How to Be Brave(18)

Instead, he says this: “I have a fifty percent chance of getting polycystic disease, too.”

“Oh.”

“So, part of my desire to go into research is purely selfish. I want to save my own life. I want to build myself a kidney.”

I want to tell him that he’s not selfish at all. I want to tell him about the list and how I’m trying to save my own life, too, and how I’m also doing it for my mom, just like he could save his dad’s life while he’s saving his own. But then I’d have to pull the list out of my pocket and show it to him, and I can’t do that because he comprises three of the items.

Instead, I say this: “I know you’ll do it.”

“Thanks.” He nods. “It’s hard.”

We walk a little bit more, saying nothing. I focus on the cracks in the sidewalk. I don’t know what else to say, but I feel like he wants to talk about this. Finally, I ask, “Is he on dialysis?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Only for about four months. Was your mom on dialysis, too?”

“Yes. For years. She did it at home while she slept.”

He nods. “My dad goes to the center three times a week.”

“Do you go with him?”

“I wish I could. He’s out in Oregon with my stepmom. Even though he’s supposed to watch his blood pressure, I know he doesn’t, and my stepmom tries to get him to eat right, but he doesn’t listen. She’ll serve grilled chicken and kale salad for dinner, and he’ll sneak Doritos and beef jerky at night when she’s not looking.”

“My mom used to sneak ice cream.”

“They told him if he doesn’t take care of himself, he could die. I mean, they used the big D word. But it’s like he doesn’t hear them.”

“And there’s nothing you can say, right?”

“Right,” he says. “And I just—I don’t want him to die, you know?”

How well I know.

He stops at a corner and turns to me. “How did you handle it—when she died?”

I look at him. How did we get here, from pumpkin pi to dialysis? From colleges to death? What happened to our romantic date?

“I’m sorry. Is that too personal?”

“No,” I say. “Not at all. I just have to think about it.”

I think about the very end, the letter, her deterioration, everything that we had to decide—everything that I had to decide. I’m struggling for the words. I want to tell him, but I don’t want to start crying, either.

“Liss told me you and your mom were close.”

I nod.

“You don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry.”

“No,” I say. “I want to. I just have to think for a minute.”

We cross the street and walk for another half block in silence. Finally, I take a deep breath. “Look, I could say what everyone tries to say: That it’s all going to be okay, that everything will be fine. I’m a realist, and I won’t lie to you. It’s hard. It’s the worst thing in the world. My mom was my best friend, and losing her ripped me apart.” I’m trying not to cry. “Before she died, I couldn’t imagine how I would ever smile again, or laugh again, without her. When she died, I sunk hard, for a while.”

“How’d you get out of it?”

I feel the list in my pocket. “Well, let’s just say I made this kind of promise to her, that I would live and be brave and just keep moving forward as much as I can.”

“I wish I could get him to be brave.”

I shake my head. “You can’t control him. You can’t change him.”

We keep walking. It’s totally silent and weird between us now, and I feel like that’s the absolute worst thing I could have said to him. Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know your dad. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” he says. “You’re right. I need to hear it. No one else in my life really knows what it’s like, having a parent who’s really sick. It’s good to talk to you about it. Thanks.”

Okay, phew.

I can feel it. Now’s the time to do it. Now’s the time to ask him out: #13.

Then, before I can muster the words, he points across the street. “Well, here’s my train. I have to get to work. Where are you headed?”

Oh, right. Where am I headed? Anywhere, as long as it meant being with you. Say it, Georgia.

Be brave.





#13.


Instead, I consult my mental map and construct a quick lie. “I have to go to the library.”

“Isn’t that like, eight blocks down? You’re not taking the bus?”

“Yeah, no…” I stumble over my words. “It’s a beautiful day. I like to walk.” Especially when I’m dressed like a dead, neurotic poet and am carrying a fake bird.

“Okay, then. Well, it was nice talking to you.” He says this formally, and he puts out his hand like we’ve just finished a job interview.

#13. Ask him out.

Georgia: Ask. Him. Out.

I chicken out, though. I ignore my promise to my mom. I put my sweaty hand in his.

“I suspect I’ll see you tomorrow in Marquez’s class,” he says to me, shaking my hand, “if not before.”