Enjoy today, you might be dead tomorrow.
Rose and I walked hand in hand through downtown Buffalo Falls. We didn’t have anything else to do that day, and Mo’s premonition of a long walk seemed like a good idea. Puffy white clouds dotted the sapphire sky, occasionally providing shade as they drifted in front of the sun. A digital sign hung from a bank over the sidewalk, letting us know it was seventy-eight degrees—just right.
We passed a playground overrun with little kids who looked to be around Grub’s age. It was a birthday party. I tried to picture my brother playing with them—climbing across the monkey bars, going down the slide, on the swing set—but all I could picture was him belly-crawling around the perimeter with his Nerf gun.
I smiled to myself.
“What?” Rose asked.
“I was just thinking about my brother, and how since moving here his best friend is a ninety-one-year-old Alzheimer’s patient. What’s with that?”
“It’s kind of sweet though.”
“It is,” I admitted, “but I feel bad for him, too. He actually had friends his own age in Chicago. Now all he talks about are his missions with Blackjack.”
“It’s probably just his way of coping with the change.”
“I guess.”
We crossed a street and passed a small bookstore where a short-haired girl our age was cleaning the glass on the other side of the window. She smiled when she saw Rose and waved at us.
We waved back.
“Friend of yours?”
Rose nodded. “Tracie. She was my first friend here. I didn’t know a single person and I felt so out of place—we were the only Filipino family in Buffalo Falls. For the first few days of school I didn’t know who to sit with at lunch so I went to the library instead. One day, this girl sits down next to me and slides me a book of poetry by Mary Oliver. We’ve been friends ever since.”
“She sounds great.”
“She is. Super smart, kind of quiet, but really funny once you get to know her.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” I said, lightly leaning my shoulder into hers.
Rose leaned back and suppressed a smile. “Is that so?”
“Very so.”
We waited for a stoplight, then headed through the downtown park, passing the Lincoln fountain where we’d made wishes the night of our dinner disaster. It seemed like forever ago and yesterday at the same time.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure Grub will be fine,” said Rose, circling back to our earlier conversation. “He’s a good kid. He’ll find a friend his own age soon. Someone who appreciates his quirks and charms.”
I chuckled. “That’s a nice way of putting it. I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right, Mr. Gunderson.”
“Does always being right qualify as a quirk or a charm, Miss Santos?”
“Both.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“See?”
We walked for over an hour, never once letting go of each other’s hands. Occasionally, I’d squeeze her palm and she’d squeeze back, silent code for “I’m here” and “I’m here, too.”
As we approached the four-lane bridge leading over the Stone River, Rose asked me if I believed in dreams.
“You mean the ones where your teeth fall out? Or you’re suddenly at school in your underwear?”
“Ha, you have those, too?”
“Way too often.”
“They’re the worst. But I don’t mean those, specifically. Just dreams in general.”
“Sleeping dreams, or ‘what you want to do with your life’ dreams?”
“I don’t know, both.”
I thought about it for a bit before answering. “This morning, I dreamed I was lying on a twin bed in a dark room. There wasn’t anything else in the room except for me and that bed. But then I noticed a little kid, maybe two years old, sitting on a blanket on the floor across from me. At first, I couldn’t figure out who he was, but then I realized—the little kid was me.”
“So you were both people in your dream?”
“Yes, and it gets weirder. The kid looks at me and says, ‘Hi, Zeus,’ and I reply, ‘Hi, Zeus.’ So, you know, I’m having this conversation with my younger self. And then I start thinking, oh my God, I have to tell my younger self all the things that will happen to him. To me. I have to tell him that when he’s in third grade he should avoid the sixth grader on the bus who’ll punch him, and that he’ll have a brother in a few years who will be a little odd, but he’ll love him anyway, and that when he’s sixteen he’s going to move to a new town and he won’t want to, but it’ll be worth it because he’ll meet this awesome girl there.”
Rose squeezed my hand again.
