One Last Song Part 18

She was praying. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her do that. Stunned, I found myself stepping in without even thinking about it.

Mum looked up and stiffened. "Saylor? What do you need?"

I opened my mouth and closed it again. She continued to watch me, not offering to fill the silence. Finally, I said, "That's... were you praying?"

She looked down for a minute before meeting my eye again. "It's called the Serenity Prayer. They teach it to us in AA." The tips of her ears were scarlet.

I walked in a little closer, my heart leaping when she didn't ask me to leave. Dr. Stone's words came back to me: I'd venture that your mum isn't drinking because of you. She's drinking because of herself, her own demons. And Mum's own words, when I was in the hospital: Sometimes people are more than what you think they are. "I like it. Does it help you?"

She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if the conversation were physically painful. But when she answered, her tone was even and soft, no hint of impatience there. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's still b.l.o.o.d.y difficult. The need to take a drink... it's a viselike grip, you know. There's no escaping it."

I was floored by the openness, the honesty flowing from her to me. I struggled to keep my face calm so as to not scare her away. I didn't want to shatter the moment. "If you... if there's some way I can help..." I shrugged, hoping she'd take my meaning.

She smiled at me. It was a tight-lipped thing, but it was genuine. I stared at it, reveling in the absolutely surreal moment. "Thank you, Saylor." She opened her mouth again, as if to say something else. I waited. But then she turned away, and I knew it was my cue to leave.

I ran into my dad in the kitchen, making himself an espresso. He smiled a quick, distracted sort of smile while he fiddled with the machine. "Hey, sweetheart."

"Hi." I glanced at the clock on the wall: ten fifteen a.m. "Running late today?"

"Ah, I've got a flight out at noon. I'm going to be in Arizona for a couple of days." We hadn't yet talked about me having been discharged from the hospital last week, but I wasn't surprised. If there was something unpleasant going on, my dad left the state.

His phone buzzed on the counter. He cursed under his breath. "Just leave it. It's probably that a.s.shat lawyer again, trying to get me to answer. Guy's like a G.o.dd.a.m.n pit bull."

My mind flashed back to Jack's birthday party. Noah Preston was the attorney his parents couldn't afford. I'd wondered where I knew the name from, and now I remembered: Preston was the name of the lawyer my dad didn't want to talk to.

I looked down at the BlackBerry screen. Noah Preston wanted something from my dad-a meeting. And Jack's parents and Drew wanted Noah Preston's time. Quid pro quo.

I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and a bottle of water from the fridge. "Have a good flight," I said, my wheels spinning. I had some research to do.

It didn't take long for me to find Preston's phone number on the Internet. Before I dialed, I went to the hallway and peered down into the living room. There was no sound.

"Dad?"

He must've left. I walked back to my room and dialed the number, wishing I didn't have to do it this way. I wasn't good on the phone. That was something my generation didn't exactly have to be good at: We were texters, master Skype conversationalists, and Twitter enthusiasts. Our phones functioned as cameras and maps and music players. Using the phone to talk on was something old people did. But Noah Preston belonged to that category, so I had to suck it up.

"Preston and Link, how may I direct your call?"

I glanced at the note I'd scrawled to myself so I'd sound competent. "h.e.l.lo. This is Victor Grayson's office returning a call from Noah Preston."

"Hold, please."

And just like that, I was in.

"h.e.l.lo?" Noah Preston's voice was rich and robust, and it reminded me of this very expensive bronze body oil I'd bought once on vacation.

"Hi. My name is Saylor Grayson. Um, I think you know my dad, Victor."

Silence.

"Look, I'm sorry I had to pretend it was his office calling you. But this is important." I switched the cell phone to my other hand and wiped my palm on my jeans.

A pause. "Really? I'm intrigued."

I imagined him in a pinstripe suit, puffing away on a cigar in an office that overlooked the sea. "Well, I know you've been trying to contact him. I've seen your number on his phone."

"Mm hmm..."

He was unflappable. In direct contrast, I was mopping sweat from my forehead. "I-I wanted to make a deal with you."

"What could I possibly have that you want, m'dear?"

"It's not exactly for me. I can get you a meeting with my dad, but only on the condition that you'll meet with my friend and his parents."

There was a silence. Then: "Your friend, is he a potential client?"

