The Truth About Fragile Things (11 page)

I
was dragging
a picnic table to one corner of the shelter to staple some crepe paper when Phillip grabbed me from behind in a hug.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, wiggling out of his embrace.

“Came to help.” He put a package down on the table and jumped up on top. “Hand me the streamer.”

I hesitated. “I already have a plan.”

He rolled his eyes. “I won’t mess up your plan. Hand me the paper and tell me what to do.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” I said as I obeyed. I’d already refused offers of help from my mother and Lauren. I was so nervous about Melissa that I insisted on work and silence. Phillip threatened both.

“She’s growing on me, that kid. She’s totally crazy, but she’s growing on me. I wanted to help.” He looked the structure over as I processed how much it bothered me that he didn’t even have to say Charlotte’s name. It was a given that if he said “she” I would know who he meant. “Where am I taking this?” he asked.

“To the middle rafter and then the opposite corner.” I climbed up on the table to help him twist and drape while he did the stapling. We worked in relative quiet for almost half an hour. That’s probably because after we finished the streamers we started blowing up balloons so there was no air for speaking. I was tying a yellow balloon and he was standing on the table taping them to the top of the wooden posts when he started swinging his butt back and forth.

“Hey Megan, look.” He gyrated his hips, pumped his hands in the air.

I forced myself not to laugh. “What am I looking at, exactly?”

He closed his eyes, dancing to some imaginary beat. “My table dance.”

I pulled out the napkins and plates. “No one on earth would pay for that.”

“Prove it. Show me how it’s done.” He held his hand out in invitation, but I opened a package of plastic forks instead and ignored him.

He finished his dance and hopped down, unaware how many mothers on the playground kept a careful eye on him. After dusting off his jeans he scraped the table across the concrete pad to the middle of the shelter. “That rocks,” he told me when I opened the lid of the cake carrier.

“Thank you. We did it last night. We didn’t know if he liked coconut so we had to pipe all that grass.”

He nodded like he knew what I was talking about and then he sat down, his back slumped against the table. I was setting bottled waters out when he spoke again. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

I looked across the soccer field to the line of pine trees. I counted the water bottles. I set out two more. I hoped the question would die a quiet, peaceful death.

“Megan,” he said in his lowest, softest voice.

“I don’t know. I didn’t tell anyone. It felt too sad.”

“You’re not scared of being sad. You aren’t scared of feelings.” He brushed his curly hair off his forehead and looked at me too intensely.

“It’s just depressing. Every time I’ve ever said it, every time I’ve told someone that Bryon Exby died to save me, it makes it more real. It makes him more dead.” I straightened the napkins, ashamed of the heat in my voice and the dry, tight feeling in my throat. Phil didn’t stop looking at me and I knew why Charlotte didn’t like therapists. When someone looks at you like there is something wrong with you, you want to hit them.

In spite of my usual rule to stay quiet I felt more words coming, almost like getting sick. They shot up from my stomach and spilled out of my lips. “And in,” I looked down at my phone, “fifteen minutes I have to look at his widow. I made someone a widow.” I sat down next to him. “Oh, Phillip, I think I’m going to throw up.” I put my cold fingers against my forehead and laid my cheek against his shoulder. “I can’t do this.”

He bent down and kissed my temple. “You were fine five minutes ago.”

“Until you opened your big mouth. And I don’t mean that metaphorically. You have a gigantic, forty-three-mini-marshmallows-at-one-time mouth.”

“That’s why I came. I knew you’d need me.”

“Need you? You’re messing everything up. I was fine until you got here.” I pushed hard against him, but he rocked back like a punching bag, returning to my side.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“Crap. I know it!” I looked down to my trembling hands.

“Once you start shaking…” Phil began.

“I know. I don’t stop.” I stood up, shook my arms, and stomped my feet. It helped a little. I squatted on the ground, pressing my hands against my thighs, taking deep breaths.

“It’s butterflies,” Phil said. “Just let them fly. When Charlotte and her family get here they’ll leave.”

I stopped moving. My hands stopped trembling. The word ‘butterflies’ brought a terrible stillness over me. I wasn’t allowed to be scared because it wasn’t about me. This wasn’t my pain or my loss. I rose slowly, pulling up my courage like a thin blanket around me. I could cry later or panic later or feel sorry for myself later, but for the next hour I was on Bryon’s time and I owed him a surprise party.