“And I’m telling my younger self all of these things, but it’s like he’s not understanding. I’m not understanding. I’m like, ‘Listen man, I’m giving you the answers, I know what’s going to happen to you and you’re just sucking your thumb.’ And then I woke up.”
Rose didn’t say anything, but turned her head and looked at me.
“What?” I asked. “What do you think it means?”
“You have a spiritual blockage,” Rose said, in the same voice as Mo the psychic. “Surround yourself in white light,” she continued, making a lasso motion around her head.
“Okay, okay,” I said, nudging her with my shoulder. “I need some spiritual Ex-Lax and a strobe light. So, what about you? Do you believe in dreams?”
Rose shrugged, then let go of my hand and walked to the railing, which was chin high. Traffic zoomed behind us, and below, a barge floated by carrying what looked to be mulch. Rose had her elbows up on the rail, and her chin rested on her hands. I took a mental picture, to remember it later. “I don’t know,” she replied. “How do you know which dreams are real? How do you know which ones to believe in?”
I paused. “I guess you don’t know. You just believe in what feels right.”
Rose stared down at the water, then turned and grabbed both of my hands. “This feels right.” She smiled at me and tilted her head back the tiniest bit.
For once, I knew exactly what to do.
I leaned in and kissed her.
She slid her hands around my neck, holding me closer. I put one hand on her hip and pushed her hair back over her ear with the other, cupping her face. Our tongues met, sending a rush through my whole body.
After what felt like minutes, but was probably three seconds, a car drove by honking its horn, causing us to separate.
“Well then,” said Rose in a whisper, a sparkle in her eyes.
“Well then,” I replied.
We spent the rest of the afternoon lounging at the riverfront park, mostly lying on a picnic table, gazing at the sky. Boaters puttered by, seagulls screeched in search of human handouts, and a few fishermen sat at the river’s edge. Now that the floodgates had been opened, our make-out sessions came freely and with short intermissions. The sky had turned a deep purple by the time Rose called her mom for a ride.
TWENTY
I WON’T GO INTO GRAPHIC DETAILS, BUT I WILL SAY THIS: WHETHER ON a park bench or in the odd broom closet at Hilltop, Rose and I made the best possible use of our time together, which had increased exponentially since we’d visited the psychic. I’d hardly been home the past week except to sleep, since we’d started spending every evening together, too. I’ve never gone through so many breath mints and ChapStick tubes in my life.
Meanwhile, Grub and Blackjack had become nearly inseparable at Hilltop, making it easier for me to steal moments with Rose. Blackjack loved “playing army” with Grub, and Grub couldn’t have asked for a better partner. Blackjack had been having some really good days lately, and Mary allowed them a bit more freedom together while it lasted.
Admittedly, it was an odd sight—a little boy in army clothes pushing an old guy in a wheelchair, both rattling off battle cries and military jargon. People stopped and saluted them when they rolled by, all except for Missy Stouffer, who eyed them
warily. But that seemed to be her typical reaction to everyone and everything.
Speaking of Ms. Stouffer, she’d finally backed off my case a bit since I’d proven my worth as a volunteer bunion rubber and puzzle assembler. Many of the residents knew me by name now, and my romance with Rose was quite the topic of interest. Being at the top of the social pyramid, Letty informed everyone of all new developments. I never gave her too many details out of respect for Rose’s privacy, but her incessant prodding during my volunteer time usually meant I told her more than I’d intended.
On Thursday, Rose and I stood outside the exercise room while a visiting instructor attempted to teach beginning yoga poses to those residents brave enough to try. The elderly Hilltoppers mostly giggled, groaned, and tooted, except for Letty, the lithest eighty-nine-year-old on earth. She achieved every single position, from half cobra to downward-facing dog.
The session ended with the room grapevining—an aerobic maneuver akin to line dancing—to Tom Jones’s “It’s Not Unusual,” requested by the usual suspect. When the song ended, everyone cheered and clapped, then began a slow exodus toward the door.
