It was quiet againâfor what seemed like about an hour.
“Well,” Beth said. “I guess you're pretty tired and all.”
Christ,
that
was for sure.
After hanging up, the phone seemed too heavy to lift over to the bedside table, so Meg let it stay on top of the quilt, adjusting her pillows so she could lie down. It was
definitely
naptime.
Â
THEY HAD TACOS for dinner. Which were hard to eat one-handed. But, everyone was relaxed enough now, so that Steven and Neal
laughed when two of her tacos in a row broke in half and fell all over her plate. Laughed
at
her. Meg thought it was funny, but her parents frowned at her brothers.
“Would you like to watch television,” her father said after dinner, when her mother had long since gone down to the West Wing to work some more, “orâ”
Meg shook her head. “I think I just want to read a book.”
“Anything special?” he asked.
Meg shrugged. “Just not a mystery.” Blood and guts and guns weren't anything she wanted to deal with. Ever again.
He went off to gather up a stack of novelsâsome of which she had been given in the hospital, but been too tired to bother openingâand carried them in. At the hospital, even
People
had seemed like strenuous literature.
“Do you want anything else?” her father asked.
“No, thank you.” She looked at Trudy, who had been hovering. “Um, dinner was delicious.”
Everyone pretty much cleared out, and she examined the books, selecting
Digging to America
by Anne Tyler.
Her father kept coming in to check on herâor maybe just
look
at her, it seemed like, and every so often, Trudy would bring her something to eat or drink. Cookies, hot chocolate, orange juice, homemade applesauce with extra cinnamon. But mostly, it was very quiet and peaceful, and she just read her book. Kind of strange to have reading seem like such a special treat. A couple of times, she dozed a little, and that was peaceful, too.
It was past ten, and there was a knock on the door. Trudy with more treats, probably.
Meg lowered her book. “Come in.”
The door opened and she saw Neal, wearing sweatpants and a New England Patriots t-shirt that was way too big for him.
“Hi,” she said.
He nodded, hanging back.
“What's going on?” she asked.
He stayed by the door. “Do you want anything? Dad said to ask.”
“No, thanks,” she said, then sighed. “Come on, don't stand there on the thresholdâyou know I hate that.”
Quickly, he stepped inside. “I'm sorry.”
“What's going on?” she asked, again.
He shifted from one foot to the other, not looking at her, one hand behind his back. “Don't be mad.”
What, because he stood in the hall for a few seconds, instead of coming in? “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I took something,” he said.
Judging from his expression, it must have been half of Fort Knox. “Okay,” she said, cautiously.
“Something of
yours
,” he said.
She shrugged. “Okay, no problem.”
He hesitated, then brought his hand out, dropping a rock on the bed. More than a little confused, Meg picked it up. It was the rock she used as a paperweight on her desk, mostly quartz, with bits of mica or something, too. She'd never really retained Mo's Table of rock categories or anything like that.
“You took my rock?” she said, not sure why he was so worried.
He nodded. “I'm sorry.”
She was about to say, “It's just a
rock
,” but considering how upset he seemed to be, that would have been tactless. “Um, like I said, no big deal.” She held the rock up to the light, studying it. She'd found it about five summers before when they'd rented a house on a lake in New Hampshire for a couple of weeks. One of those quiet lakes, where motorboats were forbidden and all. “Remember when I found it?”
He nodded.
The house had had a rickety little dock, andânot that they were the world's greatest swimmers or anythingâthey would dive off it
and see if they could find things on the lake bottom. This rock had looked particularly pretty, and she and Steven had spent almost an entire afternoon trying to dive down far enough to get it.
“Funny how they always looked prettier when they were in the water,” she said.
Neal nodded.
“If you like it so much, why didn't you just
ask
me for it?” she asked.
“You weren't here,” he said, not looking at her.
Oh. She shook her head. “I don't mean
recently
. If you liked it, why didn't you ask me like,
years
ago?”
“It's yours,” he said.
“Yeah, butâ” Somehow, she could sense that this was going to be a losing conversation. “Can I give it to you?”
He shook his head.
“Take it,” she said. “It'll make me happy.”
