

“Have you seen Dylan?”

She shakes her head. “Not in a while. Why? Everything OK?” She looks genuinely concerned.

Do I tell her we have a date? But then tell her he’s standing me up? “I’m just worried because he hasn’t texted.”

“I’m sure he has a good excuse,” Callie says, ringing in a doctor’s order. “I just . . . Dylan is a great guy. But you shouldn’t have really high expectations of him.”

High expectations? All I had was the expectation that if we made a plan, we were actually sticking to it. Or if not, that the person canceling might send a text. Is that too much to ask?

“I . . . I think you might be wanting more from Dylan than he can give you right now.”

She takes a
10
from the doctor, and then gives him a handful of change. As he walks away, she looks at me. “You know what? I’ve already said too much.”

• • •

Ben Baxter is eating frozen pizza with my mother when I come home. WTF?

“Hey babe,” he says, getting up and wiping his mouth with a napkin. I am literally struck dumb, and it lasts long enough for him to walk over and kiss me on the cheek. Like we’ve been dating for years.

“Look who’s here,” Mom says. “I told him you were at the photo exhibit, but he hadn’t eaten. So I insisted he stay. At least somebody likes my pizza offerings.” She grins. “Did you eat? Are you hungry? How was the exhibit? You’re home earlier than I expected.”

“I didn’t go. Long story.”

“You still want to catch it?” Ben asks.

I look at the clock. Already after
8
. “It closes at
9
,” I say.

“Have you seen me drive?” he asks, then looks back at my mom. “Kidding.”

Fifteen minutes later Ben Baxter is through the doors of the Train Station when I realize I haven’t been inside since the time with Dad. I throw my camera in front of my face, focusing the frame on the old steel doors, and breathe. Snap a few pics. Then head in. Panic attack averted.

“There’s only
20
minutes left,” the woman at the desk tells us as Ben throws down some money but he just waves her off and grabs my hand. Unlike Dylan’s, Ben’s hands are super soft.

Forget about him! Dylan stood me up. Ben is here. I squeeze his hand.

Liam Argyle’s photos are so good they make me anxious at first, like I’ll never be that good, so now on top of obsessing about being here, and Dylan, I’m stressing about my future. But then, Argyle’s style consumes me. The way he both employs and breaks rules gets me thinking about new ways to shoot. A photograph of a row of street lamps catches my eye. It’s shot in black and white and the lamps are glowing, all but one, in the dark sky. There’s something about the photo . . .

“Does this one look familiar to you?” I ask Ben, and he looks at it and shrugs. “Naw,” he says, pulling me toward the next print. The PA system announces the gallery’s closing. Ben grabs my hand, but I shake my head.

The photos he showed, at his first photo club meeting.

“Don’t
you
have a photo like this?” I ask.

“Could be,” he says. “Who can remember every photo they’ve ever taken?”

We drive home in silence and when we turn onto my street, he pulls over to the curb.

“I’ve got to get home,” I say, as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Come on,” he coaxes, his left hand on the back of my neck, pulling me into him. My stomach churns. He leans in and kisses me.

I want to tell him he’s not my boyfriend. That I don’t like him that way. Who can remember every photo they’ve ever taken? I can. There’s an iPhoto album in my brain where every single one is collated and tagged, easy for me to call up—the composition, the thinking process, the set-up and capture. And I’d certainly remember a shot like the one Ben Baxter showed me. Any
real
photographer would. It’s a great photo. So: was it a coincidence? An homage to Liam Argyle? Or did he just rip it off?

His face is smooth, but it might as well be sandpaper. His breath smells like peppermint,
but it might as well be rotten eggs. His tongue pushes past my lips with too much saliva, and I last maybe
10
seconds before I can’t stand another second more.

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 4
2 DAYS UNTIL VANTAGE POINT

Mr. Winters wins the award for slowest walker, but he gets away with it, on account of being about
42
pounds and
93
years old and having tubes sprouting out of the most random places. “I know
I’m
slow, but what’s your excuse?” he says. He’s right. He may be shuffling, but I’m the one who’s dragging my feet. I’m supposed to be accompanying Mr. Winters on his way to the cancer center, just like I accompanied my dad. But ever since Dad, I made a rule, and right now, I’m breaking it.