Rose and I rejoined Mary, Blackjack, and Grub in the common room.
“These two sure have a good time together,” said Mary, nodding at my brother and Blackjack, who sat side by side, perusing one of Grub’s homemade maps. “He’s such a creative kid, must run in the family! I think your Sunday surprises are so clever, Zeus. What’s lined up next?”
“Well, it’s a surprise. I can’t say.”
“Come on, no hint?” asked Rose with a “pretty please with sugar on top” face that nearly crumbled my resolve.
“Kailangan kong umihi!” declared Blackjack.
Rose and I shared a look, wondering what he’d said.
“I believe Sergeant Blackjack needs to use the restroom,” explained Mary.
“Take me to my bunk, nurse,” said Blackjack to Mary. He straightened in his chair, head held high, chin up.
“I’ll provide cover fire,” said Grub, diving behind the wheelchair.
“We have to get going, Private,” I said. “I think Mary can cover him.” I nodded at Mary, knowing she’d play along.
Mary looked down at Grub and in her best army voice said, “I’ve got this watch. At ease, Private.”
“Ten four,” said Grub, followed by a click of his heels and a quick salute.
On Sunday, I woke up feeling one part excited, one part exhilarated, and ninety-eight parts sick to my stomach. A big day lay ahead. Rose and I had planned to meet at World Peas Café at one o’clock. From there we’d make the short walk to the Beauty Saloon—owned and operated by Axl and Novie’s mom, Crash. Every Sunday afternoon in the summer, Crash hosted an Open Mic event on the patio of her bar-salon establishment.
For weeks Rose had been asking me to play my guitar for her, but I’d never had the nerve. I mean, Rose was an amazing musician, and I only knew how to strum some basic chords. The thought of her watching me fumble my way through a whole song made me wince every time she brought it up. But she’d kept insisting, so I finally caved.
Every day the past week, after visiting Hilltop, I’d spent a half hour with Dylan learning a song for Rose, one I knew she’d love. After I’d told Dylan the story, he’d not only promised to help but somehow had convinced me to surprise Rose by dedicating it to her at the Open Mic. Dylan would accompany on his guitar. I wasn’t brave enough to actually sing it, but I had most of the chords down (and there were a lot of them), with Dylan’s reassurance that he’d cover for me if I got lost. Dylan was bringing a guitar for me to borrow—a real guitar, not my garage-sale model—and Axl and Novie promised to be there for moral support as well.
Sunday afternoon Rose arrived at the café looking beautiful as ever, and I let her know it.
“I’m so excited!” she said, clasping her hands under her chin and bouncing up and down as if invisible hands held her shoulders, restraining her from jumping.
“Me too,” I replied, feigning confidence I didn’t feel.
“You have big shoes to fill, Mr. Gunderson. Going to be hard to top last week’s psychic adventure.”
“Trust me, Miss Santos,” I said, throwing my arm around her shoulder, “you’re going to love it.”
We walked down the street, her leaning into me. As we got closer to Crash’s place, we began to hear the muffled sounds of singing and acoustic guitar accompaniment. The rush returned: a mix of adrenaline and stomach cramps.
As we neared the fenced-in patio of the Beauty Saloon, my friends spotted us and greeted us with a collective “Wooo!” Relieved to see them already there, I released Rose from my grasp and sped up my pace to greet my friends.
“What’s up, guys!” I shouted, walking toward the fence, which was made of black vertical bars topped with spade-shaped spears to deter after-hours patio furniture thievery.
“The Zeus is loose!” said Axl, coming to greet me at the fence. We shook hands between two iron bars.
“What’s up, man?” I said.
“Good to see you, man,” said Dylan.
“Hey, what’s up?” I replied.
“What’s happening, Zeus?” said Novie from a patio chair.
“What’s up, Novie?” I said, realizing I’d said “what’s up” four times, four ways.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked Dylan, referring to Rose.
