From LISTEN, chapter 12, originally posted as part of the PG Love Scene Blogfest.
Everything will be okay. Cool, fresh breezes tickle my skin. Everything smells green, crisp green–celadon green, like spring onions and baby lettuce leaves, the fancy fresh kind they sell in the organic market across town. The trees are trimmed with tiny, timid buds, flowers trembling to unfurl with the first warm day. My hands are still sticky from the crappy hospital coffee but I don’t care. When mom’s feeling better I’ll take her out for good coffee. We’ll go somewhere nice, somewhere that serves tiny little biscotti with espresso and puts mint sticks in their milkshakes, somewhere where fries are called pommes frites and served with aioli instead of ketchup. Maybe I’ll call Maddie, too, and we’ll celebrate mom getting better and me getting a girlfriend and Maddie being awesome like a crazy sitcom family minus the cute dog.
Maddie. I hung up on Maddie on Monday. Maddie on Monday. It sounds perfect–almost as perfect as Maddie on Tuesday or Maddie on Wednesday or Maddie everyday. Everything about her is perfect – the way she riffles pages when she talks, or picks at brownie, breaking off tiny pieces to draw the chocolate out as long as she can. I flip open my cell, scroll through the address book, then pause, hesitating. School finished twenty minutes ago. Should I call her? Will she be mad? She can’t be. She can’t be mad if I tell her about mom as soon as I pick up. She’ll be too busy being happy. Maddie’s too sweet and nice to hold a grudge. Only crazy perfectionist people like Leila hold grudges.
I hit dial. She picks up on the first ring.
“Hello? Jamal?” Her voice is wary, like she’s not sure if she’s happy I called.
“Uh, hi–hi Maddie.” My breath catches in my throat. I swallow one cough, then another, but the third comes back on me and suddenly I’m hacking into the phone like a seasoned smoker with a crapton of nicotine in my lungs.
“Jamal? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m,” hack-hack-hack, “I’m goo–” hack-hack, “fine.” Clamping my mouth closed I suck air in through my nose, then push it out my mouth, forcing myself to breathe slowly.
“So…”
“SoIjustwantedtocalltosayI’msorryIhungupandmymomisdoingbetterandI’matotaljerkandumthat’sall.” I suck in more air then try again. “Sorry. Sorry I just wanted to say…I’m sorry I…my mom’s doing better.” My thumb hovers over the end call button but I don’t have the guts to hang up on her again. “So, yeah.”
“I’m happy for you.” This time, her voice is light, light as the tiny pink buds on a nearby bush. “I kind of have to go–”
“Sure, sure, unless…maybe you want to hang out? I could walk you home or we could go for lunch or a late lunch or a snack or vegan brownies, you like vegan brownies.”
“I was just going to say I have to put the phone down while I rearrange my bag, can you hang on a sec…” What the hell is wrong with me? “But where are you?”
“In–” Where am I? The hospital is somewhere behind me, completely out of sight. “Hang on.” I sprint to a corner, looking for street signs, trying to get my bearings. “At the corner of Brady and Park.” Farrow Ave., St. Thomas’ street, crosses Park. “I could be there in maybe fifteen? I’m not sure how far down Park I am.”
“This must be your lucky day.” Down the street, a figure in a St. Thomas’ uniform waves. “I’m going to hang up for real this time. Stay put, okay?”
“Okay.”
I watch her as she walks, my eyes meeting hers then flicking away, taking in the light spring in her walk, the way her skirt hits just above the knee, half an inch shorter than St. Thomas’ regulation. She waves, a short jaunty whisk of her hand; I wave back. We’re still too far to talk, wading through that awkward space between together and apart, working out what to say but having to wait to say it. Her bag falls off her shoulder, catching in her elbow; she pauses to reset it again, her whole body heaving with the effort. She waves again, as if to let me know she’s okay, but I jog toward her anyway. When we come level, I reach for her bag, start to slide it free.
“You don’t have to do that. I can manage.”
“I know. But I–isn’t that what–just let me carry the bag, okay?”
She shrugs it off her shoulder; a long, thick line dents her shirt. Frick. My body sags with the weight. “It’s fine,” I bluster. “I just wasn’t expecting the weight.” I heave the thing upward; it thuds into my back then settles into the groove between my shoulder and collarbone. “See? Perfectly fine.”
