Delirium Part 17

In my imagination Brian Scharff was tall and fat, a hulking figure. In reality he's only a few inches taller than I am-which is impressively short, for a guy-and so thin I'm worried about breaking his wrist bone when we shake. His palms are damp with sweat, and he barely squeezes my hand. It feels like holding on to a damp tissue. Afterward, when we all take our seats, I surrept.i.tiously wipe my hands against my pants.

"Thank you for coming," Carol says, and there's a long, awkward pause. In the silence I can hear Brian wheezing through his nose. It sounds like there's a dying animal trapped in his nasal ca.n.a.l.

I must be staring, because Mrs. Scharff explains, "Brian has asthma."

"Oh," I say.

"The allergies make it worse."

"Um... what is he allergic to?" I ask, because she seems to be expecting it.

"Dust," she says emphatically, like she's been waiting to break out that word since she sailed through the door. She looks witheringly around the room-which is not dusty-and Carol blushes. "And pollen. Cats and dogs, of course, and peanuts, seafood, wheat, dairy, and garlic."

"I didn't know you could be allergic to garlic," I say. I can't help it: It just pops out.

"His face puffs up like an accordion." Mrs. Scharff turns a disdainful eye toward me, as though I'm somehow responsible for this fact.

"Oh," I say again, and then another uncomfortable silence descends on us. Brian doesn't say anything, but he wheezes louder than ever.

This time Carol comes to the rescue. "Lena," she says, "perhaps Brian and Mrs. Scharff would like some water."

I've never been so grateful for an excuse to leave a room in my life. I jump out of my seat, nearly taking down a lamp with my knee by accident. "Of course. I'll get it."

"Make sure it's filtered," Mrs. Scharff calls after me, as I tear out of the room. "And not too much ice."

In the kitchen I take my time filling up the gla.s.ses-from the tap, obviously-and letting the cold air from the freezer blast my face. From the living room I can hear the low murmur of conversation, but I can't make out who is speaking or what is being said. Maybe Mrs. Scharff decided to reprise her list of Brian's allergies.

I know I have to go back into the living room eventually, but my feet just won't move toward the hallway. When I finally force them into action, they feel like they've been transformed into lead; still, they carry me far too quickly toward the living room. I keep seeing an endless series of bland days, days the color of pale yellow and white pills, days that have the same bitter aftertaste as medicine. Mornings and evenings filled with a quietly whirring humidifier, with Brian's steady wheezing breath, with the drip, drip, drip drip, drip, drip from a leaking faucet. from a leaking faucet.

There's no stopping it. The hallway doesn't last forever, and I step into the living room just in time to hear Brian say, "She's not as pretty as in the pictures."

Brian and his mom have their backs to me, but Carol's mouth falls open when she sees me standing there, and both of the Scharffs whip around to face me. At least they have the grace to look embarra.s.sed. He drops his eyes quickly, and she flushes.

I've never felt so ashamed or exposed. This is worse, even, than standing in the translucent hospital gown at the evaluations, under the glare of the fluorescent lights. My hands are trembling so badly the water jumps over the lip of the gla.s.ses.

"Here's your water." I don't know where I find the strength to come around the sofa and place the gla.s.ses down on the coffee table. "Not too much ice."

"Lena-" My aunt starts to say something, but I inter-rupt her.

"I'm sorry." Miraculously, I even manage a smile. I can only hold it for a fraction of a second, though. My jaw is trembling too, and I know that at any moment I might cry. "I'm not feeling very well. I think I might step outside for a bit."

I don't wait to be given permission. I turn around and rush the front door. As I push out into the sun I hear Carol apologizing for me.

"The procedure is still several weeks away," she's saying. "So you'll have to forgive her for being so sensitive. I'm sure it will all work out...."

The tears come hot and fast as soon as I'm outside. The world begins to melt, colors and shapes bleeding together. The day is perfectly still. The sun has just inched past the middle of the sky, a flat white disk, like a circle of heated metal. A red balloon is caught in a tree. It must have been there for a while. It is going limp, bobbing listlessly, half-deflated, at the end of its string.

I don't know how I'll face Brian when I have to go back inside. I don't know how I'll face him ever ever. A thousand awful things race through my mind, insults I'd like to hurl at him. At least I don't look like a tapeworm At least I don't look like a tapeworm, or, Has it ever occurred to you that you're allergic to Has it ever occurred to you that you're allergic to life life?