“Yeah, man, I—” I turned to introduce Rose only to find that she still stood ten feet behind me. “What are you doing back there, come meet these guys,” I said, waving her over.
Rose hesitated, then slowly approached. She stuck her hand through alternating gaps in the fence, shaking each of theirs.
“Come on in, find a seat,” said Novie.
I was starting to walk toward the entrance when Rose grabbed my hand and gave it a little tug. She leaned toward my ear. “Zeus, should we be here? This is a bar; we’re underage. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
I gave her a look that I thought said, “Don’t worry, I got this,” but might have missed the mark since she still looked skeptical.
Earlier in the week I had voiced the same concern as hers, regarding teenagers at a bar. Axl and Novie had reassured me though, reminding me their mom owned the place. We weren’t allowed inside, but the patio was family friendly. And a local cop apparently frequented the Open Mic circuit, and welcomed any audience: young, old, or underage. It turned out he currently presided over the patio, performing a cringe-worthy version of Tom Petty’s “American Girl.”
As we walked to find a seat, I sang the chorus in Rose’s ear: “Oh yeah, all right, take it easy baby, make it last all night (make it last all night!).” Dylan motioned for us to sit at the empty chairs at their table. Rose and I sat next to Dylan, across from Axl and Novie.
For the next hour, waves of anxious anticipation washed over me. Rose flashed me a quick smile every time I turned to check on her, though she hardly spoke. Just being shy, I thought. I kept imagining her heart melting as she watched me play, especially after I dedicated the song to her. I spent most of the time joking around with Dylan, Axl, and Novie.
The cop finally finished his set.
I felt my heart palpitate.
My big moment.
My musical debut.
Dylan and I shared a look that said, “Here we go.” Just as we began to stand and head to the stage area, Rose scooted her chair back and stood herself.
I looked at her and cocked my head to the side, like a dog.
“I think I’m going to head home,” she said, forcing a smile.
I cocked my head to the other side. “What are you talking about?” I asked, sounding a bit more annoyed than intended.
“I . . . I need to help my mom with something,” she replied, still trying to hold a smile.
Inside I deflated, heartbroken. Rose was bailing on me.
All that buildup for this?
“Come on, just one more song!” said Dylan, doing his be
st to help out.
I slumped my shoulders and looked at Rose. “Stay for one more?”
Rose blinked slowly and took a breath. “I need to go.”
I felt like I was going to be sick. I had a dozen different questions I wanted to ask her, but I just stood there with my mouth open. What the hell was she doing? I glanced at the stage. Someone else had already walked up with their gear.
Well, screw it, I thought. The whole thing’s ruined.
“Fine. See you later,” I said, sitting back down.
Rose looked like she wanted to say something. I waited for her to speak, but she turned and walked away.
TWENTY-ONE
THE NEXT DAY WAS MONDAY, THE THIRD OF JULY, WHICH MEANT FIREWORKS would be shot over the river the following night. American flags commemorating the occasion waved from every available pole. It was a balmy ninety-six degrees with eighty-two percent humidity. The low air in my bike tires didn’t help the situation, nor did Grub’s sweaty hands digging into my shoulders. I pedaled us across the bridge past the spot where Rose and I had had our first kiss. I glanced at it miserably.
I was still baffled over Rose’s sudden departure from the Open Mic. Dylan and I never even ended up playing the song we’d worked on. What was the point? Learning and practicing the song all week meant nothing without Rose there. And what was up with her being so quiet the whole time? I defended her after she left, telling my friends she was just shy. But seriously. She couldn’t have stayed fifteen minutes longer?
My plan was to quickly stop at Hilltop and let Grub see his old pal Blackjack. Then I’d talk to Rose to see what happened yesterday and apologize if I had to. Though I still wasn’t sure what I’d done wrong.
But when we approached the common room, the grand piano sat silent, its keyboard covered. Am I too late? I wondered, checking the wall clock: two thirty. Rose should be here. I spotted Mary and Blackjack across the room.