PIPPA’S RULES ABOUT GOING TO THE CANCER CENTER

1. Avoid at all cost.
   

At first, visiting Dad wasn’t so bad. Cancer. I didn’t even know what the word
meant
then. The first couple of days at the hospital it actually was kind of fun. Mom hung out with him all day, every day, so by the time I showed up after school she was ready to head home for a bit, for a break. It was tough to get my dad by himself before that. He worked a lot, in his makeshift studio in the basement and in the evenings he often was out meeting with potential clients, like couples who wanted engagement, wedding or maternity photos. But at the hospital, I got him all to myself. He’d save the best part of his lunch for me, the chocolate pudding, and I’d eat it while doing my homework. Then we’d talk about school, about photography, about whatever book I was reading for English class. At first I looked forward to visiting him.

Then the radiation treatments started. Monday through Friday. Sometimes Mom would take him, but sometimes he was scheduled in the afternoon, and it was me. They didn’t take long—the actual treatment was, like, two minutes, but there was some waiting around for his turn—and then we’d be back in his room. The first few weeks were no big deal at all. Sometimes I even forgot he was sick. He didn’t seem sick—he was taking enough pills for the pain—and there weren’t any real side effects from the radiation. Everyone else always was so bright and cheerful and positive—like he was actually getting better. Like we were winning. I believed it. He was
so
positive. But the signs were all there. He was an in-patient. If he was getting better, why wouldn’t they just let him go home between treatments? Because he wasn’t getting better. He was getting worse.

And it all happened so quickly once he started chemo. He got all puffy. His skin was blotchy. Every time he got up to go to the bathroom or whatever he’d leave a tiny clump of hair on his pillow. One of his fingernails fell off. You hear about how fingernails and hair are made out of the same stuff, but you don’t really
get
it until you’re playing Go Fish with a dad whose forefinger nail fell off the day before and who has half the hair he did two weeks ago. I could see it in my mom’s face too. We weren’t winning anymore, and the nurses’ cheer started to seem, like, obscene.
Good afternoon?
Seriously?

A couple of years back, maybe when I was
13
or so, I had a friend—well, she was a Facebook friend, not an IRL friend—and her brother had leukemia and she would mention it in her status updates. “Just three more chemo sessions left!” There was something heroic about her positivity and maybe I was a bit jealous of her—no, not of her, I was jealous of the opportunity that she had. To be heroic. Everybody talked about her—about how strong she was. I wrote a few Facebook status updates like that, and I knew people were talking about me. I felt special. I was the girl whose dad had cancer.

And then, when I realized I was about to become the girl whose dad died of cancer, I stopped feeling anything at all.

It was like that YouTube video that guy made a few years ago where he shot a photo of his son every day for
18
years, and then stitched them together into a video? In the span of three minutes, you saw his son grow up. With my dad it was kind of the opposite. Every day Dad looked and acted a little different from the day before. One day he could still walk down the hallway to the vending machines. We’d play a game to see who could put their money in and get their chocolate bar out first. And then, a few days later, he couldn’t make it all the way there. And then he couldn’t walk at all. And then he couldn’t even get out of bed. And then he couldn’t go to the bathroom. And then he could barely see, because this thick, milky glaze had formed over his eyes. And then I never saw his eyes again.

As we pass the elevator bank, the doors open. Dylan. “Hey,” he says, stepping off the elevator.

“Hi,” I say.

What do you say to the guy who totally brushed you off?

“Can you talk for a minute?” he asks, but I shake my head.

“Mr. Winters has chemo. No time to talk.” One foot in front of the other, I tell myself, but my legs feel heavy. Please don’t give out on me. But then, I feel them start to spaghetti-fy. No no no no no no no.

“Can you take him?” my voice wavering. And then, before he can even react, everything starts to go gray, and then I feel my legs give out beneath me and everything goes black like I’ve closed my eyes, but I don’t think I have, because I can’t get them to open.

