We face each other. She has cool, jaw-length red hair. Just like in the video someone sent me. But everything else is the same. The face, the eyes.
It’s—It’s me.
Behind her, I see Reid . . . and Martin Fields. They are in a white room.
Finally my voice returns, and I scream.
CHAPTER FOUR
Day 21: brunch practice
Panic starts to wake me up at night. And wisps of lyrics. I call St. Mary’s every couple of days. The nurses can’t or won’t tell me anything, but Alec’s friends tell me there’s no change. None of them have been allowed to visit either. Alec’s parents just ask for space, for time. I keep thinking about what happened in my bedroom the other day. I lie in the darkness trying to figure out what it meant when I imagined seeing Alec standing in a hospital room.
During the days, although I’m tired from lack of sleep, I’m weirdly energized. Everything clicks at school, and I ace a history test with hardly any revision. Our Wednesday practice is good. I show up with two new songs for Sunday practice, which we start much earlier than usual. Normally we have practice at four, but because we’re all so pumped, we decide on brunch practice at ten. Practice rocks, and as I sing, the base notes from Nifty’s guitar thrum through me. My fingers dance, and each sound touches me through my very skin. I close my eyes and let the words open me up, really feel the rhythm of Iona’s drumming and Reid’s harmony, as if we’re all one entity. We’re better than ever.
When we finish, we all know that something’s happening. The shift—we’re suddenly, truly a band. I hug Iona hard. We’re both sweaty.
“I think we’re going to make it,” I say, pushing my short hair away from my eyes.
She nods. Nifty and Reid high-five each other.
It’s one of those fall days when the sky is a perfect blue and there are only a couple of clouds, floating fluffy and white far above. I longboard along the river path instead of going home, and then I swerve toward Broadway. At the store, I walk past the fat, glistening vegetables, past the morning-made sushi. I’m still feeling high from practice. When my cell goes off again, I assume it’s my dad, but—
You love it.
He leans forward to kiss me.
There’s that word again.
The words are almost lyrics.
The message vanishes and is replaced by a short, looping video. It’s Alec’s face, close up, smiling, his dark eyes alight. I turn up the volume, but there’s no audio. Alec, who is in a coma, who cannot be smiling in my cell.
I touch the screen, and the video disappears.
I linger over the empty screen, my lip quivering. What is going on? I fight rising bile and shove the phone into my pocket and walk over to the pharmacy aisle, where I grab a tube of mascara. A feeling of power and quiet rises up inside me. I tell myself I don’t want mascara. Don’t need it. But the pink packaging and smooth feel of it compel me. I don’t let go.
Switching to The xx on my cell, I keep my eyes down and move to the front of the store. I tell myself that I’ll put it back, that I’m not going to steal, but the voice in my brain and my actions slam against each other. The mascara is in my pocket, and the doors to the store swing open automatically. I walk outside.
I flip my board and cross the parking lot, and the anxious feeling lifts, replaced by euphoria. I’m as sunny as the sky between the perfect clouds. I toss the mascara into a garbage can as I pass by.
When I get home, I’m humming a few bars of one of the songs I’ve been working on. With a couple of tiny changes, it would work better, I realize. The impulse to write and sing is strong, so I hurry straight upstairs. Something nags at me, a tickle inside my brain, but I can’t think what I have forgotten. Instead, lyrics drift in me about stories, choices, memories, so I begin a new song.
Eventually I surface. I pick up my cell and realize it’s been on silent. There are several texts from Dad. I’m just about to read them when another message arrives:
We reach the cemetery.
The fall is turning everything now—
some of the trees have lost all their leaves
and the ground is littered with their bodies
The words vanish, leaving me with a dry throat. The cemetery. It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death. And I forgot. No wonder Dad has been messaging me. I grab my backpack and am just about to race out the door, when my cell rings.
It’s Reid. “Larkette?” He sounds strange. “I just found your dad at the cemetery. He’s having trouble breathing.”
