I close my sketchbook and stand to stretch. Movement outside catches my eye. It’s the girls’ softball team practicing on the side field. This hospice building is directly across from our high school, which is odd because in the three years I’ve gone to WCHS, I’ve never noticed this place. It was always just some medical building—one I passed day after day, completely unaware of the human lives ending, the wailing and hand-wringing taking place behind each window. I didn’t know any of this world here existed, and I was better off for it.
Now I know.
My father’s suite smells of grease and cheese, and my stomach is full of both. I shove my hands deep into my pockets and look for Jacque. I know she’s out there so I squint to see if I can pinpoint her on the field. It’s hard to tell the team apart—they all have baseball caps on. I think she’s at bat, but I’m not sure.
Then she runs and I’m sure. It’s her. No one runs as breathtakingly as Jacque Beaufort. It’s like her muscles are conducting a magnificent symphony of movement just underneath her light-brown skin. It’s stunning.
She’s stunning.
And she doesn’t know I exist. Well, technically, I’m pretty sure she knows I’m alive because she knows I’m Vance’s little brother, but she’s never uttered a single word to me. Not even hello.
The first time I saw her was when she walked in late to my sculpture class freshman year. She stood in the doorway looking flustered, tugging on her sleek, black ponytail and biting her lip. Mr. Gill ushered her in without any drama—he’s the most laid-back teacher at WCHS—and she took a seat in the back. Right next to me.
Two days later, Jacque dropped out of sculpture, but in those two short days I learned all I could about her. She bobbed her right leg nonstop. The only makeup she wore was lip gloss. Her backpack was different from everyone else’s—made of a coarse woven fabric with Rasta stripes and a drawstring. She never made eye contact with a single person in class because her gaze was always out the window.
We sat around tables in sculpture class so I had a full-on view of her face. Something outside captivated her, and it fascinated me. It was the way her eyebrows rose, the way her eyes danced, the way her mouth would slip into a tiny smile when she got lost in whatever she was staring at. Her expression was fleeting—but when you can’t stop watching someone, you catch things. A few times I’d joined her and looked to where she did. It had to be the sky. There was nothing else to see.
My stomach flipped, wondering what made her light up like that. Was it the beautiful color blue? Was it her daydream? I’d eventually concluded—while simultaneously blanking out on what was going on in sculpture—that she felt things deeply. Like me. Clearly I had no proof of this conclusion, but either way, it started my crush.
A few weeks into freshman year, Jacque turned up in Vance’s party photos on his Facebook page. That’s when I realized she was in the popular group. My brother considers himself the king of WCHS, so if you’re in a photograph with him, you’re popular too.
Even though I suspected a girl that beautiful and emotionally complex was socially above me, seeing those Facebook photos is when I knew Jacque Beaufort was the princess to my peasant.
I continue watching the softball team do normal practice things: throwing, catching, running, hitting. While behind me, roughly eight feet away, my father, my only living parent, has, according to the new nurse on duty named Marnie, less than forty-eight hours left on this earth.
I have an urge to smash through this second-story window without covering my face and let the shards of glass slice my skin, let the blood drip and drip and drip as I run across the field, grab the bat from Jacque’s hand, and smash the world to smithereens. To the tiniest bits of nothing. Then perhaps we could all start over.
My father could be a sober businessman instead of a raging, alcoholic bar owner.
My mother could be his wife instead of his doormat. And she’d be alive.
My brother could be my brother instead of an inordinate blob of human skin that simply chooses not to understand me.
I could be happy. I could be free.
From behind, my brother says, “Why are you staring at them, psycho?”
I breathe in and I breathe out to clear the anger from my lungs. Why is he always so hotheaded? I ask myself this question multiple times a day.
I turn around and walk to my father’s bedside. “I wasn’t ogling the girls, Vance. I was simply looking out the window.”
“Whatever. And can you stop talking like a dictionary? Talk normal.” He rips off a piece of pizza crust and chews. “I wish I had a beer right now.”
I squint. “The fact that our father is hours away from dying from liver failure has no effect on you?”
“Shut up! I haven’t had a sip since my surgery. And if he was conscious, he’d be having one right now, with me.”
Air shoots through my nose. “Well, you’ve certainly made the most obvious statement, now haven’t you?” He goes back to watching the muted TV, and I go back to staring at our father.
Marnie comes through the door and stands with her hands on her wide hips. “How we doing in here, guys? How’s the big man?”
“His breathing’s still the same,” I answer.
“I’m going to change his sheets and wipe him all down in about ten minutes. I wanted to give you boys some more time to finish your dinner.”
“We’re done,” Vance says. He stands up and grabs his jacket. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Good idea.” Marnie nods. “Why don’t you guys get the blood flowing while I get your dad situated?”
I know Vance wants to walk alone. I know I want to walk alone. Neither of us will verbalize this want of course, but we know what we want nonetheless. I grab my sweatshirt and let my brother disappear down the hall and around the corner. I make no effort to catch up or call out to him. I’d rather eat seashells.
As I saunter past the rolling nurse-station cart positioned directly outside my father’s room, I hear a low, guttural moan from the room across the hall. I know I shouldn’t, but I look in. An African American man is sitting in the recliner, obviously not the patient. He looks to be somewhere near my father’s age—in his late forties—and he’s the one moaning. It’s like a cello, a rich and thick sound. I’m transfixed by it, and my feet are cemented to the carpet.
The man, who had just been running his hands over his bald head, drops his arms and they slap against his body. He looks directly into my eyes and we stare at each other, stranger to stranger. His mouth opens, and a fresh moan drifts out. I break eye contact and look at the occupied hospital bed. I can only see the lower half of the person. I have no idea the gender or age.
My feet have come back to life, and I walk quickly down the hall as another loud wail fills my head. The sound is weighted; I fear my skull will crack.
The man’s pain is stuck to my skin. From the inside.