I drop to the floor.

“Hey hey hey hey hey hey,” Dylan says softly, dropping down beside me. “You’re OK.” His arms are around my shoulders, holding me tight.

“Please,” I moan.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Pleeeeeeease . . .”

And then his arms leave me. And I shut my eyes tight and focus on my breathing. And block out everything else.

When I open my eyes, it’s dark. There’s a mop beside me. I blink, adjusting to the dim light, and see that Dylan is in front of me.

“Hey,” he says. “Yeah, we’re in the supply closet. I didn’t want you to become gurney roadkill out in the hallway. So, second time you’ve fainted with me. I’m starting to worry about the effect I have on you. Every guy wants the ladies to swoon, but this is a bit much,” he jokes.

I give a half smile.

“Seriously, you OK?” He puts a hand on my knee.

“Panic attacks.”

“Didn’t think of that one. From what?”

“I can’t handle people with cancer.”

“Really?” Dylan says.

“On account of the dying.”

“Not everyone dies.”

“Eventually they do,” I say.

“Eventually everyone dies,” Dylan says, then stands up. “Let’s get you a drink.” He helps me up. His hands are warm.

“What happened to Mr. Winters?” I say as we open the door into the hall, the bright fluorescent lighting making me blink.

“Not to worry—I convinced Ashley to take him. Wasn’t difficult. Got her out of sheet-changing duty. It was win-win.”

We walk to the elevators, then take them down to the main floor, to the cafeteria. Dylan steers me toward the doors to the pond, telling me he’ll be back in a second. I sit by the pond edge, grateful for the fresh air.

Dylan comes back with an apple juice and sits down beside me. His eyes are so warm. When he smiles they crinkle at the edges. Then I remember he ditched me. I’m about to tell him I should get going.

“Listen, I really owe you an apology,” Dylan says, handing me the apple juice. “There’s no excuse for not showing up last night.” He looks apologetic. Actually he looks so apologetic he looks sick. “This sounds so lame, but it’s the truth,” Dylan says, looking me right in the eyes. Why does he have to be so irresistible? “I was feeling tired, and I thought if I had a quick nap I could shake it off and be on my game with you but I fell asleep and I didn’t wake up until this morning. I swear it’s the truth. I feel really, really terrible about it. This is totally in the top
10
list of things I feel shitty about doing.”

“You have a list?”

He shrugs. “Let me make it up to you?”

“The exhibit was only one night, remember? I went with a friend.”

He sighs. “Some other way? Lifetime supply of greasy cheese fries? I’m really, really sorr. . . . How was it?”

“Good. I thought it’d be hard to go back to the Train Station. The last time I went to an exhibit there was with my dad.”

“That must’ve been hard. But you did it?”

“Yeah. Maybe I was so preoccupied with everything—you standing me up, and then going after all. But it was OK.”

“These past few months for you—I can’t even imagine.”

“Surreal, maybe? Especially being back here. You know my dad was supposed to shoot the hospital as a project? And then he got sick. Every day it was something else. His body was just shutting down, but it was happening so fast, it was hard to really register what was going on. And then, one day, he just . . . didn’t wake up.

“Like seriously, the next day we were at the funeral home, deciding on a casket and wording for the obituary, and readings for the funeral, and it just seemed so trivial. Like, what’s the point? He’s dead. What does
he
care, you know? We’re doing it for all these people—these people who
think
they know him.”

Dylan’s silent, waiting for me to go on.

“I just wanted to wear black. You know, in the movies they wear black. Turns out I didn’t own a single black dress. My mom was like, ‘Just wear any dress.’ But I didn’t want to wear
any
dress. I wanted to wear a black dress, like you’re supposed to. I couldn’t even get that right. I remember standing in my closet looking at my clothes, knowing that whatever I chose I’d never wear again.”

“I remember your dress, actually,” Dylan says. “Navy with small flowers.”