I’ve been in the waiting room at St. Mary’s hospital for so long, I’ve lost track of time. Lyrics slip through my mind, about life and death, about rooms where we wait.
“This heart thing—Dad told me it was under control. But nothing’s under control, is it? Everything’s random—” A sob catches in my throat.
Reid pushes my lipstick-red hair from my cheek. “It’s going to be fine. Your dad is strong.” He lifts his glasses off and rubs the skin under his eye with a knuckle. “I loved your mom. Everyone did. She was so kind to my family when we moved here.” He presses both his hands lightly around mine as if trying to give me strength. “You probably don’t even know all the things she did for us. She brought my parents bedding, introduced Mom to people, helped us find schools. Like a fairy godmother.”
“Is that why you were at the cemetery?”
“I go every year. I mean, I make sure not to get in your way, or your dad’s.”
I look at him for a moment. “You saved his life. What if you hadn’t been there?”
A doctor with two different coloured eyes—one bright blue, one very dark—and white hair sticks his head round the entryway. “Lark Hardy?”
“Oh, please tell me he’s okay.”
“Though we don’t think he’s had a heart attack, we’re concerned about how hard he hit his head when he fell . . . It’s fortunate your friend found him when he did.” He launches into medical speak.
The words heartattackheartattack make it impossible to hear.
I interrupt. “Can I see him?”
“You can visit for a short time.”
I glance at Reid, who says, “Do you want me to come?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll be here,” he says.
I follow the doctor.
The ICU is a creepy vault of noise and silence. My ears attune to the sounds of breathing, the beeps of oxygen machines, the puff and fall of an artificial lung, the pad of feet, the gentle voice of a woman talking to someone who isn’t able to reply. Those are the noises. But beneath that is the silence of the people lying on those beds, hovering between life and death.
I see Dad—and almost wish I hadn’t. They didn’t tell me about the wires and tubes, the machines. I fix on the beat of his heart on a monitor even as my knees give out.
The ICU nurse, a slim woman with glasses, catches me around my waist and guides me to an armchair next to the bed. For the moment I sit, not looking at my father, not listening to the nurse, who is saying something to me.
When I do glance at him, my heart thuds. He looks dead—his face is ghastly pale, and his body as still as a branch on a windless day. I pat his hand. His skin is warm, and I find myself weeping with relief. I have been to a room just like this before, but I blocked it out. The memories come back now. My mother in a hospital bed. The images of the two of them blur together in my tears.
The nurse frowns. “Do you need a glass of water?”
“No, I’m okay.”
When she turns her attention to another patient, I make up a couple of lines to sing softly to Dad. He always loves it when I sing.
“Just lying here
The way it’s gone
You could be gone
I’d be alone . . .”
I rest my forehead on his bed. Beneath the hospital smell is the smell of him, of my father.
A different nurse touches my shoulder and says, “Young lady, I hate to wake you, but you need to go now.?
??
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. I take one last look at Dad—his eyes are still closed—before I leave the ICU. I’m standing in the hallway alone, momentarily confused, not sure whether to go right or left, when I spot Reid. He walks up to me, hugs me, asks me about Dad, his voice vibrating through me.
“I’m glad I found you.”
“Thanks,” I say, as I pull away, “for everything.” “Do you think Dad will enjoy the show?”
His eyes try to hide his surprise, but almost as quickly he seems to realize I need this. Now more than ever. “The show? Course. He’ll be much better by then. He’ll love it.”
Lucy rushes along the hallway. “Oh, Lark, how’s your dad?” She hugs me, the smell of clove cigarettes curling from her damp hair.
“Why is your hair wet?”
“There’s a wild storm, absolutely pouring rain. Is Nifty here yet? He messaged that he was coming. And Iona?”
“Nifty will be here in about ten minutes.” Reid rests a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. Her arm is around my waist. He says to me, “They all wanted to come as soon as we got here, but you seemed pretty out of it. Lucy decided everyone should wait until you had more news—she’s been coordinating everything. You have a casserole from my mom in your fridge, and she’s cleaned up your kitchen.”
