Opposite of Always(30)

“They left?” I ask.

“I drove them home a bit ago,” Dad says.

I nod. “I’m sorry I cut out so quick without telling you.”

But they’re all head-shaking and tsking.

“Don’t be sorry,” they tell me. “You did the right thing, Jack.”

Upstairs, I shoot Franny a text to let him know all is well, that I’ll see him in the morning. Jillian calls me as I’m climbing into bed and we make plans to go to the hospital together tomorrow.

I pull my flannel sheets up, thinking about everyone in my life, my family, my friends; I think about Kate snug in her hospital bed, and yes, I’m absolutely afraid—of the future, of the unknown, life’s nasty twists and unexpected turns—but also I realize that I’m incredibly lucky, to have so many, and so much. I wonder how I got to be so lucky.

I fall asleep trying to figure it out.

Kate’s ringtone wakes me up from dead sleep.

I reach for the phone. It’s 3:37 in the morning. I clear my throat before I answer. “Hey, you, how was your nap?”

“Jack, I’m so sorry to call you so late.”

The voice sounds like her, but it’s not Kate. And I know something’s wrong.

“Jack, are you there?” her mom says. “She’s gone, Jack. Kate’s gone.” And I don’t hang up. I don’t even move the phone away from my lips. But I don’t talk either. What is there to say, except why did everyone lie to me? Kate’s mom. The nurse. Kate.

She just needs rest. You just need rest, they said.

Why are all of them liars?

And I think, she must’ve known. If something happens, she’d said.

And I hate the moon.

I hate the stars. I hate the darkening sky. And rain and fog. I hate hospitals. And beds with sheets. And every machine ever made. And nurses and doctors. Keep her alive, that was the one thing they had to do. That was the one thing I had to do. And I hate myself most of all. My terrible lies. You’re going to be okay, I told her. I had no right. I wasn’t right. I was the worst wrong.

“I’m on my way,” I finally say. But I’m not even sure Kate’s mom is still there. I stumble out of bed, slip on jogging pants, wedge my feet into old sneakers, and race for the stairs. But my head is foggy, and the landing is dark, and I miss the first step.

I slip headfirst down the stairs. My hands lash out at the wall, at the railing, but my fingers slip away and I can’t stop my fall. Nothing slows me. My body snaps against every stair. And I tumble. And I thud. Until it finally stops. I can’t breathe. The air knocked from my chest. I can’t think. Thoughts rattle in my head.

“Jack, are you okay? Jack? Jack!”

Someone is screaming at the top of the stairs. But I don’t recognize the voice. Maybe Mom. Maybe Dad. It could be God for all I know. The hall light snaps on, and my instinct is to shield my eyes except I can’t move my arms. I can’t even wiggle my fingers. And I hear wood creaking. And panicked voices. “Call an ambulance! Call 9-1-1! Jack! Jack!”

And then the worst pain ever.

Like my head’s an ice cream carton, and someone’s attempting to scoop out my brain, one thinly curled spoonful at a time.

And then a shrill of feedback blasts between my ears and I know this is the end.

Good night, evening. Good night, world.

Good night, Jack. Good night.





So Sequels Usually Suck But . . .





Do You Believe in Life After Love?


Death isn’t like I’d expect.

My life isn’t zooming past my eyes. Maybe whoever’s running the projector decided to spare me the boredom.

There’s no vast sea of inescapable blackness.

I don’t feel weightless: like I’m drifting but going nowhere.

Death, it turns out, feels a lot like waking up.

Which, considering that a moment ago I was asteroiding down a flight of stairs, coming to a stop only because my brain smacked against the landing, waking up at all (even in the deathly sense) feels like a major win.

Still, I suppose heaven wouldn’t be the worst welcome back to consciousness, Jack, we missed you present. But I figure a hospital bed is more probable. So, when I open my eyes, I’m not sure what awaits.

Sterile, white walls, maybe.

Crisp, artificial light illuminating me.

My parents draped over my bed.

But that’s the thing about expectation. Most times it’s just a setup.

Because instead I get peeling, yellowed wallpaper.

Cheesy disco lights.

And loud music.

Only it’s not a choir of beautiful angels strumming harps.

This is sticky, thumping bass.

There are voices, too. Except it’s not my parents.

Or someone directing me to walk toward the light.

These voices are young, carefree, celebratory. These voices careen around the room with abandon, with energy.

Someone is complaining that no one makes real music anymore. And whoever he’s talking to agrees. Hell yes, she shouts.

I touch my head. Although I just played wall-seeking human torpedo, I’m not bleeding.

All my senses appear intact. I think I’m alive.

I’m alive.

My eyes are blurry, but it’s clear that I’m sitting on stairs.