Tell Me Something Real Page 11

  But all summer long, I cherished that bed, the way it held Caleb and me so snugly, containing us within its petite dimensions. I was too self-conscious to christen the bed, to continue its lucky streak. We were rarely alone, and when we were, there always was the threat of someone walking in. Plus, I was too nervous about my body and doubtful of its abilities. Too naive to understand that our time was limited from the start. Too stupid to know that I’d lose him sooner or later.

  And now he is gone.

  I wander around the house searching for relief, but there isn’t an antidote to grief.

  Caleb is more than a buffer, more than a human painkiller. He helps me walk into the pain—not around it.

  The phone doesn’t ring.

  His silence hurts. Not just the rejection, but the way he’d told me that something was wrong with Mom and then just vanished.

  I wish it made me want him less.

  So I do the only thing I know how to do—I grope my way toward the piano, where I work through all the questions. I rely on the physical aspect of playing, sitting on the bench and pounding the keys, wishing for his hands on my shoulders.

  I blow through piece after piece.

  Mrs. Albright will be proud.

  I think I hear her laugh.

  Then I open my eyes.

  Of course. A dream.

  I stumble into her empty room, frantic to feel something tangible. I spray myself with her perfume, choking on the earthy scent of cypress and rose.

  Dad hasn’t made the bed. I pull up the sheets and smooth the quilt. I place my palm on Mom’s pillow, shocked to feel a few strands of hair. I hold them to the light, that deep shade of blond, that golden hue.

  It is the last part of her I’ll ever touch.

  Five days.

  She’s been away for one hundred and twenty hours.

  If I can’t see her, if I can’t hold her hand, maybe I can talk to her. Just one more time.

  Craning to reach, I pull the phonebook off the shelf, flipping through the pages until I find the shattering word: “Hospice.” Only two listed.

  Mission Bay Hospice. I pick up the kitchen phone and dial the number. They answer on the first ring.

  “I need to speak to a patient. Iris Babcock.”

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist says, a compassionate female voice. “Our patients aren’t able to receive calls.”

  “She’s my mother. It’s urgent. An emergency.”

  “I’m sorry, but it isn’t possible. Take care.”

  The phone goes dead.

  Seaside Hospice. Maybe I sound too young. I’ll speak with authority. I’ll mimic Adrienne, but will refrain from anger and profanity.

  A similar voice answers the phone, with the same compassion as the other hospice receptionist, but older and male. I’m determined to be more assertive. To at least confirm whether or not Mom is there.

  I make the same introduction, “I need to speak to a patient. Iris Babcock.”

  The receptionist repeats the same policy, explaining, “Our patients aren’t able to receive calls.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “They’re too ill,” the man explains.

  “But I’m immediate family and this is an emergency. It’s urgent and I must speak with her.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s the policy.”

  “Wait, don’t you have visiting hours?”

  “What’s the patient’s name again?”

  “Iris Babcock.”

  The silence lasts for a moment before the man returns. “We don’t have a patient by that name.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Very much.”

  I return the phone to its cradle and rush to Dad’s study, opening the top drawer and counting out four twenty-dollar bills. That will be more than enough.

  Mission Bay Hospice is somewhere unfamiliar, past Sea World and near the port.

  Half an hour later, the taxi cab deposits me in front of an institutional green building surrounded by shady pepper trees. I ask the driver to wait, certain I can’t find my way back home on my own.

  I climb the steps and try to push open the door, but it’s locked. I buzz and hear the crackle of the intercom, static and a voice competing through the system. “Patient visit,” is all I say. The door buzzes open.

  A woman sits behind the desk, probably the same one who answered the phone. She is pretty in a bookish way. I smile and walked forward, doing my best impersonation of a charming Adrienne.

  “Hello,” I say. “I’m here to see Iris Babcock. My father arranged my visit with her doctor.”

  The receptionist, probably in her thirties, looks me up and down, frowning while doing so. “I’m sorry, but minors must be accompanied by an adult.”