But I know I won't-can't-say any of those things. Besides, the problem isn't really that he wheezes, or is allergic to everything. The problem isn't even that he doesn't think I'm pretty.

The problem is that he isn't Alex.

Behind me the door squeaks open. Brian says, "Lena?"

I mash my palms against my cheeks quickly, wiping away the tears. The absolute last thing in the world I want is for Brian to know that his stupid comment has upset me. "I'm fine," I call back, without turning, since I'm sure I look like a mess. "I'll come inside in a second."

He must be stupid or stubborn, because he doesn't leave me alone. Instead he closes the door behind him and comes down off the front stoop. I hear him wheezing a few feet behind me.

"Your mom said it was okay if I came out with you," he says.

"She's not my mom," I correct him quickly. I don't know why it seems so important to say. I used to like it when people confused Carol for my mom. It meant they didn't know the real story. Then again, I used to like a lot of things that seem ridiculous now.

"Oh, right." Brian must know something about my real mom. It's on the record he would have seen. "Sorry. I forgot."

Of course you did, I think, but don't say anything. At least the fact that he's hovering over me has made me too angry to be sad anymore. The tears have stopped. I cross my arms and wait for him to take the hint-or get tired of staring at my back-and go inside. But the steady wheezing continues.

I've known him less than half an hour, and already I could kill him. Finally I get tired of standing there in silence, so I turn around and brush past him quickly.

"Feeling much better now," I say. I don't look at him as I start toward the house. "We should go in."

"Wait, Lena." He reaches out and grabs my wrist. I guess grabs grabs isn't really the right word. More like isn't really the right word. More like wipes sweat on wipes sweat on. But I stop anyway, though I still can't bring myself to meet his eyes. Instead I keep my eyes locked on the front door, noticing for the first time that the screen has three large holes in it, near the upper right corner. No wonder the house has been full of insects this summer. Grace found a ladybug in our bedroom the other day. She brought it to me, cupped in her tiny palm. I helped her carry it downstairs and release it outside.

I feel an overwhelming rush of sadness, unrelated to Alex or Brian or any of that. I'm just struck with a sense of time pa.s.sing so quickly, rushing forward. One day I'll wake up and my whole life will be behind me, and it will seem to have gone as quickly as a dream.

"I didn't mean for you to hear what I said before," he says. I wonder if his mom made him say this. The words seem to require a tremendous effort on his part. "It was rude."

As if I haven't already been completely humiliated-now he has to apologize apologize for calling me ugly. My cheeks feel like they're going to melt off, they're so hot. for calling me ugly. My cheeks feel like they're going to melt off, they're so hot.

"Don't worry about it," I say, trying to extricate my wrist from his hand. Surprisingly, he won't let me go-even though technically he shouldn't be touching me at all.

"What I meant was-" His mouth works up and down for a second. He won't meet my eyes. He keeps scanning the street behind me, his eyes darting back and forth, like a cat watching a bird. "What I meant was, you looked happier in the pictures."

This is a surprise, and for a second I can't think of a response. "I don't seem happy now?" I splutter out, and then feel even more embarra.s.sed. It's so weird to be having this conversation with a stranger, knowing he won't be a stranger for very much longer.

But he doesn't seem freaked out by the question. He just shakes his head. "I know you aren't," he says. He drops my wrist, but I don't feel as desperate to go inside anymore. He's still staring off at the street behind me, and I sneak a closer look at his face. I guess he could be kind of good-looking. Not nearly so gorgeous as Alex, obviously-he's super pale and slightly feminine-looking, with a full, round mouth and a small, tapered nose-but his eyes are a clear, pale blue, like a morning sky, and he has a nice strong jawline. And now I start to feel guilty. He must know I'm unhappy because I've been paired with him. It's not his fault I've changed-seen the light or contracted the deliria deliria, depending on who you ask. Maybe both.

"I'm sorry," I say. "It's not you. I'm just-I'm just scared about the procedure, that's all." I think of how many nights I used to fantasize about stretching out on the operating table, waiting for the anesthesia to turn the world to fog, waiting to wake up renewed. Now I'll be waking up to a world without Alex: I'll be waking up into into the fog, everything gray and blurry and unrecognizable. the fog, everything gray and blurry and unrecognizable.

