Waiting

  She said, “London, you shut the hell up. It’s better this way.”

  Then the Bybees drove away. All the way up north.

  And Rachel called two days later to say she wouldn’t see Zach again. That she understood her momma and daddy’s feelings now and she had her own life to think of and that she was way too young to have a baby. Way too young.

  And Zach, he died.

  Killed himself three weeks later.

  And it was me who found him first, Mom one step behind.

  He was depressed.

  You know how depressed he sometimes got.

  Not always, but it happened, the sadness, like after that little village died or when he saw mangled bodies on the side of the road in another country or he watched something awful on TV.

  Those kinds of things just wiped him out.

  Daddy stopped his ministry abroad.

  Daddy tried to pray his son better.

  Daddy insisted Mom not homeschool us anymore.

  But Zachy, he got sadder and sadder.

  We came back for him. Here, to the United States, so he’d be safer.

  Mom tried to hug it all away.

  Tried to do things, special mom-and-son kinds of things.

  Tried to cook it better. Read it better.

  We didn’t know then how it would end up, or maybe we would have made lots of different changes earlier.

  Like admitting we needed help.

  Someone should have made him get up after Rachel left should have stayed with him should have known it was going to happen.

  They should have known.

  I should have.

  I should have.

  This is what I sometimes think when I’m alone. This is sometimes my prayer. My prayer for forgiveness from a brother who left me behind because I didn’t get it.

  After he died,

  after she heard,

  Rachel Bybee called.

  She had a new number. I didn’t answer and she left a message on my voice mail.

  She was crying. Hard.

  “I just found out,” she said. “I miss him so bad, London. I want to talk about him. Please. Call me and tell me what happened. My heart is breaking.”

  By then my heart was already broken, so I never called her back.

  I let my phone run out of battery and I wouldn’t have picked it up even if my cell always worked—not if there was a chance she could reach me. She was a part of this whole thing, right?

  I lost count of the number of times she called.

  I feel bad about that now. Not taking her calls. But I blamed her, too.

  Tonight, after I phone Rachel again (no answer), I decide to start dinner.

  I can cook. I can cook stuff from all over the world. I can eat spices that would blow out someone else’s stomach.

  And I do, too. But tonight, Mom sitting in the living room, I decide to make something else. Not too hot.

  Something she’ll like. Beef Stroganoff. She missed that most when we were overseas. I’ll make that.

  (Maybe she’ll eat with us. If Daddy gets home in time.

  And she isn’t as unhappy or mad or as whatever it is she’s been. Maybe she’s feeling a change too. Has she kissed two people?

  Someone other than Daddy?

  No! Of course not.)

  We don’t have any of the ingredients, so I decide to head over to Publix.

  I work to keep my head clear when I get into Zach’s car. He tried to teach me to drive, because Mom didn’t have the patience and Daddy was too busy. As soon as I adjust the seat from his last drive (how long has that been now?), I hear his voice.

  “London, just ease the clutch up when you’re ready to go. That way you won’t give us whiplash.” I always gave us whiplash, and it’s no different now. I smile at the memory, at how I feel sort of good in this car. Holding on to the steering wheel he held on to, sitting in the seat where he sat, pressing my foot to the same pedals.

  There’s this bit of him in the car—I’m not sure what—but I’m surprised that I have avoided sitting in here, driving, so many times.

  The sky looks the same as it always does this time of night: clouds building over the ocean, moving this way fast. The sun is shiny as a dime. When I get into Publix, I run in and think, Yes, tonight shopping is a pleasure.

  I like my skirt again. A boy in produce stares at me, nods when I look his way, and I kind of recognize him from school. Should I kiss him? I think, and grin at the silliness.

  I nod back, grab things I need, piling everything in my basket.

  It’s weird what’s happening. The more I shop, the happier I feel. By the time I get to the car, I’m ready to slay the dragon—I forgot that’s what Daddy used to say about Satan and instead of following Satan we should slay him by doing what’s right. My heart feels bubbly, and I decide—just like that—I’m inviting Taylor over.

  I drive past his house and his car’s not there. I sit parked near the mailbox, but he doesn’t come home. The sun’s sinking fast, so I start back to my house, and when I get to the first stop sign, Taylor comes wheeling around the corner, music so loud I can hear it. He glances at Zach’s car, recognizes me (I can tell by the look on his face), screeches to a halt, turns around, and pulls up next to my window.