After a moment, he picked it up, holding it almost reverently. “Remember how me and Steven couldn't hardly dive at all?”
“Well, you were just a little guy.” Meg grinned. “And Steven was a klutz.” One of the days they were there, Steven had even managed to hit his head on the dock, and her parents had had to rush him to the emergency room with a mild concussion.
“I knew
you
could get it,” Neal said. “I
knew
you would.”
Yeah, it had only taken her about six hours. She smiled at him. “You were that sure, hunh?”
He nodded.
Funny to think of him wanting it all those years, and never saying a word.
“Remember how you always used to bring me stuff?” he asked.
She could
sort of
remember, but not really. “Yeah,” she said.
“Like,” he said, “when I was too little to go, and you'd bring me movie candy?”
That
, actually, she remembered. He'd always been wild about Junior Mints. She, personally, despised them, but had always had a couple to be polite.
“And that funny pioneer soap?” he said. “From the field trip?”
She remembered that, too. Sturbridge Village. “What about the three-colored pen? That I got downtown?” In Boston, one of the first times she and Beth had been allowed to take the T into the city by themselves. “I could never figure out why you liked that pen so much.” He seemed awfully quiet, and she looked up, startled to see him crying. “Neal? You okay?” She motioned for him to sit on the bed. “Come on, sit up here.”
“I'm not supposed to,” he said, crying.
Jesus. Exactly how many rules were her parents
giving
her brothers? “Just come on,” she said.
He got up next to her, and she put her arm around him.
“I didn't mean to hit you,” he said.
What? She blinked. “When?”
“Ever,” he said. “I didn't know how bad it was.”
“It's not like you ever
hurt
me. I meanâ” She shook her head. “When
we
fight, it's different.”
“Steven isn't going to hit people anymore, either,” he said.
Oh, yeah,
that'd
be the day. “Well, that's good.” She tightened her arm around him. “Please don't cry, okay? I meanâI'm home, right?”
He looked up at her. Actually, he was getting tallâhis head barely had to tilt up anymore. “I was crying a lot when you were gone.”
She smiled a little. “So was I.”
“I saw Steven,” Neal said, “but he got mad.”
Meg refrained from asking if Steven had hit him. “Well, it was a hard time for everyone.” Be nice if that were past tense.
“I was really scared,” he said.
She nodded. “You and me both, cowboy.” She let out her breath. “You and me both.”
THE NEXT DAY, Josh called and, feeling guilty, she said that yeah, sure, he could come over for a while, no problem. She regretted it almost before the words were out of her mouth, but by then, it was too late.
So, she got dressed, allowing Trudy to cut the left leg off one of her pairs of jeans, and having Steven “borrow” for her an old Radcliffe sweatshirt of her mother's that she'd always coveted.
When Josh arrived, she and her father and her brothers were up in the solarium, watching the end of the Red Sox game. In
this
one, they had been ahead 6â0, gotten behind 10â6, and finally won 11â10âjust as Josh came in, carrying a box of chocolates.
“Yo,
candy,
” Steven said cheerfully. “
Ex
cellent.” As long as the Red Sox won,
how
they did it never seemed to matter to him. No matter how tortuous it was.
“Uh, yeah,” Josh said, giving the box to her, then putting his hands in his pockets. He coughed. “Did they win?”
“Of course,” Steven said. “They're too
excellent
not to always win.”
Talk about selective memory. “Thank you,” Meg said to Josh. “They look delicious.”
“You don't know that,” Steven said. “You haven't opened them yet.”
Their father smiled. “Come on, guys, let's go out and throw the ball around.”
“Yeah!” Neal said, jumping up.
Her father touched her shoulder. “Anything you need, kiddo?”
Meg shook her head.
“Well, if you do, I'll be right outside.” He put his hand out to shake Josh's. “Good to see you, Josh. Come on, boys.”
Steven sat down on the couch, linking his arm through Meg's. “I must stay with my sister,” he said solemnly. “My sister
needs
me.”
Their father sighed. “Steven.”
“I
must
,” he said.
Meg looked over at him, amused. “Go away.”
“But, Sister dear,” he said.