“Okay then, if you’re sure…” She falls into step with me; her hand brushes mine, her fingers nibbling at the space between mine until they slip quickly, easily into my hand, tangling until our palms touch. Her skin is warm and dry but soft, too, like a towel left in the sun on a summer’s day. I press my palm into hers, tightening our grip, then freeze.
“My–I’m sorry. My hands are a bit sticky…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No–it’s not. My uncle brought me some coffee and it has the cheap milk powder that gets all over the cup.” I start to tug my hand free, but she doesn’t let me.
“Relax, Jamal. It’s just milk powder. At least your hands aren’t stained with ink and paint. I’m going to have to scrub mine with laundry powder when I get home.”
“What’ve you been painting? Or drawing?”
“Nothing important. Mr. Mahoney’s making me do a lot of copies right now. It’s all fluffy impressionist stuff, lots of short strokes. He says I need to learn to let go of exactitude, to paint in the moment. If I wanted to do something in the moment, I’d take a photograph.” Our hands swing a little; hers softens. The movement is so slight I think I’m imagining but when she speaks again, her voice is softer, too.
“The ink is from this study I’ve been doing. I was leafing through a couple of fairy tale books in the library and I found these great rose trellis pictures. The flowers are all windy but stylized, kind of like woodcuts, I think. I’ve been toying around with modernizing them, making them into a sort of street-tattoo-graphic novel thing. It’s just little, like A5, and I’m going to block in a border, so it’s even smaller than that.”
“Color or black and white?”
“Black and white just now, but if turns out really well I thought I could goth it up a little, make it sort of Victorian punk with deep reds, maybe some carmine and rosewood with little tints of falu.”
“I love it.” I love you.
“Yeah, me too.” She stops suddenly; I keep walking. Our hands pull, start to jerk apart, but I clutch at her, yanking her forward until she skids into my side, knocking the bag off my shoulder. “Oh, God, I’m sorry!” Laughing,she helps me reposition it. “I probably shouldn’t have borrowed so many fairy tale books home, but I couldn’t resist.”
My shoulder stings, but I don’t care. “It’s okay.” You could have borrowed half the library and I’d still carry them for you. “Why’d you–”
“Stop? ‘Cause of your mom! I’ve been babbling about a stupid sketch like a first class moron when I should’ve been asking about your mom!”
“Oh, yeah, she’s good.” I’m almost afraid to say more, in case I jinx it, but Maddie looks so concerned I can’t help myself. I tell her about mom’s hands and her eyes opening, looking at me. Maddie’s smile is gone, but her forehead crinkles as she listens, and her eyes are bright like she’s analyzing every word, and she squeezes my hand the whole time.
When I’m done, she stops, then leans into me for a moment. “I’m really happy for you.”
“Me too.”
She stands up, slides her fingers free. “This is my house. I’d say come in, but the babysitter will be leaving any minute and I’ll have to get Sofia showered–which she hates–and make sure she’s done her homework–which she also hates–and try and feed her something healthier than marshmallow fluff–which she loves.” She holds her hand out for the bag.
“That’s okay.” I’ll have to tell Ritchie to bring marshmallow fluff to story time. If Sofia’s busy eating, he might actually get through a story without interruptions. “So…maybe we could get together soon?”
“Yeah. Spring break starts this week.” She slings the bag over her shoulder, then picks at the handle with her thumbnail.
“There’s a Secret Fish show on the weekend, if you want to come. They do free music nights at the museum sometimes and Ritchie and I think they’re kind of fun.” And if Maddie’s there, it might stop Ritchie from offering to play along with his piano accordion. Last time, they actually asked him up on stage to jam, and he broke into Zorba, insisting it’s modern-Greek-trance-techno. Secret Fish are so nice they went along with it and Janice even did the Greek kicking-dancing thing, but I swear they’ll kick us out if he tries it again.
“Cool. Email me the details, okay? Don’t forget this time!”
“I’ll do it first thing when I get home. Promise.”
She sticks out her pinky finger. “Pinky promise?”
“Pinky promise.” We pinky shake–she kisses my cheek–our fingers fall apart.