  I prepared for this. I offer her a patient smile. “I’m a freshman at the University of San Diego. I’m eighteen.”

  She looks at me again, and I can’t tell if I’m being successful or foolish. She raises a single eyebrow. “What’s your major?”

  “Music. Piano. You should come to my recital next month. The orchestra is playing at the Shiley Theatre in Camino Hall.” This is true, an annual event.

  Skeptically, she pulls a file from her desk, opens it, and asks, “You said Babcock?”

  “Yes.” Until now, I hadn’t considered if Mom could even carry on a conversation. I just need to see her, be in the same room, tell her I love her.

  She gives me a puzzled look. “I don’t have a patient with that name. Are you sure she’s here?”

  I feel every part of my body deflate. I shift my weight from one foot to the other just to feel solid ground beneath me. I meet the receptionist’s eyes, kind and bewildered, and ask, “Do you know if she died here? Is that in your book?”

  She looks at me with such tenderness. She must see through my lie. Clearly I’m too young, too lost. “She didn’t die here. She was never here. She must be at another facility or a hospital. Why don’t you have a seat? Can I call anyone for you?”

  The taxi idles outside. I shake my head, grateful for her offer.

  “I don’t have anyone to call.”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Adrienne doesn’t look mad, and with an impressive hickey tingeing her neck, she is hardly in a position to judge.

  “Hey, Zach,” I say.

  He fills the couch, tall and lanky, his longish hair an indistinguishable shade between blond and brown. Zach tends to start a sentence several times before settling on a course, which I find oddly adorable. He does so now, saying first my name and then forming a question, “Are you . . . ?” “You hanging in . . . ?” “How are you?”

  I regard him as the gentlest boy on the planet, not that anyone else would ever describe him—the hot surfer dude—that way.

  “I’m okay. Thanks.”

  I brush past Adrienne, not wanting to say anything with Zach there. Someone left an orange juice carton on the counter and I drain it, crumple it up, and toss it in the bulging trash. My movements are quick and decisive—the exact opposite of how I feel.

  No one kisses as loud as Adrienne and Zach. I practically cover my ears. A few seconds later, she walks into the kitchen flushed and smiling.

  “You’re scandalous,” I say.

  “You only wish you were.”

  She must have read the pain on my face.

  “You didn’t see the mail?”

  I shake my head.

  “Kitchen table.”

  A postcard rests atop a precarious stack of bills, growing taller by the day. My fingers smudge the glossy photo of a sandpiper, with long, slender legs and beak. I trace the script at the bottom, the Sandpiper Inn’s name and address.

  Hey Vanessa,

  We’re getting ready to leave for Seattle. My mom bought some camping gear and we’ll stop in the Redwoods on the way. I promise I’ll call as soon as we’re home. I think about you all the time and I’m sorry I’m not there. I don’t know what to say about your mom. My mom says I need to give you
time. Everything is so out of control and surreal. We’re going back to the clinic one last time to pick up some stuff, and I can’t imagine being there without you. My mom doesn’t want me to call right now. I promise I will when I can.

  Love,

  Caleb

  Adrienne allows me to read it twice before speaking. “Bossy Barb is just getting in the way. I knew he would never leave you like that.”

  I scan the card again. “I really thought he had. He doesn’t say anything about coming back. I don’t know when I’ll see him again.” I look up. “What if he doesn’t come back?”

  “He said he’ll call. Waiting sucks, but you’re going to have to. Want to go to the beach with us?” She wears a batik dress that Mom gave her just a few weeks ago and fingers one of the many tassels adorning the hem. She hasn’t seen Zach since Dad told us about Mom, and I know an afternoon at the beach will bring Adrienne as much comfort as Caleb would bring me.

  “That’s okay. I’ll stay here and get stuff ready for dinner. Dad’s picking up Marie?”

  She nods and before I can respond, she grabs me in a tight hug. A sudden movement, surprising in its certainty. “I’ll be back by dinner. I’ll clean up. Don’t worry about the dishes.”

