How to Be Brave(57)

“But, wait—you guys were together in Belize, and skinny-dipping, and prom, and, I mean, you’re always together—”

“’Cause we’re friends, Georgia,” she says. “That’s it. Nothing else. We got to know each other when his dad got sick and my mom offered to consult with him.”

Oh.

Right.

Her mom, the medical social worker and the nicest person on earth, who would do anything for anyone. And there I was, once again, assuming the worst.

“He’s all yours. Really. I have absolutely, positively, no interest in Daniel Antell. Never have, never will. Besides the fact that I would never, ever do that to you, I’m holding out for the college men.”

Oh.

“So that changes things, then?”

Huh. “He used the word cute?”

Liss nods.

“That’s sort of flattering, and sort of disappointing. Not sexy? Or mysterious? He said I’m cute?”

Liss punches me in the arm. “You are cute, so just shut up and live with it.”

Well then. Daniel Antell.

“You have to do it, then. You have to ask him out. Again.”

I look at the list, at what I’ve done and what I haven’t done.

“I know how to do a handstand now,” I say.

“Oh yeah?”

“I spend a lot of time at the studio where we took that tribal dancing class. I’m not quite able to do it away from the wall, but I can hold it for, like, thirty seconds.”

“Rock star. You look good, by the way.”

“Thanks. It’s called minus ten pounds. I’ve been going to Aspen’s classes a lot.” Not that it actually changes how I look. By all official medical charts, I should technically lose another fifteen pounds. But I’m not going to kill myself trying to achieve microscopic proportions. I’m still curvy me, and I always will be.

I think for a minute. “I guess this doesn’t have to be about my mom, right? It could be about me. It could be a little bit about her and mostly about me.”

“Exactly.”

I look back at the list. Let’s see. This is what I’ve completed: handstands, skinny-dipping, drawing, cheerleading, tribal dancing, cutting class, getting high, and asking Daniel out.

This is what has yet to be determined: running downhill, skydiving, trapeze school, fishing, and flambé.

Shit, that’s a lot.

“Do you have a pen?”

Liss digs into her bag and hands me one.

This is what I write:

#16. Finish the list.

“Okay, fine. I’ll do it. I’ll finish the list. But I want to do some of these with you and Evelyn, though,” I say. “Like, trapeze school—will you do that with me? When she wakes up, we’ll get her to do that with us. We’ll go swing like monkeys. It’ll make her feel better.”

Liss gives me this sorry look like she can’t even pretend to promise me that Evelyn’s going to wake up and that she’s going to be okay and that we’ll all be hanging from swings happy as can be.

But I have this fantasy: It involves getting Evelyn away from her mom, convincing her to get her GED, maybe even move with us to Champaign, where we can get an apartment and she can go to the community college down there.

“You can’t save her, you know.”

“I know,” I say, but then I write it down, anyway.

#16. Finish the list, after Evelyn wakes up.

Now she has to.

*

After Liss leaves, I take the train down to the hospital. The only thing I’ve heard is that there’s been no change. Evelyn’s comatose. Her mom said they think she took some of her mom’s Ambien and some other shit and washed it all down with half a bottle of rum.

I hate it here. I hate having to walk through these doors again. I hate having to press the buttons on the elevator again. I hate having to walk the same maze of hallways. I hate the smell of piss and blood and antiseptic and Jell-O. I hate being here, where my mother spent too much time. Where I spent too much of my childhood. I hate it.

But I have to do this, for Evelyn.

I find room 6-142. I take a deep breath and knock. Her mom opens it and silently waves for me to come in. The nurse is there, checking her vitals. She points me to a chair next to Evelyn.

It smells like hospital, and Evelyn looks like shit; her dreads have been shaved and her skin is gray. She’s not intubated like my mom was, but she’s in that deep sleep that I remember too well, and I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be here.

The nurse flips her chart closed and leaves the room with no words, and before I can say anything to Evelyn’s mom, like I’m sorry I can’t stay I have homework to do, or I’m sorry I can’t stay I have dinner to cook, or the truth, that I’m sorry I can’t stay I’m going to dissolve if I have to, this is too much, I shouldn’t have come, it’s all too much for me, Evelyn’s mom says this: “It means the world that you’re here. No one else has come.” And then, “Talk to her. She needs to hear us.” She leaves to get coffee. She deserts me here with her in this hospital room where so many have died.

Evelyn, can you hear me?

I don’t know what to say.

I have so much to say.

Mom,

You lie there,