Brian is looking at me, finally, with an expression I can't identify at first. Then I realize: pity. He feels sorry for me. He starts speaking all in a rush. "Listen, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but before my procedure I was like you." His eyes click back to the street. The wheezing has stopped. He speaks clearly, but low, so Carol and his mom can't hear through the open window. "I didn't-I wasn't ready." He licks his lips, drops his voice to a whisper. "There was a girl I used to see sometimes at the park. She babysat for her cousins, used to bring them to the playground there. I was captain of the fencing team in high school-that's where we practiced."

You would would be captain of the frigging fencing team be captain of the frigging fencing team, I think. But I don't say this out loud; I can tell he's trying to be nice.

"Anyway, we used to talk sometimes. Nothing happened," he qualifies quickly. "Just a few conversations, here and there. She had a pretty smile. And I felt..." He trails off.

Wonder and fear sweep through me. He's trying to tell me that we're alike. He somehow knows about Alex-not about Alex specifically, but about someone someone. "Wait a second." My mind is churning. "Are you trying to say that before the procedure you were... you got sick?"

"I'm just saying I understand." His eyes flick to mine for barely a fraction of a second, but that's all I need. I'm positive now. He knows I've been infected. I'm both relieved and terrified-if he can see it, other people will see it too.

"My point is only that the cure works." He places extra emphasis on the last word. I know, now, that he's trying to be kind. "I'm much happier now. You will be too, I promise."

Something inside of me fractures when he says that, and I feel like I could cry again. His voice is so rea.s.suring. There's nothing I want more in that moment than to believe him. Safety, happiness, stability: what I've wanted my whole life. And for that moment I think maybe the past few weeks really have just been some long, strange delirium. Maybe after the procedure I'll wake up as from a high fever, with only a vague recollection of my dreams and a sense of overwhelming relief.

"Friends?" Brian says, offering me his hand to shake, and this time I don't flinch when he touches me. I even let him hold my hand an extra few seconds.

He's still facing the street, and as we're standing there a frown flickers temporarily across his face. "What does he want?" he mutters, and then calls out, "It's okay. She's my pair."

I turn around just in time to see a flash of burnt golden-brown hair-the color of leaves in autumn-disappear around the corner. Alex. I wrench my hand away from Brian's, but it's too late. He's gone.

"Must have been a regulator," Brian says. "He was just standing there, staring."

The feeling of calm and rea.s.surance I'd had only a minute earlier vanishes in a rush. Alex saw me-he saw us, holding hands, heard Brian say I was his pair. And I was supposed to have met him an hour ago. He doesn't know that I couldn't get out of the house, couldn't get a message to him. I can't imagine what he must be thinking about me right now. Or actually, I can can imagine. imagine.

"Are you okay?" Brian's eyes are so pale they're almost gray. A sickly color, not like sky at all-like mold or rot. I can't believe I thought he could be attractive for even a second. "You don't look too good."

"I'm fine." I try to take a step toward the house and stumble. Brian reaches out to steady me, but I twist away from him. "I'm fine," I repeat, even though everything around me is breaking, fracturing.

"It's hot out here," he says. I can't stand to look at him. "Let's go inside."

He puts a hand on my elbow and propels me up the stairs, through the door, and into the living room, where Carol and Mrs. Scharff are waiting for us, smiling.

Chapter Twenty.

Ex rememdium salus.

"From the cure, salvation."

-Printed on all American currency By some miracle, I must make a good enough impression on Brian and Mrs. Scharff to satisfy Carol, even though I barely speak during the remainder of their visit (or maybe because because I barely speak). It's midafternoon by the time they leave, and although Carol insists I help out with a few more ch.o.r.es and she makes me stick around for dinner-every minute that I can't run to Alex an agony, sixty seconds of pure, driving torture-she promises me I can go for a walk when I'm done eating, before curfew. I inhale my baked beans and frozen fish sticks so fast I almost puke, and practically sit bouncing in my chair until she releases me. She even lets me out of dishwashing duty, but I'm too angry at her for cooping me up in the first place to feel grateful. I barely speak). It's midafternoon by the time they leave, and although Carol insists I help out with a few more ch.o.r.es and she makes me stick around for dinner-every minute that I can't run to Alex an agony, sixty seconds of pure, driving torture-she promises me I can go for a walk when I'm done eating, before curfew. I inhale my baked beans and frozen fish sticks so fast I almost puke, and practically sit bouncing in my chair until she releases me. She even lets me out of dishwashing duty, but I'm too angry at her for cooping me up in the first place to feel grateful.

