All This Time(68)

“A daisy. I hope you remember what it means,” I say. She doesn’t turn around to look at me. She doesn’t say anything. But her gaze stays fixed on the white petals.

“Your words, Marley, gave me a new life,” I say as I lay down a thin cherry blossom branch on the counter. I follow it up with a hydrangea, just like she gave to me.

“Words that you wrote for me. Told me. Words that I’m grateful for.”

She still doesn’t turn around, so I keep trying, placing a single peony on top of the small pile forming. “I would feel so fortunate if you said them again, Marley. Now. While I’m awake. Please?”

Then I lay down the yellow rose, the final flower. Her favorite flower. “Please talk to me. Like you did before.”

She looks away, her brown hair covering her face, a barrier between us. So, because I have nothing else to lose at this point, I try one more thing.

I softly place the stuffed duck on top of the pile, my last chance, the buzzer beater.

“Pretty sure it likes popcorn.”

I hold my breath as she reaches out to pick up the duck, a chord struck. She studies it while I wait, hoping she’ll say something.

But she puts the duck down, grabs her candy bar, and leaves without a word. I watch her go, the glass doors sliding shut behind her. Damn it.

“You know, you’re supposed to just get one of the premade arrangements. Not mix and match,” the unamused clerk says from behind the counter.

I grab a bag of chips, putting two dollars down on the counter. I want to tell him it’s because they mean different things, but instead I just mumble an apology, knowing the only person who would give a shit about that just walked out the door.



* * *




“You can’t control everything,” Kim says to me the next morning over FaceTime. She’s packing up her room, getting ready for Berkeley, the charm bracelet on her wrist. She eyes me knowingly through the screen. “It’s different for her than it is for you, Kyle. A lot different.”

I sigh. I know she’s right. It was different for Marley. She was telling a story to a guy in a coma. A story she never expected me to hear.

But would she have made it up for me, made up a whole life for the both of us, if she didn’t wish in some way it could be real?

“You can’t convince her she lived something she didn’t. She’s clearly dealing with shit. You know what that’s like.”

“So, what do I even do?” I don’t know where to go from here.

Kim shrugs. “You have to learn how to talk to this Marley.”

I flop back hard against my pillows.

How do I do that when this Marley doesn’t talk at all?





38


Crutching around in the courtyard a little after noon a few days later, I find Marley in the outdoor café. Kim spent the better part of the morning snooping around the hospital, trying to get more information. On a break to get an iced coffee, she spotted Marley and tipped me off to her location.

Now that I’m here, though, I have no clue what to do.

I glance over at Marley to see her head is buried in a book, her hair covering her face. I watch her for a moment, the way she’s sitting reminding me of those small moments when she’d speak of Laura. When the sad stories she refused to tell would cast a shadow over her.

I scan the menu, stopping when I see they sell iced tea, another idea coming into my head. Like this moment was meant to be.

A way to talk to this Marley. I can write it.

I make my oddly specific request and snag a pen from the cashier, scrawling on the back of the receipt, Marley. You thought I wouldn’t hear you, but I did. I heard your stories, the fairy tales. I lived one—with you. I know you don’t share those memories, but you were my whole world while I was asleep. I miss hearing you talk. Please talk to me again. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.

I head over and put the glass of tea down in front of her, the note just next to it, her eyes darting up. “Iced green tea, no sugar, fresh mint. Your favorite summer drink.”

I look at the seat next to her, but I don’t sit. I remember in the dream world how hesitant she was. I don’t want to come on too strong.

I hobble over to a table a few feet away and slide into one of the chairs, pulling out my phone and pretending to look at it.

At first she doesn’t read the note.

She doesn’t even lift her head from her book, her fingers drawing circles on the page in front of her.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand stop abruptly, frozen over a single spot, her eyes now fixed on my messy handwriting.

She closes her book and gets up, and I try desperately to refocus my attention on my Instagram feed, but it’s no use. I can’t help it.

I glance up to see she’s looking at me. Her eyes hold mine for the first time out of the coma, and I see something in them debating. I hold my breath, but instead of coming over, she turns and walks out of the outdoor café and back into the hospital, her book tucked under her arm.

I stare at the untouched mint iced tea, the sweat from the glass bleeding onto the note, the ink blurring as the words all run together.

Sighing, I text Kim she can meet me at the outdoor café now, and a few minutes later she appears, sliding into the seat across from me, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, an iced coffee still clutched in her hand.