“How was the visit with Vince?” Lucy asks.
I might faint if it weren’t for her arm around me.
Iona:
I’m here. U ok?
Where r u all?
Why is no one answering me?
I remember Mom’s funeral, and through the smudge of tears, through it all, Lucy, Reid, Nifty, Iona huddled around me. I message Iona back.
Lark:
Thanks for coming. Love u.
Iona:
Yeah, but where ARE u?
Am standing with man-freak
bleeding from face in ER.
Think he wants to eat me.
Lark:
We’re going to wait room on 3rd floor.
See u there.
Together we walk along the hallway. Lucy holds my hand. A woman comes out of the door to our left. She’s slim, glamorously dressed, with coiffed hair, but tired. I realize it’s Alec’s mother. She stops when she sees us.
“Hello, Mrs. Sandcross. It’s me, Lark.”
“No visitors. Not yet.”
“Oh, no. I’m not trying to . . . My, uh, dad is here.” I point toward the ICU.
She barely nods. “Is he okay?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But how’s Alec?”
“Not good. They moved him from the ICU to his own room in Pediatrics, because he’s not yet eighteen, about a week ago. For a moment, we were hopeful, because they moved him. But the tests they’ve run don’t look good. There are always stories, but as Scott says . . . we’ll have to make a decision. His birthday is coming up—did you know that?” She worries her thumbs. Her grey wool dress has a small stain on the right hip.
Abruptly she turns, and her heels click along the floor away from us. I have a sudden insight that she’s weeping as she walks. Another tiny piece of my heart crumbles.
I lean against Lucy. “I don’t think I can handle any more.”
Lucy murmurs into my hair, “Let’s find Iona.”
“Before she gets eaten alive,” I reply, smiling wanly.
Day 24: lunchtime
I knock on Dad’s hospital room door. He’s sleeping with his cell in his hand and a discarded book on his bedside table. I take a Thermos from my bag. In it is chicken soup. I even made the stock from the chicken thighs I got Lucy to buy for me. Egg noodles float with the carrots and finely chopped onions, just the way Mom used to make it. I put the Thermos on the side table and carefully sit next to him.
He yawns as he wakes. “You should go to band practice today.”
“I should be here.”
“No. Lark. You should be prepping for the show. Then I have something to look forward to. You know, if I ever get out of this hospital room.”
“At least you’re out of Intensive Care now.”
“I’m slowly going mad staring at these four walls.”
“These four walls are a lovely shade of bile. Not that you were staring at them. You were sleeping—you need the rest, Dad, while they figure out what happened.”
He pulls a face. “Okay, okay. But please go to band practice. And call Martin Fields. If we learn anything from this, it’s to seize the day.”
“Touché.”
“Cliché, actually.” He yawns again. His face greys a little, and he turns from me. He murmurs as he falls back into sleep. “Maybe I’ll eat later. Now get on out of here.”
As I leave, I hear someone call my name. Alec Sandcross’ mom is behind me.
“Lark—” she says again. Her voice is soft. She’s wearing a blue cashmere sweater, a designer scarf, and her hair is pulled back in a braid. Her lips are perfectly glossed, mascara and liner emphasizing her very pale, almost silver eyes. “Do you have a moment?”
“Of course.”
“I do hope your dad is feeling better. I’m sorry I was so . . . abrupt the other day.”
When you were crying and didn’t want me to see? “Don’t worry. This place does that to people.”
“It’s just—Could you tell me something?”
“Sure. What is it?”
She gazes at a spot I can’t see for so long that I wonder if she’s forgotten I’m there. Then she says, “What was Alec like?”
“We were only just starting to get to know each other, Mrs. Sandcross.” A small frown travels over her tight brow, so I add, “He’s smart. And interested in stuff. Always asking questions at school. I was happy he asked me to go to the lake. I was excited. We had lots to talk about. He seems dynamic, cool, um, I wish I knew him better. I’d still really like to visit him, you know. It felt like we would have . . . we could have a good thing. Maybe.”
