Dr. Shin doesn’t act surprised to see me when I show up on the last day of the semester, but I know that’s just her infallible stoicism. After two months of total silence, she was probably wondering what happened to me.
“Good to see you again,” she says, and seems to mean it.
“I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For asking the tough questions.”
She allows a smile. “That’s my job.”
“I’m going back to Boston for the summer.”
“I see,” she says, betraying no emotion whatsoever.
I look out the window, at the scores of people walking by. The last day of the semester. An ending, but also a beginning. I’ve decided it depends on how you look at it.
“I need to talk to Colin about what happened because you’re right, he was there,” I say. “He was there the whole time.”
There is no telltale lift of the eyebrows, no mmm-hmm that sounds in any way like an I told you so. She simply waits for me to go on, her gaze attentive but nonjudgmental, her hands folded primly in her lap.
“Well,” she says, “let me know when you start swimming again.”
“I can’t swim.” Even now, after all these months, it wounds me to admit this. “The conditioning therapy hasn’t worked.”
“Of course it hasn’t.” She hands me my New Patient questionnaire, the pages so blank they shine. For maybe the first time ever, she smiles openly. Knowingly.
“Good luck in Boston,” she says.
•
An hour later, Edward picks me up outside my dorm, his Jeep packed to capacity for the cross-country move. He could’ve shipped everything like most millionaires do, but that’s not Edward’s style. He likes to do things old-school. Be resourceful.
So it’s no surprise to see boxes of all shapes and sizes cluttering the backseat, fighting their way to the front. The passenger seat has about fourteen inches of free space, barely enough to accommodate my butt. His yellow Lab glares at me from the floor—Sorry, buddy, we’re gonna have to share. It’s a good thing I’m somewhat small and narrow.
“Hope your suitcase is a reasonable size,” he says, “or we may have to tie it to the exhaust pipe and drag it along.”
“Very funny.”
Edward follows me into my dorm, finds my suitcase packed to the gills, and carries it down the stairs. I don’t even offer to find a place for it in the Jeep. He’s got the whole thing planned out, a testament to the organizational zeal he inherited from our mother. My suitcase fits snugly into the left side of the trunk like a missing puzzle piece.
His skills in car maintenance, however, leave something to be desired. He knows how to repair a transmission, replace an exhaust pipe, even hot-wire the engine—but car washes are beyond him. In this way, he’s like our dad.
He rubs the windshield with his bare hand, pinching the dust between his fingers. “Probably should’ve taken care of this a little earlier,” he says.
“Nah. Perfect way to see the country.”
He flicks the dust at me and revs the engine. It’s slow going at first, with Bay Area traffic and summer travelers clogging the freeways. The sun sets behind us, casting its furious orange sheen on the Pacific. Ahead of us, green hills and sloping valleys stretch toward an infinite horizon. It’s a magnificent landscape, a place that rightly deserves all the poetry, songs, and literature espousing its beauty.
“Missing it already?” Edward asks.
“I’m easily seduced by sunsets.”
“Ah.” He fiddles with the radio. “Nothing quite like a Boston sunrise, though.”
“You’re awake for those?”
He laughs, but a serious note finds its way into his voice. “I try to be.” He settles on a song from the nineties, one of his favorites growing up. “They’re worth it.”
•
Three thousand miles and a week later, we hit the Mass Turnpike. For a Friday evening, the traffic flowing into Boston isn’t as terrible as I remembered. It’s all stop-and-go, narrow ramps and careening corners, unlike the monotonous drag of a California freeway. Windows down, city air flooding my lungs, I watch it all pass by: the skyscrapers in the distance, the river on my left. When Fenway comes into view, its fairy-tale lights glittering on the horizon, I finally feel like I’m home.
My parents are there to greet us when we pull into the driveway. Dad grunts a hello, mutters something about us not calling often enough, and pulls me into a very awkward hug—the first I can remember since childhood. He takes my suitcase and rolls it up to the house.
“Oh, honey” is all my mom can manage.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, which brings actual tears to her eyes. I give her a hug, inhaling the familiar scent of her favorite lotion, a citrusy smell that reminds me of spring.
Every time I come home, the house looks the same but somehow different. Family portraits from years gone by line the mantel in reverence of the past. Newer photos sit in the kitchen, where my mother likes to “test-drive” things for the house. Growing up, we always used to congregate here, which drove her crazy. For one thing, it’s hot in the kitchen, in spite of the multiple A/Cs installed in the windows. She goes over to the biggest one and puts it on high.
