How to Love (25 page)

“I told you, I wasn’t sleeping. Lay back,” I instructed, and climbed in next to him. I listened to him breathe for a while, until he seemed to steady out a bit. I kept one ear cocked toward the hallway. He definitely wasn’t only drunk.

I scooted myself closer until I was right up against him, one of my legs slung over his, and tucked my chin down into the crook of his shoulder. The thin skin of his neck felt warm against my cheek. I wondered where he’d been and who he’d been with, if he had more fun when I wasn’t around. It felt like he could be a completely different person when he wanted, like he could morph before my very eyes.

He’s not what we thought he was
, I remembered Allie saying, backyard light gleaming off her yellow hair on the very last night of our friendship. I wished I could talk to her now.
Was he like this with you?
I imagined asking her—the two of us perched on the swings we were way too old for, her mom making flaxseed muffins in the house.

“Do you think about Allie?” I asked suddenly. I blurted it, quick and quiet, before I could think enough to lose my nerve.

Just for one second, I watched Sawyer disappear, somewhere in his head where I couldn’t find him. Then he blinked and came back. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Maybe I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

Sawyer shrugged into the pillows on my bed. “I don’t know, Reena. I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not?” I asked, propping myself up on one elbow to look at him: muscles in his shoulders, hard knots of bone in his wrists. His skin was slightly shiny, a little pale.

He shook his head, stubborn. “Come on.”

“Me come on?” I frowned. “
You
come on. I’m just asking—”

“Reena.” He sounded annoyed, like I was bothering him somehow, like maybe he was regretting he’d turned up. “Look, I can leave if you want me to. But I don’t wanna talk about that.”

“Fine.” I flopped back down onto my back and gazed up at the ceiling. I felt achy and uncomfortable, out of sorts.

“You’re not going to like me anymore,” he said quietly. “If we talk about it.”

I sat up in bed. “What does
that
mean?”

Sawyer shrugged again, listless. “It means exactly what I said.”

“I could never not like you,” I protested, although suddenly there was a part of me that wasn’t entirely sure that was the truth. “We’re going to have to talk about it eventually, don’t you think?”

“
Why?
” he asked then, flat and simple. I didn’t have an answer for that. I thought of Allie’s sharp chin and clown feet—of long hours spent in the DVD section of the library debating what to watch that night and the way she could make me laugh from clear across the room with the most minute twitch of her face.

Because I miss her
, I almost told him.
Because I miss her like it breaks my stupid heart.

In the end, though, I just let it alone. I don’t know why,
exactly—maybe I was afraid of what he’d tell me, that once it was out there he’d never be able to take it back. Like whatever we had was so fragile—breakable as eggshell, valuable as precious stone—that I had to protect it no matter what it cost.

“What’s one thing you think is really interesting?” I asked instead, curling my arms around my knees and looking down at him. “Not something obvious. Don’t say your guitar.”

Sawyer visibly relaxed then, his whole body uncoiling. He tucked one arm behind his head and just like that we were friends again. “Can I say chicks?” he asked, smiling a little.

“Don’t say chicks.”

“Can I say one chick in particular?”

“I said don’t say chicks!”

“Okay.” He rolled over to look at me. “Well, if I can’t say my guitar, and I can’t say chicks, I guess I’d have to say the weather.”

“I’m sorry. What?”

He shrugged. “The weather.”

“All kinds of weather?”

“Well, yeah. But that’s not what I’m talking about, exactly. I’m talking about, like, how it works. Energy and fronts and stuff. I know a lot about the weather, actually. I used to want to be a meteorologist when I was a little kid.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You are full of surprises.”

“So they say.”

I reached over him and turned off the reading lamp. “Tell me about clouds.”

The last time I was in a hospital was when Hannah was born. She took twenty-one hours to come, my baby girl, and I spent the great majority of them crushing ice chips between my molars and cursing both God and man. I stared at the bland yellow walls of the maternity ward. I cried a little.

The time before that was the night Allie died.

“Why didn’t you have your cell phone?” Cade demands, before anything else. He looks unkempt, pacing like a lion across the waiting room. “I tried to call you a thousand times.”