I pulled in one long breath and turned to Phillip. “Okay. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” he said.

I moved to the corner of the shelter next to the fire pit and stood in the shade of a towering tree. Phillip joined me while I crossed my arms, studying each cyclist on the path. When we saw a line of four bikes emerge from the woods at the far corner of the park, he took my hand and held on until Charlotte cruised up to the shelter and swung her bike to a quick stop. By the time she nodded to us and took off her helmet her family had coasted to a stop behind her, looking at us and the decorations in confusion.

Charlotte gulped one long drink from her water bottle and in a breathless voice said, “Surprise.”

I pushed back on my heels, wishing I could be shorter, smaller, less. Melissa had only scanned past my face and I dropped my eyes before she could inspect me fully. She looked so different. The woman I remember from the pictures was young, long straight hair, her face lost. This woman had a short ponytail of light hair, a quick smile, and warm eyes. I let my shoulder lean into Phillip, grateful for his height, his steady frame.

“What is this?” Melissa asked.

“It’s a party. It’s Dave’s birthday. We went for a birthday bike ride. This is a birthday party. Like I said—surprise.” Charlotte stomped her kickstand down and walked to the table where the water and cake waited. “But I did forget something. I forgot that after riding that far eating cake might not be the best idea.”

My stomach flexed, shook. It wasn’t the cake making me ill. Melissa beamed in disbelief, parked her bike, moved closer. Her eyes found me, her brow bent in curiosity. She swung her face back to Charlotte. “You did this?”

Doctor Dave released his special shoes from his bike pedals and did a funny tip toe to the table, his metal clips scraping the concrete. “This is really…I’ve never had a surprise party.”

“And you are?” Melissa flashed a smile at Phillip and me.

I wanted to push it down into a frown, warn her that she was wasting a smile on an enemy. She would regret it later—speaking so kindly to me before she knew who I was. Phillip still had one of my hands in his and I stretched my fingers and released his grasp. “We wanted to help with the surprise,” I choked out. I took in a breath that shattered inside my chest. “I’m Megan.” Melissa gave no sign of recognition or distress.

“I’m Phillip. We’re Charlotte’s friends.” Phil shook Melissa’s hand.

“This cake is awesome!” The boy who had to be Henry climbed up to the table and inspected the model bicycles.

Dave and Melissa exchanged happy glances over Charlotte’s head. Melissa shook her head and shrugged her shoulders to show him she had no idea what was going on.

“Everybody sit down and I’ll explain,” Charlotte ordered. I gratefully complied. My legs didn’t feel steady anymore. When she spoke again her voice was low. “Mom? This is Megan. You’ve met her before.” Melissa looked back to me, her face apologetic, searching for some past connection. I blinked too slowly and averted my eyes. “Her name is Megan Riddick.”

I felt Melissa’s gasp more than I heard it. For the first time in my life my face grew hot and blushing, burning under my skin. Charlotte continued. “She goes to my new school. We ran into each other.”

Phil made an almost silent, but strangled sound at her casual description of our meeting.

“Megan wanted to help me do some things. And she wanted to meet you.”

My eyes whipped to Charlotte in surprise. I’d said no such thing. I could not read Melissa’s stunned expression.

“You are Megan?” Melissa whispered.

I nodded.

“And you are throwing Dave a surprise party?” She shook her head, the bewilderment so deep it looked like suffering.

Charlotte moved closer to her mother. “I told Megan about Dad’s wish list and we decided that we should do it. All of it. We decided to do it together. And one of them is a surprise party and it was almost Dave’s birthday so…”

Dave’s worried face started to soften. He reached across the bench and held onto Melissa’s shoulder.

“You should have told me.” Melissa’s voice trembled.

Yes, she should have!
I wanted to scream. An ax murderer could have explained the whole thing with more sensitivity than Charlotte. I couldn’t force myself to look, though I knew I should. I twisted my hands together, seeing only my shoes and the concrete beneath them. “I thought Charlotte told you.” A flame of anger shot up through my collapsing chest and I gave Charlotte the fastest glare.

