CHAPTER ELEVEN
When I woke up on the couch, following my horrible night, I was more than surprised to be hit with the late morning sun. My head still throbbed in the worst way, but my stomach had settled enough to prevent me from barfing again. I could also feel the heat in my cheeks and chills and aches all over my body.
“What time is it?” I asked after seeing Coach Bentley’s feet tiptoeing around the living room.
“Ten thirty,” he said.
I tried to sit up, but failed miserably. “What about practice?”
“Stacey’s covering it,” he said. “And you’re getting at least the day off. I made the mistake of letting Ellen practice with the flu last week and look how that turned out. Had she taken the time to recover, she might have avoided getting pneumonia and being out for a week.”
Coach Bentley made me drink a cup of blue Gatorade. I avoided telling him that Stacey wouldn’t approve and swallowed another three Advil before falling back to sleep.
I didn’t wake up again until around two thirty, when Jordan came home from school. My eyes were half open, but I watched him drag his feet slowly across the living room, coughing into his sleeve.
“Uh oh,” I muttered. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”
“It appears that way.” He stumbled toward me and next thing I knew, he was lifting me under my arms off the couch. “Shortest sick person takes the short side.”
I snatched the pillow and walked three agonizing steps before falling onto the cold side of the L–shaped couch. “Just don’t stick your feet in my face.”
He reached for the ear thermometer on the coffee table and held it in his ear for a few seconds before glancing at it. “One oh three point five. I’m dying, right? It feels like I’m dying.”
“Join the club.” I closed my eyes again and barely listened in on Coach Bentley talking to Jordan, giving him Advil and Gatorade, probably.
February 16
Dad,
In the book Grandma gave me, the author says, “Death is but a transition from this life to another existence where there is no more pain or anguish.” To me, that sounds like something a very selfish person would say to convince themselves that it’s okay to be happy after you lose someone. Unless I have proof of this other existence, then I can’t believe you and Mom have gone anywhere and the only thing I should be doing is pretending it never happened. Why are people so full of crap when it comes to death? Why can’t anyone give me a straight answer?
Love, Karen
Jordan,
Hasn’t anyone ever told you that when you wear tennis shoes without socks, your shoes get really stinky?
—Karen
***
The twenty–four hours following Jordan coming home sick were a blur of sleeping, TV, listening to Jordan barf in the downstairs bathroom, the beep of the thermometer, and the letters dictating themselves in my head.
When I opened my eyes, late morning on Wednesday, the footsteps creaking around the house were lighter and different from the sound of Coach Bentley’s feet. I had already memorized his walking noises. Jordan was asleep on the long part of the couch, still in his school clothes from yesterday. I tapped the bottom of his foot and he lifted his head a few inches. “Huh?”
“Someone’s here,” I whispered. “Not your dad.”
“There’s a baseball bat in the closet by the front door.” He rolled on his side, tugging his blanket up to his neck and closing his eyes again. “What’s your temperature?”
In the few hours he and I had been awake, we fought over the TV and finally came to an agreement that whoever had the highest fever got to pick the show. I was pretty sure he skipped a dose of Advil just to be able to watch Pawn Stars last night.
“One oh two point seven.” I handed the thermometer over to him.
He barely had the strength to reach down and take it from my hands, let alone hold it to his ear. “One oh four point three. I win.”
“Hey, you’re awake.”
I lifted my head again and saw Stacey standing near the door to the kitchen. My head fell back against the pillow. “Good news, Jordan, we won’t need the baseball bat.”
He was already snoring softly, the stuffiness in his nose preventing him from breathing clearly.
“How are you feeling?” Stacey asked.
I tried to pull myself to a sitting position. This was Stacey, my coach, who wanted me to be tough and show no fear or weakness. No whining allowed in gymnastics. “I’m okay…”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Coach Bentley had to go in and get some work done. I told him I’d look after you guys. Olivia’s spending the day with Grandma.”
I was suddenly aware of the grunginess of my appearance—same pajamas for nearly two days, sweaty, matted–down, unwashed hair and un–brushed teeth. I attempted to slide sideways off the couch. “I really need to shower.”
“I’ll help you,” she said.
“No, I’ll be fine.”
Stacey rolled her eyes at me. “You’re not fine, Karen. And if you fall down the stairs or hit your head on the bathtub, I’ll be the one answering to Nina Jones and the National Team Committee. Not to mention Coach Bentley, who was more than reluctant to leave you guys today.”
I didn’t argue anymore. Not if she was okay with me asking for help. Stacey led me upstairs, turned on the bathwater, and poured in some of my new body wash, causing it to fill with bubbles. I got undressed and slid in. It felt like heaven. Like floating on clouds. Never had I appreciated hot water more than today. She left the door to the bathroom open while she wandered into my room looking for clothes. Hopefully, Jordan wouldn’t figure out a way to get off the couch and then come stumbling in here to pee.