“Stef met us at the house,” I say, shaking my head, trying to clear it. I hand Hannah off to Sawyer, his arms
already outstretched. “What’s going on? How is he?”

“He’s having surgery. He had a heart attack.”

“I
know
,” I snap. “Stef said. What else?”

“They brought him upstairs a few minutes ago. It’s a triple bypass.”

“Is that dangerous?”

“No more dangerous than a heart attack,” my brother retorts, his face twisting meanly.

“You don’t have to be a shit about it.”

“You should have had your phone.”

“I left in a hurry.” A fresh wave of fear and dread rolls though me, remembering my dramatic exit. I can’t believe I talked to him that way, knowing that his heart is the way it is. “I was horrible to him at dinner. With Roger and Lydia. We got in a fight.” I can hardly get the words out. It feels like some cruel and unusual déjá vu for this to be happening and I try not to follow that train of thought to its inevitable conclusion, how Allie and I never got to make up before she—

“Jesus, Reena.” Cade shakes his head. “They’re here. They went to get coffee.” He glances over his shoulder at Soledad, who is as still as a dime-store Mary in a hard-backed plastic chair. Her shirt is limp and wrinkled. She looks a little like she’s died. I sit down next to her, dig through her purse for the rosary beads I know she keeps at the bottom. She runs them through her fist without looking up at me.

I glance around. Sawyer is standing near the door talking quietly to the baby, explaining the contents of a nasty-looking watercolor painting hanging on the wall there. “…the ocean,” I can hear him saying. “No swimming today.”

The wall is sponged shades of taupe and beige, linoleum speckled gray like a low-budget Pollock. The soda machine rumbles and glows. A young man with a towel wrapped around his hand sits next to a bored-looking woman in a halter top who’s playing on her cell phone: Besides us, they’re the only ones here. Slow day for emergencies, maybe.

I cross my legs, uncross them. It’s cold in here, uncomfortable, like the North Pole or a convenience store at two A.M. I think of the day Sawyer got here. I think of the night of Allie’s crash. Behind the desk, a receptionist is reading
Glamour.
I swallow.

Cade told me once that the night our mother died, our father sat in the pitch-dark of our old, cracking house and played piano until the dawn came up orange and dripping behind him. Scales, Cade told me. Scales and Mozart and Billy Joel and anything else he could think of, melodies made up out of the thin air that no one, including my father himself, could remember once morning finally broke.

I have no way to account for the historical accuracy of this particular legend. Lord knows my brother loves a good story, and he’s never lacked the imagination to craft one,
but since the night I first heard it—whispered through the rain forest heat of our backyard years after it supposedly happened—I’ve believed on blind faith. There’s a picture of it in my head: my father, features glass-sharp with grief, back hunched and fingers flying over the black and white piano keys. A picture so clear that, for a long time, I was convinced that maybe I remembered, too.

Now when I think about it for any length of time, I realize it’s probably just a composite, some sloppy amalgam from all the other nights when I did wake up to find him at the glossy Steinway that sits in state near the window at our house. There were dozens upon dozens of those when I was a little girl: nights when I’d climb out of bed, woken by whatever heinous nightmare I’d been having, and creep barefoot and half-awake down the hall to sit at the bottom of the stairs and listen to my father play his music. With the right song, you understand, my father could atone for whatever sins had been committed against his baby daughter by the world at large. With the right song, I always thought with sleepy confidence as I leaned my dark head against the banister and closed my eyes, my father could set me free.

“Reena.”

I look up and realize that this isn’t the first time Sawyer has called my name—that he and Cade and Stef, who had followed in her car, are all looking at me, waiting. My ankle is jiggling wildly. I stop it. “What?” I ask, defensive.

“I’m going to take Hannah to get changed.”

I almost laugh. “Do you even know how to change a diaper?” I ask, and it comes out a lot nastier than I mean.

Sawyer smiles, half a second and gone. “I’ll figure it out.”

We wait. What they don’t tell you about hospitals, what they don’t show you on TV shows about well-scrubbed doctors and the patients whose lives they save is how long everything takes. Roger and Lydia return with two cardboard trays full of iced coffees. I take one and say thanks. Stef gets food from the cafeteria. Sawyer walks Hannah around. I can hear Soledad muttering in Spanish: “
Dios te salve, Maria …
”

When the receptionist finishes with the
Glamour
and drops it on the counter, I walk over and pick it up, skim it to find out what girls with more money, less belly fat, and healthy fathers are wearing this season. I can hear the clock ticking, steady.