"Yes. And he doesn't have a lot of money, but what he has to say is really, really important. I want you to listen to him, to really consider his case. That's all I'm asking."

"And what if your father refuses to talk to me?"

I shrugged, which was stupid considering Preston couldn't see me. "I can get him to come to you. It's your job to hold his interest."

After a minute, when I was sure he was going to hang up on me, Preston laughed. Loud and hearty, as if we were old friends shooting the s.h.i.t. "All right. You've got my attention, Miss Grayson. I will meet with your friend and his parents. Have them come by my office next Thursday at eleven a.m. sharp. And in turn, I expect to have a meeting with your father the day after that. Shall we say noon? You can specify the place."

"That's great," I said. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

I hung up, grinning, and absentmindedly palpated my drained abscesses. I got Jack an appointment with Noah Preston. I still didn't know that he'd take on the case, but he had to, right? No one could turn Jack away after meeting him and seeing how badly off he was.

After a moment, I realized my skin didn't hurt nearly as much as it had been. I walked to my vanity, pulled down my shirt, and peeled back a bandage. The area was almost completely healed. I hadn't injected myself in... a week or more. I hadn't even been obsessing about it like I usually did, hands shaking with need for the needle. I shook my head at my reflection. What was happening to me?

Maybe some questions were best left unanswered. I took a deep breath, sat back down at my computer, and pulled up my email. I had one more thing to do.

Chapter Thirty-Six.

Hey. Have something to tell you. Can I come over?

A minute pa.s.sed, then two. I went to the bathroom to get dressed. When I came back, Drew still hadn't answered.

h.e.l.lo?

Still nothing. I called him, but it turned over to voice mail.

"Hey, it's me... Saylor. Um, I was wondering if I could come over to hang out. I have something fairly awesome to tell you. Call me."

I tried to remember if he'd mentioned having something to do today, but I couldn't think of anything. Besides, something poked and prodded at the back of my mind, like a tongue with a sore tooth. This wasn't like Drew. He wasn't the kind to not answer texts or voice mails. If he was busy, he'd text me back and tell me that. This silence... something was wrong with it.

My brain began throwing visions at me. Drew on the floor, helpless, fallen, injured. Drew outside in the ice with a broken leg and no one to help him, slowly succ.u.mbing to the deep sleep of hypothermia.

I grabbed my car keys and phone and ran down the stairs.

I knew driving like a maniac wasn't the smartest thing to do on icy roads, but I couldn't help it. Every minute I wasn't there was a minute longer Drew wasn't getting help. My brain had picked over the images so much that I was convinced I'd find him outside in the snow. I just hoped he wasn't dead when I got there.

My eyes scanning the snow and ice, my breathing heavy and ragged, I pulled into his parking s.p.a.ce. He wasn't outside as far as I could see. I turned off the car and ran to his door, slipping and sliding as I went. How had I never realized how horribly difficult the streets were to navigate in the winter, unless you were completely healthy and sure on your feet? I rang his doorbell, and while it dinged, I began to knock on his door.

"Drew," I said loudly, checking my cell phone with one hand to make sure he hadn't texted me back. "It's Saylor. Open the door, please."

I could hear sounds through the door, muted and m.u.f.fled. I pressed my ear against it and realized it was Carousel Mayhem.

There was a soft click, and I watched the doork.n.o.b twist, the door open a crack. Drew stood in front of me, his plaid shirt rumpled, leaning heavily on his cane. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. He frowned when he saw me, as if the light and my face combined were too much for him to take in.

"Saylor?"

"Yeah. I tried texting you. And calling you." I held up my cell phone like evidence. "Can I come in?"

Drew rubbed a hand up and down his face, as if he was trying to wake up. "Yeah. Yeah, of course." He stood to the side so I could enter.

The sounds of Carousel Mayhem got louder when I walked into his living room. There was a trail of CD cases arranged in a straight line in the center of the room. On the coffee table were two empty forty-ounce beer cans on their sides, a shot gla.s.s, and an open, half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. Drew sank down on the floor next to the table and poured himself another shot. He held it up to me in a sort of salute and downed it in one go.

I sat on the floor next to him and crossed my legs. Pa.s.sing my cell phone from one hand to the other, I said, "s.h.i.tty day so far?"