“Looks like you need some laundry done,” Stacey said from my room.
After she started a load of laundry, she brought me clean clothes—flannel pants, a baggy T–shirt, and my favorite fuzzy socks. I sat on the toilet seat brushing my teeth while Stacey combed the tangles out of my wet hair.
“I bet you and Jordan will be the first ones in line for a flu shot next year,” Stacey said, while twisting my hair into a knot on top of my head.
“I’m ready right now.” It was amazing how much being sick and unable to move made you appreciate simple things like a hot bath, fresh clothes, and clean teeth.
Stacey picked up a giant green hair bow from my basket of toiletries lying next to the bathtub. I watched her hesitate, drawing in a deep breath as she stared at the green ribbon balled up in her hand. “I remember these,” she whispered. “When you and Blair were level nine, even before Ellen came to the gym.”
I couldn’t say anything. I knew what she was thinking about. But when Stacey finally looked at me, I was surprised by the tears in her eyes. “I remember your mom helping you guys make these for the entire team in the hotel room before Junior Olympics. I thought they were hideous. She did, too. But when you gave her one, she wore it the next day to the competition. None of the other moms did that. I remember looking up in the stands and seeing this woman totally put together, perfect outfit and a big–ass bow in her hair that didn’t even match.” She exhaled and looked at her hands again. “I remember thinking how much I wanted to be that kind of mother whenever I had kids.”
The lump in my throat was so big I couldn’t even think about speaking. Luckily, Stacey walked behind me again and I managed to wipe the tears away the second they spilled out.
“I miss her in the gym, at parent meetings, at competitions,” Stacey said, her voice wavering a bit more with each word. “I can’t even imagine how you must feel.”
This was our first conversation about my parents, and it ended as quickly as it had begun. But not until Stacey silently took the green bow and twisted it around my bun, pausing briefly to admire her work. In the mirror, I could see a sad smile spread across her face.
I wanted so badly to remember something and smile like Stacey had, but how could I when I had no clue where they had gone? How could I do anything but break apart at the mention of them?
By the time I got settled onto the couch again, a fresh pillow and blanket to comfort me, I was beyond exhausted. That little bit of effort drained me completely.
When I woke up again, Jordan was sitting up, wearing burgundy sweatpants and a gray T–shirt. His hair was wet and his face a little bit stubbly. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a tissue pressed to his nose.
“Showers are great, aren’t they?” he said after seeing my eyes open. “I think I blew about twenty pounds of snot down the shower drain. Hot water clears the sinuses.”
“Yeah, for about ten minutes, then it comes back again.” I sat up halfway and reached for the glass of water Stacey had left for me.
“But it’s a lovely ten minutes.”
“How did you get upstairs?” I asked, wondering if Stacey had helped him strip down, like she had with me, and if he was well enough to enjoy it.
“I crawled most of the way. Stacey said she’d let me do it alone since me getting injured wasn’t a threat to the state of USA gymnastics.” He nodded in my direction. “But she did bring me clean clothes and put toothpaste on my toothbrush for me. My mouth has tasted like vomit for at least fourteen hours. I debated gargling bleach.”
I glanced at the clock, seeing that it was nearly three. “Looks like I’m missing another practice. This totally sucks.”
Stacey came in then, a big stack of my clothes folded neatly in her arms. “I’ve got chicken soup on the stove. Think you guys can eat anything?”
Jordan and I both glanced warily at each other. “Maybe if she brings me a bucket to puke in,” he muttered under his breath.
“We might feel better if we eat,” I suggested.
The soup turned out to be good, though neither of us could even make a dent in our bowls. Stacey set up Olivia’s humidifier in the living room for us before leaving to coach the evening practice.
“One oh two point nine,” I announced to Jordan while reaching for the TV remote.
“One oh three point one,” he said triumphantly.
“Lucky.”
He flashed me a devilish grin, then selected an episode of Top Chef from the DVR. It was a good compromise, though I didn’t tell him that for fear of more History Channel.
“You do realize why you’re sick right now, don’t you?” I asked in the middle of the show.
“Oh yeah…I’ll let you know when I feel well enough to be pissed off at you for that.”
“Hey,” I said, not hiding the defensive edge in my voice. “You kissed me.”
Jordan turned the TV down a few notches and angled himself to face me. I was sitting up now, curled in the corner of the couch, knees pulled up to my chest underneath the thick blanket.
“You really freaked me out the other night,” he admitted.
The ends of his hair curled a little, probably from being wet. It looked really cute. “Sorry about that.”
“Last year this kid in my dorm died of meningitis—”
“What dorm?”
Jordan looked completely bewildered by my confusion. Obviously, I had missed something important about his life. “My school is a boarding school. Also a day school. This is my first semester as a nonresident.”
