“. . . cardiomyopathy, inflammation, muscular dystrophy—”
“Or it could be just strained muscles,” my mom had added, seeing my reaction. “I probably overworked them yesterday.”
I’d wanted that to be it. My mom’s job was physical, moving things, lifting people who couldn’t walk, helping them into and out of bed. It wasn’t the first time she’d come home sore, but Dr. Williams had given her a look. “There are the other symptoms to take into account,” he’d said.
I’d thought back to every incriminating thing, my heart sinking as I realized there were plenty: headaches, dizziness, days when she’d dropped dishes and blamed tiredness, days when she’d had trouble driving because her eyes were bothering her. Stretching back months, at least.
“We’ve done some tests,” he’d said. “The results should tell us what we’re dealing with.”
Only, the tests had been inconclusive, and we were taking the “wait and see” approach. It was years later, and none of us liked what we were seeing.
“She went to the hospital last night,” I told Trip now as we sat in his car. “They did more tests. She’s home today. I don’t want to talk about it.” Which was the God’s honest truth, because just thinking about it was like suffocating under a thick wet blanket of worry.
I pinched the underside of my forearm, focusing on the pain instead of all the other crap. Finally Trip nodded and faced forward. “Sorry, man.” He pulled back onto the road. “Let me know if I can help.”
***
We split in the parking lot, Trip stopping to talk to his football teammates while I jogged toward homeroom. I had a sudden weird certainty that Natalie wouldn’t be there. She’d called off work Sunday at the ski shop, Trip had told me on the drive to school, and hadn’t answered his texts or calls either.
“Because of Saturday night?” I’d asked. I’d managed to put aside most of my anxiety about those binoculars. We must have been hallucinating, I’d decided. It had been weird, but I was okay.
Trip had shrugged. “I guess so.”
With anyone else, you’d swing by their house or maybe call their parents to check in. But, of course, we couldn’t do that with Nat.
I held my breath crossing the threshold to homeroom, expecting an empty chair, but there she was: second seat by the window, as usual. I tried to catch her eye, but she stared outside through announcements, not talking to friends or looking my way.
I waited by the door when the bell rang.
“How’re you feeling, Nat?” I asked, trailing her toward the music room.
“Fine.” Natalie kept her head down, but I didn’t need to see her face to know something was wrong. She walked in long, stiff strides like she couldn’t wait to get away from me. I didn’t take it personally, but it cranked my nerves up a notch.
“We were worried about you,” I told her. “After Saturday. Trip said you missed work yesterday.”
She still didn’t look at me, her long hair swinging as she walked. Nat usually wore a braid so her hair wouldn’t tangle—lots of the skiers did—but today it was loose, hiding her face.
“I’m okay, Riley,” she said. “Thanks.”
“It was really weird, wasn’t it?” I asked quietly when we’d gotten to the stairs without another word. “What happened up there?”
She gave me a quick, hard look. “I saw my dad dead. It was beyond weird.”
I felt a lump in my throat, but not because of what she’d said. “Nat.” I reached out, held her arm gently, the hallucinations forgotten.
Natalie stopped, staring at her shoes, but her whole posture sagged.
I looked around quickly, letting a few nearby kids pass before I lifted Nat’s chin, forcing her to look at me.
“Jeez, Nat,” I said softly. There was a Band-Aid under her left eye. A soft yellow bruise spreading out from it. “What happened?”
“I tripped,” she said, forcing a smile.
“You tripped? How?”
“There was a box on the floor in the living room, and I had my arms full. Just didn’t see it. And whap! Smacked my face pretty good, huh?” She chuckled, the sound brittle. I could picture her standing in front of a bathroom mirror, rehearsing. My stomach clenched as I thought of all the ways it might have actually gone down.
“Listen, I’ve gotta run,” she said, pulling her arm away. “I’ll see you later.” Nat spun on her heel and trotted down the steps toward the music room, leaving me to consider the things I knew about how she lived.
We picked her up almost every weekend, but never went inside her house. Natalie would slip out like she’d been waiting, the door cracked just enough for her to squeeze through.
I knew what was in there, though. Moose, from work, had taken me up to her place one night when he’d offered me a ride. It would have been a long, cold walk home, so I’d gladly accepted.
“Just gotta run a quick errand on the way,” he’d said as I’d followed him to his car. Moose had waved me to the rear door, and I’d noticed an arm hanging out the passenger window. I recognized the ripped-up surplus jacket. Wynn Bishe. Another Buford High deadbeat who’d graduated—or at least left—a couple years before.
“What the f**k’s he doing here?” Wynn asked, tossing a butt on the gravel lot as I slid into the backseat. He shot me a dirty look, the dark wisps on his upper lip twitching—the world’s most pathetic mustache.
“He needs a ride home,” Moose said.
Wynn snorted. “What’re you, his babysitter?”
“Jeez, Wynn—” Moose said.
“I can walk,” I said, reaching for the handle. But Moose had already started the car and now threw it into reverse.
“Forget it.” He glared at Wynn.
Wynn just shook his head. “Not smart, Moose.”
I sat stiffly in back, ignoring the cold air whistling in from the open windows. I felt like somebody’s kid brother no one wants around, even though Moose was in my grade. Not that I’d said a word to him since elementary school before he’d started at the restaurant. Moose went to vo-tech most days, and when I did see him, he was usually smoking with the other ’heads two steps off the Buford High curb—not school property. But despite his crappy choice of friends, habits, and death metal T-shirts, Moose was mostly okay.
We sped down back roads, then up a winding, unlit lane, Wynn smoking and Moose nodding randomly to Zeppelin, tapping his lucky skull-and-crossbones lighter against the wheel. Finally we pulled off the road and parked by a run-down trailer.