“So darn hot,” she says. “Sorry, sweetie. You’re probably not used to it.” She gives the struggling appliance a shove. “Dinner’s in thirty minutes.”
“Don’t be late,” Edward teases as he reaches for a stack of plates and silverware. Setting the table was his designated chore growing up. Because I’m not ready for a full-on family discussion about my life, I head upstairs to regroup.
My suitcase sits outside my bedroom door, right where my dad left it. The bulging compartments remind me just how much I took to California, and how little I left behind. Or maybe it’s just the accumulation of things, the dutiful progression of time marked by the dutiful collection of meaningless possessions. I roll it over the threshold and close the door.
In those first few seconds of being here, being home, the burden of what I’ve done weighs on my shoulders. I haven’t thought about the logistics of being here, especially since Edward exaggerated the time commitment. On the trip home, he admitted he’s barely got a sign-up sheet, much less a whole program going. He’s a skilled negotiator, especially when it comes to his little sister.
I lie on the creaky mattress and stare at those familiar yellow stars. Still there, still peeling. I find myself blinking away tears. How am I supposed to do this? I don’t even know where to begin. Colin? The boys? What if they refuse to see me?
Some time later, my dad knocks on my door.
“Busy tomorrow?” he asks.
I wish the answer were yes, but it’s not.
“Not really.”
“Good.”
Somewhere down the hall, Edward snickers.
•
Saturday mornings in an emergency room are usually quiet, representing that rare reprieve between the two wildest nights of the week. Today, though, the waiting room extends to the parking lot, triage is overwhelmed, and occupied gurneys line the walls. My dad instructs me to start with these unfortunate folks: take a history, get an updated list of meds, try to tame the crazy. I’m rounding the corner in pursuit of a shrieking heroin addict when a tentative voice calls my name, a flash of clarity in the chaos.
I slow to a stop. The little voice repeats itself, each syllable pronounced with quiet authority: “Avery.” I know who it is long before I turn around, but even so, the sight of Tim in my father’s ER takes my breath away.
He’s sitting on a plastic chair intended for adults, his legs dangling as he clutches his arm to his chest. Grass stains and blood defile the pristine white sleeve of his baseball jersey. In spite of this, he doesn’t seem at all frightened, and why would he be? He’s seen much worse.
He leaps off the chair, oblivious to the dangers of running wildly through an emergency room. The smile on his face is luminous. He slams into me, forgetting the bloody arm as he wraps them both around my waist.
“I knew it was you!” He trips over the words, so excited he can barely speak. In that regard, he’s better off than me—I can’t manage a sound. Tim was so sick for all that time, it’s a shock he even remembers me.
“Do you work here?” he asks.
He’s so strong now—taller, too, with a sunburn that isn’t raw or worrisome. It’s a boyhood baseball burn, and it makes his skin glow.
“No, not really . . .” I steal a glance at my borrowed scrubs. “I mean, yes, sort of.”
“Oh,” he says, still beaming. “Well I hope so because then you can fix my arm!”
His confidence floods through me, wrenching me into a memory that isn’t altogether bad—just raw. Even now, after all this time, those details tend to surface with the softest prompting.
An older man approaches us, his trimmed hair flecked with gray. His collared shirt is buttoned almost to the top, and his smile is warm and proper, echoing his wardrobe. He holds out a hand. “Joe Caldwell,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Mr. Caldwell,” I mumble, recalling all those letters signed in his sturdy hand, his countless invitations to come visit. All were either deferred or denied, though I had an endless number of excuses. “I . . .”
“You don’t have to explain,” he says, then takes my hand in both of his own. He holds it there for a while, diffusing all those feelings of guilt and inadequacy through one simple gesture.
I smile at Tim, and this time, it comes easily. “So, how’s baseball season going?”
“It’s good.” He drops his gaze to his grass-stained pants. “I bat eleventh.”
“That’s not bad. Everyone has an equal chance for a hit, no matter where they are in the lineup.”
He nods, acknowledging the logic.
“Playing any infield yet?”
“He’s played shortstop a few times,” Mr. Caldwell says, mostly to comfort Tim. “He’s improved quite a bit since the spring.”
Tim gives a sheepish shrug. “Thanks, Granddad.”
The way he thanks him fills me with my own sense of gratitude, though it’s difficult to express such a thing to a seven-year-old. I hope these last six months have been good to him; I hope he’s found his own way of moving on without completely letting go. I think his parents would have wanted it that way.