  I hug her back. “They’re just dishes. Go. It’s fine. Really.”

  “Thanks,” she whispers.

  Right before she leaves the room, she turns around and gives me a leveling look. I swear she knows I’m losing my mind, going on dream-induced wild goose chases.

  “He’s not gone forever. You know that, right? You’ll see him again.”

  I look at the overflowing trash can and overturned cereal box before finally meeting her eyes.

  “We thought we’d see Mom again too.”

  There’s no comforting Marie, so after dinner, Adrienne and I take her to the only place we can think of: church. Dad is gone again, taking care of Mom, he says. But when I ask him questions, when I push for details about the hospice, he’s vague and preoccupied.

  We walk into the sanctuary of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception and take a seat in the back pew. Marie pulls out her pocket book of saints and flips through the dog-eared pages, pausing to read the ones with turned corners, her new favorites: Joan of Arc, Saint Ursula, Saint Barbara, and Saint Catherine. Young, innocent girls. Pure in the faith that pain was the cost of truth. I notice that Marie doesn’t look at the sculpted Jesus hanging on the enormous wooden cross, but she does cross herself on multiple occasions. She pulls a saint card from the book, the Blessed Virgin Mary named in gilded script, and flips it over to pray the rosary. In her other hand, she fingers the beads.

  I wish something would bring me the same peace.

  Adrienne rests against me as Marie immerses herself in makeshift worship. She prays so hard that I expect her to speak in tongues.

  I appreciate the sanctuary’s quiet darkness in my own way, not stirred by the idea of anything holy, but accepting the fact that I may never get to say good-bye. I won’t sit next to Mom, holding her hand, when she dies. I didn’t realize it before, but that’s what I expected—to be together until the very end.

  The votive candles flicker, each one aflame in memory and prayer. I can’t bring myself to light one for Mom. Not now. Not until I know she is truly gone.

  All of the shock from visiting the hospice shakes loose. It’s still there, but I don’t wear it like a second skin. I trade it in for determination.

  I need to know what happened at the clinic and what drove Barb and Caleb from the house. I don’t need time. I don’t need space. I need answers, and if I can’t get them from Mom, I’ll get them from Barb. There is more to the story, more than Mom vanishing so suddenly, and Barb was the one who talked to the doctors. Maybe they haven’t left yet. Maybe I’ll catch them before they head north.

  The bus is full, but I squeeze on, my backpack padding me like a football player. I’m surrounded by accents: the familiar Spanish and Vietnamese, the less-familiar Mandarin, and something Eastern European, a language I can’t identify. Flanked by bodies, I keep my eyes on the floor to ease my sudden case of claustrophobia. Two stops past downtown, the crowd thins out and I slide into an empty seat and try to stop shaking.

  The man sitting next to me shifts his heavy body. I glance his way and note his old age, something Mom will never reach. He clutches several sheer plastic grocery bags filled with fruit and non-perishables. He mutters to himself in what I guess is Russian or Czech, a Cold War dialect, a language from an action movie. I try not to stare at his thick facial features, his bushy sideburns and eyebrows that blend together like a lion’s mane.

  By the time I reach the stop, the bus has emptied of most of its passengers. I wander down the sidewalk, looking up, searching for the Sandpiper Inn. The lobby is just as I imagined. Beach art and a giant mermaid mural. I drop my backpack and smile at the man, his face like weathered driftwood, standing behind the counter like he’s never been anyplace else.

  I ask for Barb, spelling D-U-N-N-E.

  He runs his finger back and forth across the page, touching each name as though they are written in braille. “Here she is. Checked out yesterday. See?”

  He flips around the registry and I recognize her handwriting immediately, only instead of recipes and grocery lists, she wrote their address.

  My mind skips back to Caleb’s pictures, the house I remember from his Polaroids. Dove gray paint. Giant porch. A magical-sounding neighborhood: Queen Anne. “Do you have a phone number?”

  He flips the page. “Afraid not. I was going to mail this, but do you think you can return it when you see them again?”