  “London,” he says. He seems happy to see me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came by to ask you to dinner.”

  Another car tries to squeeze past us.

  “Wanna come over? I’m cooking.” I lift the bag I put in the passenger seat. It’s heavy.

  “You kidding me? I sure do.”

  “I’ll drive,” I say, and pat the wheel.

  Taylor goes to speak to his mom, and I try four times to put the car in reverse and settle on just turning the thing around and going back to his place. I don’t park in the driveway. The wind blows. The sky is the color of a blue flower plate with a rim of gold-orange closest to the earth. It’s so beautiful I think, I’ve slain the dragon.

  Maybe I need to spend more time in this car. Or cook.

  Or pick up Taylor. Or kiss Jesse in doorways. Or try to reach Rachel. Or sit in orange groves. Something.

  Because I feel terrific. Or as close to terrific as I can under the circumstances. We’re less than a year out.

  Nine months out and I’m driving and I feel pretty good.

  Taylor comes outside, jogs across the front lawn. He’s changed his shirt. I bet he even brushed his teeth. I can’t help but smile.

  Would Jesse do those things? Or just get into the car with me? Just drive away.

  “Hey,” Taylor says when he closes the door. His aftershave is different. Not so sweet as before. Not so Zach, and for a minute I feel this weight of sadness in my heart.

  But I’ve slain the dragon and done so many wonderful things today that I’m going to swallow the grief and pretend it didn’t happen. He puts the grocery bag on the floor between his feet. Mrs. Curtis watches from the door, waving.

  “I like your mom,” I say, pulling away from the house. I beep a good-bye to her. “She’s nice.”

  Taylor nods.

  “She’s okay.” His voice is teasing. He reaches over, puts his hand on the back of my neck, smoothes his fingers through my hair. For a moment I can only see in black and white. “She needs me to take her to see her mom in St. Augustine tomorrow. Think I can trade rides with Lili and they get you in the morning?”

  “Sure.” I nod. I drive to the end of the street, where a whole thick row of hibiscus bushes leads up to the stop sign. “I called Rachel,” I say, just like that. What’s wrong with my mouth? It betrays me by kissing everyone and speaking words I don’t even know are there. Is it part of the metamorphosis? Now the evening colors are too bright.

  “You’re kidding.” Taylor looks at me, and I almost drive off the road looking back. When did his eyes get so blue?

  Does he need a haircut? I bet I could cut his hair. I used to trim Zach’s. I was supposed to trim his the day before
he died, but the fight started and Zach wouldn’t let me turn on the light and then, when it was too late, and when I asked Mom to let me trim his hair, she wouldn’t.

  I wanted to do that for my dead brother. Trim his hair.

  “What’d she say?” Taylor’s hand is gentle.

  For a moment I’m thinking he means Mom, but then I realize he’s talking about Rachel.

  “Nothing. She wasn’t there.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  I shake my head. I haven’t left a message any time I’ve called. “I’ll try her again. I need to.” Wrong. I have to. I know this like I know I’m holding on to the steering wheel. I need her to understand that Zach loved her and he would have been a good father and even with everything that happened he would have forgiven her.

  I’m not sure about that. Not really. But I’ll tell her that anyway.

  The thought of an abortion makes the fading light outside dim a moment.

  (“Her parents don’t want her to have the baby. They want her to get rid of it. She’s going to . . . she’s going to . . . ,” Zach said. “They want her to, because she’s so young. And I could hear her mom and dad telling her to get off the phone.” His room was dark dark dark.

  He hadn’t showered in days. “That baby,” he had said.

  “My tiny baby.” And I cried myself to sleep that night.)

  Taylor and I pull up to my house. When we get out of the car, the sun is gone. “Let’s go cook,” I say, taking his hand. “You can help.”

  This house is empty.

  I make arrangements for a morning ride with Lili and Jesse and Queen Suck Face, then set the table for the four of us, and Taylor talks about a couple of colleges he wants to go to, maybe, and asks if I’ve thought of going anywhere, but I haven’t and I shake my head and fold napkins, pale pink, pink as sweet baby lips. I set out candles, dim the dining room lights. Place quartered lemons on the glasses’ rims for later.

  In the kitchen, Taylor slices the sirloin and I get everything else out of the bag. We’re quiet, working side by side. So close that his forearm touches mine sometimes, and I’m sorry right then that Zach couldn’t get married, and didn’t live, and that he saw so much sad stuff when we were little and that he won’t have sex again or kiss someone he loves or let me trim his hair or slice the sirloin.