It’s hours before anyone comes to talk to us, close to midnight by the time a scruffy, tired-looking doctor in rimless glasses makes his way into the waiting room to let us know that, in fact, he has nothing to report. There have been some complications, he says vaguely; there’s nothing he can tell us other than that. They’ll be with my father until the morning, machines beeping and cold hands inside his chest cavity. We should all go home.

“I’ll stay,” Cade says immediately, shaking his head like a mule. “You should take off,” he tells Stef. “Reena, you should go, too.”

I prickle. “If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “What about Hannah?” He’s a bossy bastard sometimes, my brother, but he’s practical as all get-out.

I glance at Sawyer. Am I desperate enough to let him take her from me? I’m trying to think quickly now, but Soledad gets up out of her chair: As if someone has plugged in her power cord, she’s back in action, taking charge. “Don’t be stubborn, Reena,” she tells me. “Take the baby home.”

“I’ll take her,” Sawyer volunteers.

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” I snap. “I’m right here.”

He shrugs, all innocence. “I know you are.”

“Go,” says Soledad. “I love you. Put the baby to bed.” Before I can react either way, she’s got her arms around me, squeezing tight. “Reena,” she continues softly, and it occurs to me that one day was never meant to hold so much. “Say a prayer.”

*

Back at home I slam the car door in the driveway, the sound of it strangely startling. Wind chimes tinkle on the porch. In the trees, crickets and cicadas are rubbing their lazy legs together. “What a racket,” Sawyer whispers to Hannah as he retrieves her from her car seat. We’ve been quiet on the ride back, one of only a handful of times I’ve ever been in a car with Sawyer without the stereo on. The sudden noise, natural or not, is startling.

He walks me to my door, hesitates as I dig my keys from the depths of Hannah’s diaper bag. She’s fully awake now, chattering nonsense syllables at the top of her voice. I get the door unlocked and Sawyer hands her off to me. So many fathers and daughters tonight.

“So,” he says, standing on my porch with his hands in his pockets. I am half in my house and half out of it. “How you doing?”

I shrug, encumbered by my girl and the bag but mostly by the sudden and complete fatigue swallowing my whole body, like my skin is full of sand. “Okay. Tired.”

Sawyer’s not satisfied. He doesn’t move. “What else?”

“I don’t know.” Something I can’t name. “Out of my mind, maybe.” Everything is so heavy and I feel suddenly, ridiculously, like I am going to burst out laughing in his face in one more second, and then:

“Do you need me to stay?” he asks, at the same time I say,

“Do you want to just stay?”

Where the hell did that come from? I do not want to go into this house by myself, is where it came from, but I’m not quite sure I want to go into it with Sawyer, either. “I’m probably okay,” I say, but Sawyer interrupts.

“I’d sleep on the couch.”

“No, yeah, totally,” I say, fumbling all over myself. “Of course.”

I’m not sure if that was agreement, but Sawyer takes it that way. “Okay,” he says slowly. “So … I’ll stay.”

I blink. “Okay.” I hold the screen door so he can get inside and let it slam behind me, dump the diaper bag at the bottom of the stairs with an unceremonious thud. The first thing I do is turn off the AC: I absolutely, one hundred percent cannot bear one more breath of recycled air.

I take Hannah with me, balancing her on my hip and flinging open window after window one-handed, letting the outside in. I have gotten very good, this past year and a half, at doing things one-handed.

“Hey,” he says, coming up behind me in the dining room. “Need help?”

“Couldn’t breathe.” Maybe that’s the truth, actually, now that I think about it. Maybe I haven’t had a decent amount of air in my lungs since before dinner. Could be I’m brain-damaged, oxygen-deprived.

“Let’s get this lady to bed,” Sawyer suggests. I nod, willing to follow for now, and get Hannah changed and into the crib without much comment. “Down for the count,” Sawyer says, rubbing a fast hand over his bristly head, when she’s been breathing deeply for a few moments.