“Huh,” I said, sinking further into my spot. “What made you move back home during the school year?”
“Half the cost.” Jordan shrugged. “There was a coaching position open and my dad took it, knowing I’d be able to live at home and save us fifteen thousand dollars this year. I couldn’t change my plans for last fall since I’d already committed to paying the resident fees, but they found a replacement for my room before winter break.”
“So you’ve been around here all this time,” I said.
“Since freshman year.”
“That’s why you said you don’t know him,” I mused, thinking aloud. “Your dad.”
“That’s one of the reasons. I had some problems before high school. I got in trouble a lot, did some stupid stuff.” He glanced down at his hands. “My dad and I were in Chicago then, living in my grandparents’ house.”
His dead grandparents’ house. “What kind of stupid stuff?”
“Getting caught drinking, smoking pot. I got arrested a couple times.” He shut his eyes like he didn’t want to look at me when he admitted this.
I worked hard to keep my expression neutral. “For what?”
“Underage drinking the first time, and the second time I was skateboarding on private property…at three in the morning.” He opened his eyes and gave me a tiny smile. “I fell and broke my arm. My friend freaked out and called an ambulance. It was kinda bent funny and the bone was poking through the skin.”
“Did you have surgery?”
He lifted his arm to show me the scar. “I’ve got metal pins in there, too. Don’t go to an airport with me.”
“But you weren’t, like, cutting school and showing up drunk and high all the time, were you?” I asked trying to get a gauge on this bad version of Jordan.
“No, but I was a bit of a daredevil, and the fact that I had to appear in court a few times and had an assigned social worker for a while worried my grandparents a lot.”
“The grandparents in England? Your mom’s parents?”
He nodded. “They’re rich and British, so they told my dad I needed to go to a better school and probably one that’s a boarding school. Apparently that’s what wild British boys do to straighten up, instead of juvenile detention. The ones with money, anyway. They found a school in St. Louis, which didn’t seem too far from Chicago and it didn’t sound too bad to me. It actually sounded kind of cool. I wanted to go. And for the most part, it is pretty cool.”
“So they pay for it?” I asked.
“They did the first year. I got some academic scholarship money for good grades and then my dad applied for financial scholarships to fill in the rest because he doesn’t like to take handouts from my grandparents,” he said. “It’s a little awkward around them now. Not that I’ve seen them more than a handful of times since leaving England.”
“So you were a little British boy.” I smiled at the thought. “Did you have an accent?”
“I did. It’s so weird to hear myself talk on videos.” His face turned serious again and I could sense his need to change the subject.
“So…that’s the story behind the dorm disease phobia,” I said.
“Yep.” He smiled. “I’m just glad you don’t have meningitis.”
I laughed. “Yeah, ‘cause then you’d have it too.”
“That’s not the only reason I’m glad.” He lifted his gaze again, looking right at me. “What were you dreaming about the other night when Dad woke you up?”
I covered my face with my hands. “God, that was awful. Did I scream really loud? In my dream I was screaming and it felt so…real.”
“Loud enough to wake my dad up from downstairs.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “In the dream, it wasn’t them…I mean, I know it wasn’t my parents, but it didn’t sound like them either. We were in the car and they kept saying, ‘Don’t you want to come with us, Karen, we’re a family, we should do this together.’ And I didn’t want to. I wanted out of that car so bad I couldn’t even think about my mom or my dad or what was about to happen to them. I jumped out.” For some reason I felt guilty for having this subconscious reaction and a tiny part of me worried what Jordan would think.
Jordan took a deep breath and I felt him slide a little closer. “I used to have nightmares like that too. I saw the explosion in so many different ways, things you couldn’t even imagine. Stuff I would be too scared to ever say out loud. Dad used to have to wake me up like he did with you. But I always made up something, told him I dreamt that I went to school naked or got locked out of the house in the winter.”
“How do I make it stop?” I asked him, desperate to keep a nightmare sequel from happening.
“You tell me about it,” he said frankly. “Every time. Give me all the worst details and then your mind won’t have this horrible stuff buried that’s only allowed to come out when you’re unconscious.”
That was when I remembered what he said the other night, about not having anything to offer anyone, except me. He gets it. He gets me.
And then my hand was under his blanket, fumbling around for his. The gesture was completely friendly, but the electric shock that surged through my weak and barely functioning body was anything but friendly.
“Jordan?”
“Huh?” His eyes had drifted shut again, and he tried and failed to pull them open.
“I’m sorry you’re sick.”
A smile spread across his sleepy face and he squeezed my hand. “I’m not.”
February 17
Jordan,
I have a crush on you. And I really don’t know what to do about it.
—Karen
Stacey,
You are a great mom. Olivia is lucky to have you.
—Karen