My eyes tingle. “I—I saw you,” I say, then ask the question I’d wanted to ask for a long time. “Dylan—why did you come?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just . . . I always liked you. I mean, I know I didn’t really know you, but . . . it seemed like the right thing to do. My uncle died a few years ago and it made me feel good to see my friends there, even though they didn’t even know him.”

“How did your uncle die?”

“Motorcycle accident. Right on impact. I was pretty wrecked for a while—we were pretty close. Anyway, I remember thinking how well you were holding it together at your dad’s funeral. That couldn’t have been easy.”

I force a laugh. “I think I was in shock. I didn’t know it, but I guess . . . that’s the only explanation. You know, we went to the funeral home beforehand. My mom said we’d have one more chance to say goodbye. The previous two nights we’d had these viewings—where people come and look at him, there in the casket, and then stand around making stupid small talk and eating these stale store-bought cookies—you know, the ones with the sugar on top?

“But the day of the funeral was just going to be the three of us. Me, Mom, Dad. Only when we got there the casket was closed. Mom said it was to get him ready to transport to the church, but she didn’t tell me. She knew and she didn’t tell me that’s how it was going to be. I wanted to see him, I wanted to talk to him, not some wooden box.” I bite my lower lip. “I wanted to
see
him,” I say again. “I didn’t get a chance. That was it. What I thought was my chance, totally gone. And then we had to go to the church and listen to some guy talk about my dad and he didn’t know him. He called him Ivan. His name is Evan and he called him Ivan.”

Dylan lets out a low whistle.

“Oh, the best part?” I say sarcastically. “They played Pachelbel’s Canon.”

“I don’t get it.”

“They’re constantly pumping that through the cancer ward. It’s supposed to be therapeutic or something, and actually it’s a really pretty song, and I get it. But my dad heard that song every fucking day. And all it tells you is ‘Oh hey, remember? You have cancer. You’re gonna die.’ He was finally done with all those useless treatments, and what do they play? That fucking song.”

The lily pads are starting to brown around the edges. Did I say too much? I’ve never told anyone how I really felt about that day. Not even Mom. Not even Dace.

“Wow. And then what? You’re just supposed to go back to life as normal?”

“Yeah, I guess. Everyone bringing over muffins and casseroles to fill our freezer, and flowers everywhere, like ‘Here! Sorry you don’t have a dad, but wow, look at all the carnations you’ve got! Oh and P.S. they’re gonna die too. Sucker!’”

“Did you at least get to eat a lot of ice cream? If I had really known you, I would’ve brought you tons and tons of ice cream.”

I shake my head.

“What? No ice cream? Wait, is
that
why you fainted at Scoops? You hate ice cream and I never knew. I’m the worst—”

“No. But I don’t go to Scoops anymore.”

“And I take you there on our first date? Wow, I suck.”

“You didn’t know. And I do like ice cream.”

“Should we get ice cream now then? Do over? Those mangled ice-cream sandwiches they have in the freezer in the caf? They’re always totally deformed, but man, are they addictive.”

“I should actually get going,” I say, though ice cream with Dylan is totally tempting. “There’s one more shot I want for my Vantage Point entry.”

“Can I tag along?”

“It’s not exactly the most uplifting location. The cemetery.”

“I’ll take you.”

“I haven’t been back since the funeral.”

“Will you let me go with you?”

It’s nice to be asked things. Unlike certain other people, or more accurately,
Ben,
who makes me feel like a passenger in my own life. “I’d like to go with you,” I say to Dylan, and it’s true, I would. As we’re walking back toward the elevators, he stops at the stairwell. “Wait—I have something for you. It’s just silly but . . .” He pushes open the door to the stairwell. “Meet me in the atrium in two minutes?” He starts up the stairs, the metal door closing slowly and I wonder where he’s going.

But a few minutes later he walks toward me, where I’m sitting at the fountain. He’s holding a bunch of Twizzlers tied together at the base with a ribbon, like a bouquet of flowers. “I wanted to give these to you last night. They’re probably kind of stale now.”

How can I be mad at someone who makes me a bouquet of Twizzlers?

“How’d you know I love Twizzlers?”

Dylan’s looking at me with such a hopeful expression. My stomach flips.