Hope and Other Punch Lines(50)

“You guys got together for meetings? Like all of you?” I ask, and for the first time, I feel like maybe this could pay off, like I didn’t sucker Abbi into this mess for no reason.

“Only a couple of us. Most weren’t interested. I got this guy Chuck. And of course Connie. This was years ago. She was good people, Connie. The best. Chuck wasn’t my favorite,” he says. “Realized we didn’t have that much in common after all.”

“How about the guy in the University of Michigan hat? Did you know him?”

“Why are you so interested in Blue Hat Guy? What about Pencil Skirt Lady?” Abbi jokes.

“I care about Pencil Skirt Lady too,” I say.

“I know nothing about Pencil Skirt Lady. But yeah, I know a little about Blue Hat Guy,” Jamal says, and as he points to the Michigan M on the photocopied picture I’ve brought, I feel a shiver zing its way up my shoulder blades, like a cold finger writing letters on my back.

“What do you mean?” I try to sound normal, but my voice comes out strangled and tight.

“I didn’t know him or anything. But a friend of a friend knew him. I heard the story later.”

“Do you know his name?” I ask.

“Nope. But apparently he stopped to help someone. And then he turned around and went running back in. It didn’t occur to me to do anything but run away. Not once. I didn’t even stop to help Connie, and she was carrying a baby! I’ve spent years in therapy working that out. I’m so sorry, Hope,” Jamal says.

“It’s Abbi, actually. And you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“You tell yourself that if the shit hits the fan, you’ll be a hero. But I was no hero. I’ve had so much luck in my life. So much damn luck. I get to sing on Broadway! And all these amazing people didn’t make it out. So many amazing people, better people than me, that’s for sure. All those firefighters and police officers and that guy in the blue hat. They all ran straight into the belly of the beast. No fear. I was so scared, I pissed myself. Literally. That may be too much information,” he says. So many words, one after the other, delivered in his clipped stage-actor diction, and yet they make little sense to me. I keep hearing one phrase over and over again: He turned around.

“Just to be clear—you know for a fact that the guy in the University of Michigan hat ran back in? So did he…um, do you know what happened to him?” I don’t want to know, not yet. I’ve been waiting forever for an answer, and suddenly, it all feels too soon. It turns out I don’t want the truth. That isn’t what I was looking for at all. All I wanted was confirmation of my greatest, stupidest hope: that my father is alive.

Not answers. A miracle.

I wish I could time travel a few hours. Back to when my biggest problem was wondering how to kiss Abbi without making a fool of myself. Or to immediately afterward, when I mentally high-fived myself for that smooth hand-in-the-hair move. When I felt happy, like I could stand in front of that wall with her forever.

I loved kissing Abbi.

I do not love being here, discovering that I was both wrong and right.

I do not love that I did this. On purpose. Separated my own life into a before and after. When I knew and when I didn’t.

“He’s gone,” Jamal says. The room starts to spin, and I feel the sweat gather behind my neck and knees. I steady myself by staring at one of the blue vases. Tears start to form behind my eyes and so I bite down hard on my tongue.

I want to throw those vases against the wall. One at a time.

“He knew he was on a suicide mission. You don’t run back in, maybe more than once, thinking you’re going to make it out. He knew what he was doing. That guy haunts me. What went through his head when he went back? What made him turn around? What does that feel like—sacrificing your life for other people’s?” Jamal asks.

“Maybe he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory and leave a legacy, you know? He got to do both at once,” Abbi says.

“That’s really stupid,” I say.

“Excuse me?” she asks, and even through my haze, I can hear the hurt in her voice.

“I’m not saying you’re stupid. But that anyone would do that. That’s really stupid.” I picture the vases shattering in an explosion of glass. I hear what it would sound like: a sudden eruption. I imagine getting impaled by the shards. Them embedding under my skin. Maybe not even noticing till later how deep the wounds are.

I see blood. I taste it too.

“He’s a hero,” Jamal says.

“No, he’s not. He’s a fucking moron,” I say.





We’ve been driving for fifteen weirdly silent minutes.

“I need to get home,” Noah says.

No candy has been passed. No jokes made. No words spoken. I guess he deeply regrets the kissing.

“We’re almost there,” I say. My chest hurts, like my breath keeps getting caught on a jagged edge in my lung. I wish I could rewind us to the pink wall. I wish we had taken a picture to post to the Instagram feed in my mind, even if it now feels like a lie.

What did I do wrong? I wonder.

“Do you think my mom will be there?” It feels like Noah is speaking Spanish, a language I’ve studied in school but still don’t know, beyond basic sentences like My name is Abbi. I went to the beach. The beach is hot.