Drew looked up toward the ceiling, like he was thinking. "When I fell on my face trying to walk out of your hospital room and the nurse told me I needed a chair, I knew I needed to call my doctor. I finally got up the nerve to do it today, and guess what? He says it might just be time." He looked at me, his eyes bright and hard. "A f.u.c.king chair." He poured himself another shot and downed it.

I watched his beautiful throat as it spasmed while the liquor went down. "Can I have one?"

He handed me the bottle and closed his eyes to listen to the music, his torso swaying slightly.

I did a shot and shuddered from the awful taste. But then the warmth began to spread deep in the pit of my stomach, like a sunbaked ocean wave washing over me. I pointed to the CD cases. "What're those for?"

Drew glanced in the direction I was pointing. "My own balance and coordination testing center. I failed."

I could imagine it: Drew trying to walk without stumbling, using the CD cases as his guide. His big feet tangling, his deceptively muscular legs buckling under his weight, refusing to bend to his will. I saw him fall in a heap, crawl to the liquor cabinet, try to drown himself in whiskey and sound waves.

I scooted closer to him and put my arm around his waist. He went rigid for a moment, staring straight ahead. But then he sank down, lowering his head so it rested on my lap. He hugged me to him, as if he wanted to crawl inside me. He began to cry, soft, quiet, defeated sobs.

I stroked his hair. I said, "I love you." My heart shattered; my tears fell into his hair.

We sat there, not speaking, not doing anything but listening to the music. When the CD ended, I put in another and sat back in my spot, pulled his head back onto my lap. He looked like he was falling asleep. I raked a curl off his forehead.

What was it about pain that made us crave oblivion? We liked to think that we, as a species, were tough, that we could take anything, overpower anything, come out on top every time. But make us face our own individual mortality and we'd lie down and weep, curl in on ourselves, fade into empty s.p.a.ce. We couldn't deal.

I traced the flat, hollowed-out spots where my abscesses used to be. I stuffed myself full of bacteria and disease, trying to outrun myself, my anonymous existence in my own house. I numbed myself with physical pain because the emotional stuff was too messy. I knew that. The shrinks had told me a thousand times. What I didn't know was how to stop.

In that way I suppose Drew and I were the same: We were both defective with expired warranties. They couldn't send us back, couldn't exchange us for something bright and shiny and new.

I kissed his forehead, inhaling the soft warm scent of boy. His eyelids fluttered open, then fell closed again, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Don't ever leave," he said.

"I won't," I answered, closing my eyes and lying back against the couch to join him wherever he was.

When we finally woke up, Drew holding his head and wincing, it was pitch-black inside the house. I cracked the blinds and looked outside at the billowing gray snow clouds, like the undersides of enormous doves flying overhead.

"It's four o'clock in the afternoon," Drew said, behind me, staring at his cell phone screen. "Did we really sleep five hours?"

"I think we did." My voice was husky, my brain foggy. "That's the best nap I've ever had."

Drew smiled at me and held out one hand; the other held his phone to his ear. I put my hand in his and he pulled me down to his lap. I could hear my voice on his voice mail-the message I'd left before.

"What's this something 'fairly awesome' you have to tell me?" he asked, kissing the back of my head.

"Oh," I said, smiling at the memory. "I almost forgot! You're never going to believe this, but..." I turned around, straddling him so we were face-to-face. "I got Jack and his parents a meeting with Noah Preston."

Apparently distracted by the fact that I was straddling him, Drew leaned forward and kissed me. I was just getting into it when he broke off and looked at me, his face a picture of disbelief. "Wait. Noah Preston the attorney?"

I grinned, loving his "no way" face. "The very one."

"How? I mean, but he's-how?"

"Let's just say I have connections."

Drew smiled, leaning in to kiss me again. "I love your connections."

We were lying tangled up in each other on the floor, when Drew's cell phone rang. He sat up and answered it while I traced circles around the small constellation of beauty spots on his perfect back.

"Yeah, this is him." A pause. "Oh. Yes. He did tell me. Uh huh. Next Thursday at nine?... That's faster than I'd expected." Another pause while he listened. "No, that's okay. I can make it. Thank you." He hung up and set the phone on his knee, staring straight ahead.

I sat up, kissed his shoulder. "You okay?"

"That was the physical therapist my doctor referred me to," he said. "She wants me to go in Thursday, get fitted for a chair."

"I'll go with you," I said.