She grinned at him. “
Go away
.”
He laughed and went after Neal and their father.
“He seems pretty chipper,” Josh said.
And
then
some. Meg nodded.
“So, uhâ” He cleared his throat. “So.”
“Sit down,” she said.
“Right. Yeah. Sorry.” He sat in the chair next to the couch.
It had been a pretty long time since they'd seen each other, and it
felt
even longer. Meg made herself smile at himâwhat she hoped was a relaxed smile. “So.”
“You, you look good,” he said.
Time for him to get that glasses prescription changed, maybe. She reached for the box of candy. “Thank you for these. Should we open them?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
Instead of struggling one-handed, she gave the box to him. “Beth says hi.”
He unwrapped the plastic. “When's she coming down here?” “I don't know. No time soon.” She turned off the television, which made the room seem so quiet that she turned it back on.
“You want to watch something?” he asked.
“Not really.” She clicked it off again. “I mean, unless you do.”
He shook his head, and held out the open box of chocolates.
She took one. “Thank you.” Vanilla cream. “How are Nathan and everyone?”
“Okay,” he said, selecting a piece for himself. “I mean, you know, fine.”
“Um, tell them I said hi,” she said.
He nodded.
“Thanks.” A sudden wave of fatigue hit her, and she closed her eyes, trying to will the feeling away.
“Would you like to rest?” he asked.
Yes. “It's not that,” she said. “It's justâI'm sorry.”
He shrugged. “You don't have anything to be sorry about.”
As far as she could see, she didn't have too many things
not
to be sorry about. But, it was probably time to change the subject. “So, um, graduation was good,” she said. “You went, I mean.”
He nodded.
“Wellâthat's good,” she said. “Are you working at the golf course?” Which was his regular summer job.
“Some, yeah,” he said.
“Getting any good tips?” she asked.
“Stay out of coffee futures,” he said.
Okay, that was funny. She smiled, and he smiled back.
“You making any
money
over there?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Some, yeah. Not enough.”
Money for school. It wouldn't be much longer before he would be leaving. Before
everyone
her age would be going away to school. Or doing whatever adult thing they were going to do. “Well, that's good,” she said aloud. “You'll be able to use it, when you're away.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I don't know, yeah.”
Unable to think of anything else to say, she reached for the box of chocolates and, left arm across her body, offered it to him. He shook his head and, not hungry herself, she put the box back on the coffee table.
“How's your leg?” he asked. “And your hand?”
“I don't know.” She looked down at the brace and splint. “Pretty much the same.”
“Oh,” he said. “I mean, I was hoping they were better.”
“A little, maybe,” she said. Jesus, as conversations went, this had to be one of their worst of all time. “You're getting a pretty good tan.”
He glanced at his arms, very brown against his white t-shirt. “Yeah, kind of.” He looked towards the door leading to the Promenade. “It's still pretty sunny. You want to go outside for a while?”
No.
She shook her head. “I'm kind of tired.”
“Just for a minute,” he said. “I couldâ”
Jesus! “I
don't want to
,” she said. “Okay?”
He nodded. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean toâ”
“You didn't,” she said. “I justâ” Christ, this was too much work. “You want to watch something on television?” Television was easy; television was safe.
“Sure,” he said, and reached for the remote control, not quite looking at her. “Whatever you want.”
Â
HE DIDN'T STAY for dinner. She knew she was supposed to ask him, but all she really wanted to do was be taken back to her room, close the door, and spend the rest of the night alone. Trudy, as always, prepared her a wonderful tray, but she felt too numb to do much more than rearrange the food with her fork. After assuring her family that she was fine, that she just needed to rest, and could they please make sure no calls were put through to her room, they left her alone. It was too scary to sleep in the dark, so she had her father turn on the bathroom light on his way out.
She slept, waking up on and offâwhen they came in to make sure she was okay, when Vanessa got restless, when the blankets felt too hot. Even when she was awake, she didn't bother turning on the light, too tired to do more than watch the red numbers on her clock change. At one point, when her mother was in to check on
her, they managed to scare the hell out of each otherâher mother not expecting her to be awake, Meg not expecting to see her standing by the bed.