  But I won’t think of this tonight, because if I do, I’ll fall and I have to keep away from the edge of the hole I am always standing near or falling in or trying to climb out of. I’m different, right?

  How can my mood change so fast?

  Why must I think at all?

  I don’t need to.

  I swear I won’t.

  When everything is simmering, I push my way between Taylor and the sink, where he’s washing—no, scrubbing—his hands. I put my arms around his waist, rest my head on his chest, hear his heart beating on its own—with no help from anything—and I want to cry but I’m not going to. Instead, I tug air into my lungs—lungs that work on their own—and force myself to smile. It seems to help.

  “Let me dry my hands, London,” Taylor says, the words in my hair. But I don’t move.

  “It must be this house that’s killing me,” I say into his shirt.

  He puts his fingertips on my hip bones. I can feel the cool dampness bleed through to my skin.

  When I move away from this hug, I see the clock. It’s six thirty. I put the brown-and-serve rolls in the oven and my heart pounds, waiting for my parents. “Will you let me cut your hair, Taylor?” I ask. “After dinner?”

  “Sure,” he says, not even hesitating.

  We eat, just me and Taylor, watching America’s Funniest

  Videos. Mom hates it when I consume anything anywhere other than the dining room or kitchen, but I do it tonight because why the hell not? We end dinner with a root-beer float and me carrying a fat feeling of resentment.

  I want to say it. I want to say, She could have come. They

  could have come. But it’s so obvious that it’s embarrassing.

  Of course my mom and dad should be home for dinner.

  When Daddy comes in, he finds the two of us, on the couch, dishes piled on the coffee table, Taylor’s arm around my shoulders.

  I snuggle closer when I see my father, hoping Mom will be behind him. She isn’t.

  “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Castle,” Taylor says, then he clears his throat, and his fingers tighten on my shoulder.

  He says, “London waited dinner for you.” He clears his throat again. “She waited an hour.”

  I move away and look at him. He’s looking over his shoulder at Daddy, and Daddy hasn’t even had a chance to say hello, but guess what? Taylor’s right. I rest my hand on his arm. His skin is so warm I want to kiss the place

  where I touch him, but that might seem weird, what with my daddy standing right there and all.

  It takes a moment for Daddy to get his feet under himself. “London.” He speaks like he didn’t hear Taylor, and that embarrasses me. “You know I don’t like it when you have friends over who are the opposite sex.” And I say, “I know, Daddy. But we wanted to surprise you by making dinner. Plus, I’m cutting Taylor’s hair for him soon.”

  Do you remember, I want to say, that I cut Zachy’s hair?

  “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Daddy says. “Your mother won’t like it.”

  “My mother’s never here. She doesn’t give a damn what I do.”

  Wait.

  Who said that?

  The room is so quiet it seems even the host of

  America’s Funniest Videos takes a breather to hear what was said.

  And then I know. I did it! I said it!

  The words are out.

  They’re out—yes, in front of somebody—but they’re out, and I feel so good to have said them I can’t sit still.

  “She’s not here now.” I hold my hands out for him to see.

  Daddy waits, his own hands just hanging there, and I think of Jesus and the cross and the nails the Romans pounded into His palms, and I take Taylor’s hand in mine and say, “Let’s go trim your hair.”

  Once, a long time ago, when we were in Haiti, when I first started cutting Zach’s hair, I chopped a huge hunk out of the back. And when he saw it in a handheld mirror, he laughed and threatened to cut my hair too, but instead brushed it and braided it and patted my head.

  For good measure, I think.

  Taylor’s hair is so soft, so fine, and there’s so much of it that when I’m done trimming, it’s all over my bathroom sink and floor. He looks at me in the mirror. He’s sitting on my desk chair that we dragged into the small room, staring at me.

  “What?” I say.

  “I shouldn’t have said that to your father, London,” Taylor says. His face turns a slow pink. “He’s a good guy and all.

  And I only meant . . .”

  I stand behind him, the scissors in one hand, an orange comb in the other. He dips his head, and I can see his neck. He doesn’t have the huge football player neck—and it’s not too skinny, either. For a second I see a rope around it, and I drop the comb. It makes a sharp sound on the tile. I bend over to pick the comb up, my hands shaking.

  “I only meant, I can see you’re sad all the time, London.