Saint Anything(13)

Like always when I saw a wheelchair, I thought of David Ibarra. It was just one of the triggers capable of bringing his face—which I knew well from all the newspaper photos and online stories I’d sought out in the days and then months after everything happened—and then everything else rushing back. See also: the sound of squealing brakes; anyone riding a bike on the street; and, to be honest, the sound of my own breath. He was always only a beat from my consciousness. Despite my mom’s party line, my knowledge of him and the need to recall it regularly was like my penance for what Peyton had done, the sentence I’d been given.

The fact that he’d been just days past his fifteenth birthday when the accident happened. A soccer player, a forward. The fact that the impact crushed his spine, leaving him able to use his arms and upper body, but wheelchair dependent. I could list the fund-raisers that had been held to purchase him a high-tech chair—community yard sales, a benefit concert—as well as the civic organizations that pitched in to make his parents’ home fully accessible with ramps, wider doors, and new hardware. I sought this out because I felt like I should, as if it might lessen the guilt. But it never did.

“They’re here,” Layla said now to Eric, jerking me back to the present. “Come on.”

They both got up, crossing over to meet the lady in the wheelchair just as the girl pushing her reached the center of the club. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stayed put, watching as Eric pulled a table into place and Layla took over the wheelchair, pushing the woman carefully up against it. A moment later, her brother appeared, carrying a can of Pepsi and a glass of ice. He fixed the drink, then put it on the table as the older girl sat down.

Layla looked at me, motioning for me to come over, as if all of this was just the most natural thing ever. And maybe it was, because I went. When I got to the table, she said, “Hey, Mom. This is Sydney. Remember, I told you about her?”

Her mom looked up at me. She had a round, kind face and blonde hair that had clearly been styled for the occasion, and was wearing red lipstick. She stuck out her hand. “Tricia Chatham. So nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I said.

“You want some pizza?” Layla asked. “It’s still hot.”

“Oh, no, honey. I brought my own snacks. Rosie, can you get my bag?”

At this, the older girl reached behind the chair, unlooping one of those big, colorful, quilted purses from the handle. This one was pink with roses. She unzipped it, then put it on the table, and her mom reached in, rummaging around for a second before pulling out a can of cheese puffs. Without prompting, Layla’s brother took it, popping the top, then handed it back to her.

“That’s Mac,” Layla said, pointing at him. “And this is my sister, Rosie.”

I said hi, and Rosie nodded. I noticed that all three women had the same light hair and green eyes, but distributed differently: stretched wide on the mom, pinched tight on Rosie, and on Layla, just right. Mac had clearly gotten his dark hair and eyes from their dad.

“When’s the music starting?” their mom asked, taking out a handful of cheese puffs. “Some of us have TV to get back to.”

“Mom, we set the DVR,” Rosie said.

“So you say.” She ate a puff, then looked at me. “I don’t trust technology. Especially when it comes to my shows.”

“She really likes her TV,” Layla explained to me. Then she turned to Eric, raising her eyebrows.

“Right,” he said, nodding. “We’ll get ready.”

He and Mac walked off toward the stage. Meanwhile, Layla grabbed two more chairs, pulling them next to the table, then gestured for me to take one before sitting down herself.

“So, Sydney,” her mom said, taking out another handful of puffs. “What’s your story?”

“Mom,” Rosie said, rolling her eyes. She was sitting very straight, legs tightly crossed. “God.”

“What? Is that rude?”

“If you have to ask, the answer is probably yes,” Rosie replied.

Her mom waved this off, still looking at me. I said, “Um, I just transferred to Jackson. But I’ve lived in Lakeview since I was three.”

“She used to go to Perkins Day,” Layla added. Rosie and Mrs. Chatham exchanged a look. “She needed a change.”

“Don’t we all,” Rosie said in a low voice.

“Perkins Day is an excellent school,” Mrs. Chatham said. “Highest test grades in the county.”

“Mom used to work in school administration,” Layla explained to me. “She was an assistant principal.”

“Ten years,” Mrs. Chatham said. She offered me the can of puffs, which I declined, then held it out to Layla, who took one. “Still be there, if I hadn’t gotten sick. I loved it.”

“She has MS,” Layla said. “With other complications. It’s the worst.”

“Agreed.” Mrs. Chatham offered Rosie the can. She shook her head. “But you take what you get in this world. What else can you do?”

In reply, there was a burst of feedback from the stage, and we all winced. Rosie said, “Great. I already have a headache.”

“Now, now,” Mrs. Chatham said. “They’ve been working on some new stuff. It’s apparently very meta.”

I smiled at this, and she caught me and grinned back. I’d had a hunch before; now it was sealed. I was so, so glad I’d come.