Dave cleared his throat and we all turned, hanging onto his weak grin for support. “So, this is really…a surprise. Two surprises.”

Charlotte crossed her arms, took a step back from us. I wanted to grab her shirt and yank her back to the middle of the scene so she could take responsibility, share some of the heat I felt under my skin.

“I am so sorry,” I mumbled. “I really thought you knew about me.”

I forced myself to look into Melissa’s eyes and she held my stare, searched through the middle of me. I don’t know what she found but she shook her head and shushed me. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. We all just got a shock.” Her voice turned wry, almost comedic. “Charlotte’s good at that.”

 “There’s some cold water here,” Phillip said, holding up a couple sweating bottles. I knew he sensed my need to be ignored for a second so I could collect myself.

“This is Megan’s best friend,” Charlotte said, pointing to Phillip. “I guess he helped set up.”

Dave stood and clicked his way to us, his flushed face handsome and open, exactly what you’d expect from a psychiatrist’s picture on the back of a self-help book. “You two did all this for me? That is really nice.”

“Megan made the cake,” Charlotte said. “And we have a present.” From her backpack she pulled a crumpled, soft package. No shirt box. No ribbon. I sighed.

“For me?” Dave asked. His grin was wide, his face eager and friendly. He took the present and opened it as Melissa took a seat next to him, her eyes flitting between all of us.

“Oh, wow. This is really, really nice.” Dave’s voice was thin with disbelief as he inspected the jersey, turned it over and ran his finger inside the pocket. “I love it.” He looked up at Charlotte and I knew he wanted to hug her. Instead he smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

“What is that?” Charlotte asked, looking at the package Phil had put on the table. I’d been so nervous I hadn’t even asked.

Phil squinted in embarrassment and handed it to Dave.

“Charlotte said you needed a tape measure,” Phil explained as Dave opened it.

“You bought him a tape measure?” Charlotte sneered.

“You said he needed it,” Phil shot back.

“I do,” Dave jumped in. “I broke mine. Keep forgetting to get a new one. This is a nice one. Thank you, Phillip.”

“Can we eat this?” Henry asked, his finger hovering over the icing.

“Of course. I brought candles,” I told the group and retrieved them from a grocery bag. I stuck two into the cake and then hesitated, wondering how many to put in.

“Four’s good. I’m forty today,” Dave said, saving me the trouble of asking.

I gave him a grateful grin and finished the job before handing the lighter to Phillip. I could not imagine anyone in our stunned group being able to sing. But that was underestimating Phillip.

“Do you want your birthday song in English or Spanish?” Phillip asked. I rolled my eyes.

Dave waffled a minute and then laughed. “Let’s spice it up. Español.”

Phil led us with his strong tenor voice through the entire thing, flourishing his hands at the end. Too bad he wasn’t singing to a woman. Then they would have really seen him shellac it on thick. But he did do something more important. He made us all laugh. Together.

When I’d served a slice of cake to everyone I sat down to nibble on mine, unable to ignore the weight I felt on my shoulders every time Melissa stared at me. And she did it often. She maneuvered her way to my side while the boys discussed Dave’s bike and took a seat. Placing her plate in her lap, she slid her chipped nails up and down the handle of her plastic fork. “I don’t really know what to say,” she admitted.

I gave her my eyes, unabashed, vulnerable, patient. Tried to tell her with one look that I supported her no matter what came out of her mouth. If she hated me, I understood. I more than understood. I agreed.

“You look different than the baby I remember,” she murmured. “Weren’t you blond?”

“Kind of.” I limited my words, making space in the quiet air for whatever she needed to say.

“What do you like to do?” she asked. This was not the question I saw in her eyes. It was just the one she asked.

“I act. I’ve been in a lot of plays. I’m not good at sports.” Every word was an apology.

“Do you do well in school?” she asked.

“I’m on track to be valedictorian,” I answered. I wanted so badly to make her believe my life was worth her pain.

“That’s great. Bryon was valedictorian.” Her lips disappeared as she pulled them tight against her teeth.

“Really? I had no idea.”

Melissa nodded. Her head looked heavy to me, like she wanted to lay it down and rest. I wondered how she held up so many thoughts with her slender neck. From one worrier to another, I knew the symptoms.