I go to 37 Brooks first. I don't really think he'll be there waiting for me, but I'm hoping for it anyway. But the rooms are empty, the garden, too. I must be half-delirious by that point because I check behind the trees and bushes, as though he might suddenly pop out, like he used to do a few weeks ago when he and Hana and I would play our epic games of hide-and-seek. Just thinking about it brings a sharp pain to my chest. Less than a month ago all of August still stretched before us-long and golden and rea.s.suring, like an endless period of delicious sleep.

Well, now I've woken up.

I make my way back through the house. Seeing all our stuff scattered in the living room-blankets, a few magazines and books, a box of crackers and some cans of soda, old board games, including a half-completed game of Scrabble, abandoned when Alex began making up words like quozz quozz and and yregg yregg-makes me overwhelmingly sad, and reminds me of that single house that survived the blitz, and that cracked and bombed-out street: a place where everybody went on stupidly doing everyday things, right up until the moment of disaster, and afterward everyone said, "How could they not have known what was coming?"

Stupid, stupid-to be so careless with our time, to believe we had so much of it left.

I head into the streets, frantic and desperate now, but unsure of what to do next. He mentioned to me once that he lived on Forsyth-a long row of gray slab buildings owned by the university-so I go that way. But all the buildings look identical. There must be dozens of them, hundreds of individual apartments. I'm tempted to tear through each and every one until I find him, but that would be suicide. After a couple of students give me suspicious glances-I'm sure I look like a disaster, red-faced and wild-eyed and close to hysterical-I duck into a side street. To calm myself I start reciting the elemental prayers: "H is for hydrogen, a weight of one; when fission's split, as brightly lit, as hot as any sun..."

I'm so distracted walking home that I get lost in the tangle of streets leading away from the UP campus. I end up on a narrow one-way street I've never seen before and have to backtrack to Monument Square. The Governor is standing there as always, his empty palm outstretched, looking sad and forlorn in the fading evening light, as though he's a beggar, forever condemned to ask for alms.

But seeing him gives me an idea. I dig in the bottom of my bag for a sc.r.a.p of paper and a pen, and scrawl out, Let me explain, please. Midnight at the house. 8/17. Let me explain, please. Midnight at the house. 8/17. Then, after checking to make sure that no one is watching me from the few remaining lit windows that overlook the square, I hop up onto the statue's base and stuff the note into the little cavity in the Governor's fist. The chance that Alex will think to check there is a million to one. But still, there's a chance. Then, after checking to make sure that no one is watching me from the few remaining lit windows that overlook the square, I hop up onto the statue's base and stuff the note into the little cavity in the Governor's fist. The chance that Alex will think to check there is a million to one. But still, there's a chance.

That night, as I'm slipping out of the bedroom, I hear rustling behind me. When I turn around, Gracie's sitting up in bed again, blinking at me, her eyes as reflective as an animal's. I touch my finger to my lips. She does the same, an unconscious mimic, and I slip out the door.

When I'm on the street I look up once toward the window. For a second I think I see Gracie looking down at me, her face as pale as a moon. But maybe it's just a trick of the shadows skating silently over the side of the house. When I look again, she's gone.

The house at 37 Brooks is all dark when I push my way in through the window, and totally silent. He's not here He's not here, I think. He didn't come He didn't come-but a piece of me refuses to believe it. He must must have come. have come.

I've brought a flashlight with me, and I begin a sweep of the house, my second of the day, refusing for superst.i.tious reasons to call out for him. Somehow I can't stand it. If he doesn't answer, I'll be forced, finally, to accept that he never received my note-or, even worse, did receive it but has decided not to come.

In the living room I stop short.

All our things-the blankets, the games, the books-are gone. The warped wooden floor lies bare and exposed under the beam of my flashlight. The furniture sits cold and silent, stripped of all our personal touches, the discarded sweatshirts and half-used bottles of sunscreen. It has been a long time since I've been afraid of the house or frightened of walking into its rooms at night, but now a sense of the cavernous empty s.p.a.ces around me comes back-room after room of tumbling-down things, rotting things, rodents blinking at you from dark s.p.a.ces-and a deep chill runs through me. Alex must have been here after all, to clean up our stuff.