Her mother recovered first. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.”
“You didn't,” Meg said, trying to sit up. She looked at the clock, which read 2:53. “Pretty late.”
“Well, I just wanted to be sure you were sleeping all right,” her mother said.
Like a contented, angst-and-despair-free baby.
“It was hard having Josh here today?” her mother both said and asked.
There
was an understatement. Meg nodded.
Her mother frowned. “Well, what if we had Beth get on a plane, andâ”
“I really don't want to see anyone,” Meg said. “I'm justâI'm not ready.”
Her mother nodded.
“I'm kind of tired.” Meg tried to turn her pillow, her mother moving closer to do it for her.
“Do you need anything?” she asked.
Meg shook her head, lying down.
“WellâI'll see you in the morning,” her mother said. “Sleep well.”
Meg nodded. “You, too.”
Â
THE WORK-OUT ROOM on the third floor had been set up with some “injury-specific” equipment, and she had to resume serious physical therapy the next dayâwhich was awful. Exhausting. The primary therapist was a nice woman named Edith, whom she remembered from the hospital, but Meg didn't talk to herâor the WHMU nurse who had come upstairs to superviseâany more than she absolutely had to, to be polite. She just concentrated on
finishing the terrible exercises and the electro-stimulus stuffâwhich was supposed to promote healing, so she could get back to bed. The tub in her bathroom had been modified, with an arm and a leg rest, as well as a small plastic shower bench, but she still needed helpâwhich was embarrassing, even though it was only Trudy, usually with a nurse sitting outside the door, just in case.
“Well, dear,” Trudy said, tucking her into bed, after she got washed up. “Would you like anything?”
Meg shook her head.
“Would you like me to keep you company?” Trudy asked.
Meg shook her head harder. “No, thank you. I just want to rest.”
Trudy looked worried, but nodded, giving the blankets one last tuck before leaving the room.
So, mostly, she slept. Dr. Brooks came by to check on her, her family was in and out, and in the middle of the afternoon, she woke up long enough to eat half a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of mushroom soup. Other than that, she slept.
She managed another small mealâchicken, part of a baked potato, some saladâfor dinner, then let Steven watch, while she half-watched, the baseball game. Other than that, she went back to sleep.
The scary part, was how fast the happy novelty of being home was evaporating. Replaced by, for the most part, paralyzing fear. She wasn't even sure what she was afraid
of
âsome combination of the past, present, and futureâor
lack
of a futureâbut, she knew that she was afraid. She didn't want her family to know how bad it was, so she was careful to seem calm and cheerful in front of them. On the mend.
She stayed with her pattern of almost-constant sleep, because it was the only way she could function. It wasn't even so much that she was
tired
, but sleeping meant that she didn't have to be scared. Didn't have to pretend that everything was fine, no problem, not to
worryâand other such platitudes. Obviously, her family wasn't stupid enough to believe that she had been magically cured, but no one pressured her, either.
She was lying in bed after a physical therapy session, looking at a glass of lemonade she was too tired to drink, when Preston came in. He had popped in and out a lot lately, too.
“Hey,” he said cheerfully, putting a new hardcover on her bedside table. “How you doing?”
“Fine, thank you,” she said.
“Yeah.” He sat down, his look penetrating. “PT going okay?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Word is, they're going to let you try some weight-bearing soon.”
Whatever. She shrugged.
“That'll be good,” he said. “You'll be able to get around better.”
Maybe. Not that it mattered much, either way.
“Well.” He indicated his outfit. “What do you think?”
“It's nice,” she said, not really looking. Pants, a shirt, a tie. That sort of thing.
He sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “You know, could be just me, but it seems like you're maybe beginning to internalize a little.”
“I'm just tired,” she said.
“How about a change of scene?” he asked. “We'll go sit on the Truman Balcony.”
The balcony any psycho with a good pair of binocularsâand a sniper's scopeâcould see onto? She shook her head.
“Think some fresh air'd do you some good,” he said.
“No, thank you,” she said, politely.
“It's nice and sunny out,” he said.
She nodded, wishing he would drop it already.
“Hate to see you looking so pale,” he said.