  He places a book in my hand, a well-loved paperback. Jack Kerouac’s collected poems. I hug it to my chest. “Yes,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”

  This time, I ignore the others on the bus, too caught up in his notes. In the margin of “Bowery Blues,” he wrote, Vanessa gets it.

  He filled every page with me, the skateboard, and the beach. I look out the bus window, shielding my face from the other passengers, wanting to keep my tears to myself.

  In the back of the book, just below Kerouac’s brief biography, Caleb’s handwriting fills the page, his penmanship much smaller, like he was writing a secret.

  VANESSA BY JACK KEROUAC

  “We agreed to love each other madly.”—On the Road

  “Her little shoulders drove me mad; I hugged her and hugged her. And she loved it.

  ‘I love, love’ she said, closing her eyes. . . . Our stories were told, we subsided into silence and sweet anticipatory thoughts. It was as simple as that.”—On the Road

  “ ‘It’ll take you eternities to get rid of me,’ she adds sadly, which makes me jealous, I want her to say I’ll never get rid of her—I wanta be chased till eternity till I catch her.”—Big Sur

  The ink bled through the paper, which was thin and cheap, barely stronger than newsprint. I read the quotations again, stopping at the words “love” and “eternity” before turning the page. The title sears like a branding iron, deep and burning, words that never can heal.

  IRIS BY JACK KEROUAC

  “You have absolutely no regard for anybody but yourself and your damned kicks.”—On the Road

  “. . . with the visage of a gruesome grieving ghost you go shuddering through nightmare life.”—On the Road

  “. . . there was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.”—On the Road

  My eyes scan the lines, taking in each horrible phrase. How could he think these things about Mom?

  I feel cold, the same chill as when I saw Mom get an IV, and overwhelmed with a combination of confusion and surprise and sadness and fury. My heart fills with a sense of deep betrayal, only I don’t know the source: Mom or Caleb?

  I can’t bring myself to read the pages again. I slam the book shut.

  Still, I clutch it in my hands, unable to tuck it away, unable to let it go.

  I expect to walk into an empty house. Adrienne took M
arie to her final summer game. Soccer camp turned out to be a bust with Marie, listless from grief, oblivious to competition. She didn’t care about the ball, a shock to the coach, given Marie’s status as a star goalie. She spent practices and games with her hand in her pocket, worrying her hidden rosary, tiny stainless-steel beads. She couldn’t bring herself to care about the ball, which whizzed past her, caught in the billowing net. Her coach reassigned her to defense, where she could do little damage to the score.

  Dad stands in the doorway, jingling his keys, his nervous habit. He seems both surprised and relieved when he sees me. I didn’t think it was possible, but his eyes look more bloodshot than mine.

  “She’s dead,” I say, a question masked as a statement.

  He closes his eyes for a moment as though he’s in pain or trying to remember something.

  “Dad?”

  His eyes pop open, and for the first time since I walked through the door, I feel like he’s really looking at me. I watch as he takes in my face.

  He shakes his head back and forth, slowly, like a shark. “No, kiddo. She’s not. I haven’t eaten all day. How about you?”

  “Not really. Just cereal.”

  “Come on. You won’t need that.” He points to my backpack.

  “I want to bring it.” I’m not sure I’ll show him the book, but I can’t imagine leaving it unattended.

  We drive to the boardwalk, parking as the sun slips into the water. When I join him on the sidewalk, he points to the enormous moon filling the sky. It’s gorgeous, but my eyes return to him. Moments like this sustained me when I was little. Dad would take me aside and point out something as though he and I were the only people on Earth who could see it. A lunar eclipse. A procession of tall ships sailing the bay. The hummingbird that occasionally visits our mimosa tree. But tonight as I stand next to him, all I see are the other people strolling past. I wonder who else is suffering a loss. It used to be so easy thinking that I was the only one hurting. Now I realize how we all carry pain, how our lives can be turned inside out in an instant—a diagnosis, a break-up, a death.