Saint Anything(18)

“Mom,” I said.

“If he can deal with that for seventeen months,” she continued, “I think you can handle being slightly uncomfortable for a couple of hours. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” I said softly. She was still glaring at me, so I repeated it, more loudly this time. “Yes.”

That was the last we spoke of it. By the time I left ten minutes later, she was back to normal, checking that I had lunch money and waving to me from the front window as I pulled out of the driveway. As far as she was concerned, the matter was handled.

I, however, was still shaken. At school, I cut the engine and just sat in my car, watching everyone else head to homeroom until the bell rang and I had no choice but to join them.

Jenn called as I was walking to lunch, as had become our routine. She and Meredith would put me on speakerphone, so it was kind of like I was there as they caught me up on what was going on at Perkins. There was something soothing about their voices that balanced out the constant cacophony of Jackson. Today, though, it was Jenn who heard something.

“Are you okay?” she asked me after Meredith caught me up on the meet she’d had that weekend.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You just don’t sound like yourself,” she said. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” I said. I had a flash of that flyer on the table. “It’s just really noisy here. Like always.”

As if to punctuate this point, there was a burst of laughter just behind me. “Good Lord,” Meredith said. “How do you even concentrate?”

“I’m just walking to lunch,” I told her. “It’s not that mentally challenging.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Now I was turning on everyone.

“Sorry,” I said. “Look, let me call you guys back in a bit, okay? I’ll just get somewhere quiet.”

“Okay,” Jenn replied. “Talk to you later.”

Meredith didn’t say anything. She was incredibly physically tough, but always the first to get flustered at raised voices or confrontation. “Bye, Mer,” I said, trying.

“Bye,” she replied, but now it was she who was clearly not okay. Before I could speak again, though, they were gone.

I sighed as I stepped out into the courtyard. As I walked to the food trucks, I glanced over at the grassy spot where Layla ate, but the benches there were empty. I got a grilled cheese and a drink, then sat down on the wall, dropping my bag at my feet. Then I did something I hadn’t allowed myself to do in weeks: I pulled out my phone, opened the browser, and typed in two words.

David Ibarra

There was a time I’d done this almost daily. I’d spent hours following the Internet presence of this boy I’d never met. I’d learned that his nickname was Brother because, according to one of the many articles after the accident, he treated everyone like family. His name popped up on several video game forums, so I knew he was really good at Warworld. The sports archive of the local paper had all his rec soccer stats: strong on defense, not so much on scoring. And while his Ume.com profile was private, there was an open page dedicated to him called Friends of Brother, which appeared to be maintained by his sister. That was where I’d gotten most of the info on his recovery and various fund-raisers to help with his medical bills. It was also a source for page after page of comments from his friends and family.

So proud of you for your continuing strength and courage! We love you.

Won’t be able to make the spaghetti dinner, but we’re sending a contribution. You’re our hero, Brother.

Sending good wishes from here in the Lone Star State! Can’t wait to see you at the reunion. Stay strong.

So many times I’d imagined leaving a comment of my own, although I knew I never could. My last name was the last thing they wanted on that page, even with an apology following it. But that didn’t stop me from crafting what I’d write. Sometimes, on really bad days, I’d go so far as to imagine myself going to him in person and saying everything I carried so heavily in my heart. Would he listen, and maybe somehow understand? In the next beat, though, it would hit me like a slap how pathetic I was for even thinking this. Like there was anything I could say that would give him that night—and his legs—back.

The hardest thing, though, was the summary of the Ume.com page, posted at the very top. I could wade through a hundred comments of love and good wishes. These few sentences, though, hit me like a punch to the gut, every single time.

In February 2014, David Ibarra was hit by a drunk driver while riding his bike home from his cousin’s house, leaving him partially paralyzed. This page is dedicated to his story. Please leave a comment! And thank you for your support.

Now, on the wall, I read these familiar words once, then twice. Like it was some sort of mantra, a spell to cancel out what had happened that morning with my mom. I’d always remember the truth. Just to be sure, though, I made a point of bringing it front and center, right there before my eyes

There had been no shortage of bad moments in those early weeks after Peyton’s accident. But one had really stuck with me. It was a passing remark I’d overheard as I came down the stairs one day. My parents were in the kitchen.

“What was a fifteen-year-old doing out riding his bike at two in the morning, anyway?”

Silence. Then my dad. “Julie.”