“You and Colin should come to a game!” he says.
“Oh.” I adjust the clipboard in my lap, as if that will distract him somehow. It doesn’t. “Well, maybe sometime. I haven’t really talked to him—”
Tim nods. “I know.”
“You do?”
“You’ve been at school.”
“Oh.” Relief sweeps through me. “Well, that’s true.”
“He comes to games all the time.”
The lump in my throat is monstrous. “He does?”
“He’s helped me a lot. You should come. Sometimes I feel kind of sorry for him sitting in the bleachers all by himself.”
“Tim, Avery’s a very busy lady.” Mr. Caldwell puts his arm around Tim’s shoulders. “Let’s not put even more pressure on her time.”
“Oh.” Tim frowns. “Sorry, Avery.”
“I’m not that busy.” I shift my gaze to Mr. Caldwell, whose smile is so imperceptible it may just be my imagination. He has Tim’s eyes, a pale, dreamlike green, deep with meaning.
“Where’s Tim Caldwell?” A resident in blood-specked scrubs barges into the conversation, his pockets loaded with pens and other shiny apparatuses.
Tim nods like he’s going to the gallows. “That’s me, I guess.”
The young doctor pulls up a stool and plops himself in front of Tim. Most of the residents treat me with some semblance of respect because of my father, but this guy isn’t one of them. His name is Kyle, and he ignores me with the same condescending air he ignores all the alcoholics camped out front.
“So,” Kyle says, addressing Mr. Caldwell. It’s as if Tim, the patient, isn’t even there. “What happened here?”
“I fell on a rock,” Tim says before his grandfather can answer.
“Playing baseball?”
“It was in the outfield. There was a broken bottle in the grass.”
Mr. Caldwell produces the piece of glass, which looks like the remnant of a beer bottle. The mere act of handling it seems to pain him, as if Tim’s injury were his fault—which of course it wasn’t. Some stupid kid probably left it there after stumbling home drunk from a party.
Kyle gives it a casual glance. “Yeah, happens all the time.”
“Shouldn’t we do a tetanus test or something—”
“Nah.” Kyle peels back the sleeve of Tim’s shirt to inspect the wound. Tim grits his teeth but makes no sound as Kyle pokes and prods with angry-looking instruments.
“You okay, Tim?” I ask him.
Tim nods. Kyle finally acknowledges me with an angry glare.
Mr. Caldwell keeps opening his mouth to say something, only to close it again like he’s afraid of interrupting the doctor’s work. I give him a reassuring smile, which seems to calm his nerves a bit. Meanwhile, Kyle ignores the distress on Tim’s face as he reaches for a syringe.
“Wait!” Tim screams.
Kyle sighs. “It won’t hurt that much. I’ll spray with anesthetic—”
“I thought Avery was gonna do it.”
“Avery?” He looks me up and down, eyebrows raised. An arrogant grin plays on his face. He spins back around to face Tim. “She’s a volunteer,” he says. “Doesn’t know how to fix things like this.”
“She fixed it with floss last time.”
“Uh-huh.” Kyle smirks as he pulls his gloves on. “She tell you that?”
“No.” Tim stiffens and pulls his arm back. “I was there.”
“Uh-huh,” Kyle says again as he threads the needle.
By then, my father is standing over us, his arms folded as he watches this sad display of arrogance, followed swiftly by mortification. “Take the gastroenteritis in 2,” he says, pointing Kyle in that direction.
“Look, Dr. Delacorte—”
“I said, gastro in 2. Put on a gown, though—mask, too. Poor guy’s got it coming out both ends.”
Kyle trudges down the hallway, stripping off his gloves as he heads for a gloomy arrangement of rooms. The choked sounds of someone vomiting fill the hallway as he opens the door and goes inside.
“Hello, Tim.” Dad extends his hand for Tim to shake, then does the same for Mr. Caldwell. The introductions are brief but professional, colored by mutual respect that was so sorely lacking a few minutes ago.
“She really did it,” Tim says. “She saved our lives.”
“That’s not true, Tim,” I say.
“It is true. She helped Colin with the big lady and made me feel better when I was sick, and she told us everything was gonna be okay, and it was.”
Before I can manage a word, my dad says, “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.” He holds my gaze as he preps the sutures. “Avery is the toughest kid I’ve got.”
I start to say more, but my father shakes his head, lets it go. Tim doesn’t seem to care about my total aversion to the truth. Maybe Colin doesn’t care, either.
Maybe it’s me.