The Art of Losing(42)

Once again, I felt that gnawing resentment I’d tried to suppress. I could still see a faint trace of the hickey Mike had given her, right next to the bruise from the seat belt. Hiding in plain sight. Everyone just assumed it was an injury from the accident. For me alone it was a constant reminder of the unfairness of it all, how I was left to live with those memories and the truth of what had happened between us—and she wasn’t.

But I kept my mouth shut.

The day after Audrey’s feeding tube was removed for good, Raf’s mom stopped by the house. I was alone; we were back to our routine: Mom at work, Dad at the hospital. She was carrying two dishes. Most of the neighbors had long since stopped bringing casseroles, and our freezer was still stuffed full, but I’d never turn down Mrs. Juarez’s cooking. I was salivating from just the sight of the steam condensing on the lids.

“Oh my God, are those nacatamales?” I said. I could smell the steamed corncakes through the plastic.

“And arroz con frijoles,” she said, holding up the second container. “Rice and beans. And I put in your favorite part.”

“Plátanos maduros?” I nearly shouted. I hoped I wasn’t drooling.

Mrs. Juarez laughed and nodded as she handed me the containers. She lingered on the stoop for a moment.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked. “My parents are out, but . . .”

She reached out for me, pulling me against her chest in a tight hug. With the containers in my hands, I couldn’t hug her back, but that didn’t stop her. She held on for longer than I expected.

“Little Harley,” she said as she released me, even though she wasn’t much taller than me. “I’m so sorry about what happened to your sister. It’s so good to see you.”

“You, too,” I said.

“How’s Audrey doing?” she asked.

I nodded as reassuringly as I could manage. “Better. She’s awake, and the doctors are pretty hopeful about her ability to recover completely.”

“Thank God,” she said. “Rafael told me she’d woken up and I’m just so relieved.” Her eyes were darker, more creased than I remembered, her skin paler. She was a glimpse at what would have happened to my mom if Audrey hadn’t awakened. Or still could.

“Have you seen Rafael lately?” Mrs. Juarez asked. “He’s been gone so much that I haven’t gotten much of a chance to talk to him.”

“Not in a few days,” I said. “With Audrey awake, it’s been pretty busy . . .” My voice trailed off.

“Thank you for being his friend right now, Harley,” she said. Her voice and eyes were pleading. “I hated taking away his friends, his whole life really. But you’re a good girl, a good influence. He needs you.”

No pressure or anything, I thought guiltily. “I’ll keep an eye on him. But, um, I should go put this in the fridge,” I said, holding up the food in my hands.

“Oh, sure,” she said. “I just thought you guys might want something fresh. Not a frozen casserole. I remember how hard it was to cook when Allie was sick. Even just turning on the oven was too much some nights.”

I managed a smile this time. “Thank you so much, really,” I said. “I’ll try to leave some for my parents, but I can’t make any promises.”

Mrs. Juarez almost seemed happy as she turned to leave. I couldn’t say the same for myself, but at least now there was food. I wondered if Audrey would want some, now that her swallowing reflex was back and she could eat anything she wanted to again. Not that I had any intention of sharing.

That Saturday, Aunt Tilly and Spencer stopped by the hospital for the first time since Audrey had awakened. Mom called and asked me to come over, too. Aunt Tilly wasn’t the type to bring sweets, but she arrived carrying a carrot cake, Audrey’s favorite. To celebrate, Aunt Tilly even let Spencer have some. He sat in the corner, scooping the thick cream cheese frosting off and licking it from his plastic fork. I leaned against the windowsill next to him.

“You actually like carrot cake?” I whispered.

He shrugged. “It’s better than no cake,” he said.

“But it’s made of carrot. That’s not dessert,” I said. I began smooshing up a corner of my slice on my plate.

That got a little smile. “Yes, but it’s a sweet carrot, with sugar and raisins.”

“And white flour,” Aunt Tilly added from across the room. Clearly, I hadn’t been talking quietly enough. “So you only get one piece, chicken.”

I had to smirk. Tilly was such a hypocrite. After having spent her youth drinking, smoking—and being a “wild child,” as my mom said—she got pregnant with Spencer. That prompted a drastic swing in the opposite direction. The only exception being the smoking. It was the one habit she couldn’t kick, but to her credit, she never smoked in front of Spencer.

When he finished his piece of cake, I slid half of my slice onto his plate and winked at him. He tried to wink back but blinked both eyes instead. I tried not to laugh.

“So how are the Nationals doing?” I asked.

He launched into an explanation about their standing within their division compared to the other divisions and the American League. I let him talk for a while without really listening.

“Okay, but bottom line: Who’s going to the series?” I interrupted.