The message is as clear to me as any note. He's done with me.

For a moment I even forget to breathe. And then the Coldness comes, a surge of it so strong it hits me in the chest like a physical force, like walking straight into the breakers at the beach. My knees buckle and I go into a crouch, shivering uncontrollably.

He's gone. A strangled sound works its way out of my throat and breaks the silence around me all at once. Suddenly I'm sobbing loudly into the dark, letting the flashlight fall to the ground and blink out. I fantasize that I'll cry so much I'll fill the house and drown, or be carried away on a river of tears to some distant place.

Then I feel a warm hand on the back of my neck, working through a tangle of my hair.

"Lena."

I turn around and Alex is there, bending over me. I can't really make out his expression, but in the limited light it looks hard to me, hard and immobile, as though it's made out of stone. For a second I'm worried that I'm only dreaming him, but then he touches me again and his hand is solid and warm and rough.

"Lena," he says again, but he doesn't seem to know what else to say. I scramble to my feet, wiping my face on my forearm.

"You got my note." I'm trying to gulp back the tears but just succeed in hiccuping several times.

"Note?" Alex repeats.

I wish I was still holding the flashlight so I could see his face more clearly. At the same time, I'm terrified of it, and of the distance I might find there. "I left you a note at the Governor," I said. "I wanted you to meet me here."

"I didn't get it," he says. I think I hear a coldness in his voice. "I just came to-"

"Stop." I can't let him finish. I can't let him say that he came to pack up, that he doesn't want to see me again. It will kill me. Love, the deadliest of all deadly things. Love, the deadliest of all deadly things. "Listen," I say, hiccuping through the words. "Listen, about today... It wasn't my idea. Carol said I had to meet him, and I couldn't get a message to you. And then we were standing there and I was thinking about you, and the Wilds, and how everything is so changed and how there's no time, there's no more time for us, and for a second-a single second-I wished I could go back to how things were before." I'm not really making any sense, and I know it. The explanation I'd reviewed so many times in my head is getting all screwed up, words leapfrogging over one another. The excuses seem irrelevant: As I'm speaking I realize there's only a single thing that really matters. Alex and I are out of time. "But I swear I didn't really wish it. I would never have-if I'd never met you I could never have-I didn't know what anything "Listen," I say, hiccuping through the words. "Listen, about today... It wasn't my idea. Carol said I had to meet him, and I couldn't get a message to you. And then we were standing there and I was thinking about you, and the Wilds, and how everything is so changed and how there's no time, there's no more time for us, and for a second-a single second-I wished I could go back to how things were before." I'm not really making any sense, and I know it. The explanation I'd reviewed so many times in my head is getting all screwed up, words leapfrogging over one another. The excuses seem irrelevant: As I'm speaking I realize there's only a single thing that really matters. Alex and I are out of time. "But I swear I didn't really wish it. I would never have-if I'd never met you I could never have-I didn't know what anything meant meant before you, not really...." before you, not really...."

Alex pulls me toward him and wraps his arms around me. I bury my face in his chest. I seem to fit so precisely, just exactly as though our bodies had been built for each other.

"Shhh," he whispers into my hair. He's squeezing me so tightly it hurts a little, but I don't mind. It feels good, like if I wanted to I could lift my feet off the ground and stop trying at all and he'd still be holding me up. "I'm not mad at you, Lena."

I pull back just a fraction. I know that even in the dark I probably look horrible. My eyes are swelling up and my hair is sticking to my face. Thankfully, he keeps his arms around me. "But you-" I swallow hard, take deep breaths in and out. "You took everything away. All our stuff."

He looks away for a second. His whole face is swallowed in shadow. When he speaks his voice is over-loud, as though he can only say the words by forcing them out. "We always knew this would happen. We knew that we didn't have much time."

"But-but-" I don't have to say that we've been pretending. We've been acting as if things would never change.

He places a hand on either side of my face, wipes the tears away with his thumbs. "Don't cry, okay? No more crying." He kisses the tip of my nose lightly, then takes one of my hands. "I want to show you something." There's a small break in his voice, and I think of things coming unhinged, falling apart.

He leads me to the staircase. Far above us, the ceiling is rotted away in patches, so the stairs are outlined in silvery light. The staircase must have been magnificent at some point, sweeping upward majestically before splitting in two, leading to landings on either side.