“Was he happy?” Though her voice is soft, her silvery eyes are intense. I notice now that under the makeup, they still look tired. “I hope . . . I hope he was happy.”
“He was happy. Of course.”
Her gaze shifts to me. “I worry he has too much of his father in him, too much . . . I left him, you know. Alec’s father. I should have done it a long time ago. It might never have happened if Alec hadn’t been in here.” A tear slides down her cheek. “I really . . . hope he was happy.” Suddenly her cheeks flush. She closes herself up like an app that is crashing. “Goodness, listen to me. I’m . . . I’m terribly sorry to bother you.”
“He’ll get better,” I say. “He will.”
“No, that’s not what’s going to happen. The tests are pretty conclusive. We’re going to give it a little more time, but only until his birthday. Even if Scott and I can’t agree on anything else, we agree that our son can’t live like this.”
My heart aches for her. For her family. For myself. “Alec’s birthday? That’s soon.”
“Yes. Twenty-one more days . . . the doctors aren’t hopeful.” More tears threaten to fall.
I shiver. Twenty-one more days . . . that’s the time I had left with my mom from my birthday to her death. “Can I come and see him with you?”
“Not today.” Her gaze drifts away from me. “No, sorry. Not today.”
Back at the house, I hunt for the jeans I was wearing when Martin Fields gave me his card at D’Lish. I’m terrible at laundry, so I eventually locate them in a crumpled heap under my bed. I toy with my phone but cop out. I spend a couple of hours writing notes for songs, and I do some vocal warm-ups until it’s time to go to practice.
Reid arrives outside Iona’s parents’ garage just as I do. He asks about Dad. I tell him about today’s visit to the hospital and about what happened with Mrs. Sandcross afterwards, but I find it hard to articulate how sad it was. The great thing about Reid is that he gets it anyway.
“She must be messed up right now.”
“I think so. She kept asking if Alec was
happy.”
“I hope you lied.”
“What does that mean?” I walk into the heated garage with him. The Darcys are on super loud. Nifty is dancing around the far side of the room.
“The guy had stuff going on,” Reid says over the music, leaning close so I can hear.
“What do you mean?”
Typically, Reid doesn’t answer.
“You’re just jealous Alec got to go on a date with me,” I tease, trying to get him to reply. Except it comes out just as Nifty stops the music.
“So go on a date with me.” His voice is loud in the silence.
Nifty cheers. And Iona, who I hadn’t even noticed, bangs a drum. “He finally asked her!”
Did he seriously just ask me on a date? “Where?” I ask, torturing him a little but also feeling my heart buzz.
“Stop it,” he says. Smiling. He adjusts his glasses. Again.
Both Iona and Nifty watch our conversation with way too much interest.
“Okay,” Reid says, “time to get to work, folks. Don’t we have a show to get ready for?”
Iona bangs the drum again. “Yes, we abso-fricking-lutely do.”
I try to talk to Reid when we finish our superb rehearsal, but he’s on his phone. I wave, less sure now that he did seriously ask me on a date, and head out on my longboard to get back to Dad, cutting through the park. It’s another clear day—as if winter is holding back, waiting to spiderweb frost all over the golden leaves and browning grasses—but dark is falling now. As I reach the play park, I hear my cell. I stop my board, check it and try to hold on to reality.
Because in a video on my cell, Alec Sandcross is sitting there. Right there in the play park. I rub my eyes, like, actually rub them, to make the mirage go away. Alec is in a coma. But there he is, sitting on the teeter-totter, one end pointing up to the evening sky. And in the film, on the other end of the teeter-totter, is me. Another me. But my hair is how it used to be, long and black.
I watch the two of them. On the screen, Alec fixes his gaze on the other me. Watching them makes my heart beat faster.