The Catastrophic History of You And Me Page 9

  The place felt warped. Twisted. A ghost of its former self.

  Just like me.

  I couldn’t take my eyes away.

  “What happened here?” I asked.

  “What always happens,” Patrick said. “They lost somebody.”

  The sound of a door opening caught my attention. A little boy with unkempt dark hair, jeans, and a black sweatshirt jogged out and flew down the steps, not bothering to close the door behind him. He dropped his soccer ball on the driveway and kicked it hard against the metal garage door.

  BAM!

  BAM!

  BAM!

  It was Jack. In a flash, goose bumps broke out all over my body. He was so close. He was so real. His cheeks bright rosy red and his nose all stuffed up from the chilly autumn air. I wanted to run to him, to wrap him up in a giant bear hug and never let go. I watched him wipe his nose on the back of his sleeve. Then drop the ball and blast it again toward the garage.

  BAM!

  I took a step up the driveway, but stopped, realizing the total Dickensian bitch of it all.

  “He can’t see me.”

  “True,” said Patrick. “But on the plus side, your hair’s a little scary right now anyway, so maybe it’s for the best.”

  I reached for my unruly waves to try and smooth things out, but stopped when I realized Patrick was just taunting me. Again. I started to give him my usual glare but stopped when I heard the screen door swing open a second time.

  “Jack!”

  My mother’s voice.

  And then I saw her, leaning halfway out the front door. Her green sweater, the super-soft one Grandma got her for Christmas last year. Her tortoiseshell glasses. Her dark, wavy ponytail. Was it a little shorter than I remembered?

  Mom.

  I felt my throat close up and tiny little pinpricks shoot across the back of my neck. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to run to her so bad.

  “Jack, honey, please don’t kick so hard against the garage. It’s too loud. Daddy’s trying to sleep.”

  “Sleep?” I said. “Still? What time is it?”

  It had to be at least eleven in the morning. And my dad was an early bird. He always got up at the crack of dawn so he could squeeze an hour of surfing in before heading to work. No way could he still be sleeping! He used to get annoyed with us if we slept past nine, even on the weekends.

  “Okay.” Jack’s voice was distant. Like he definitely wasn’t listening and he definitely didn’t care. Without meeting her eyes, he threw the ball down, took a running leap, and kicked again. This time, even harder than before.

  BAM!

  Mom shook her head. She was annoyed, I could tell, but didn’t have it in her to ask him again. She let the door slam behind her as she went back inside.

  “One big happy family,” said Patrick.

  I ignored him. Walked up the driveway and sat down about ten feet from where Jack was kicking his ball.

  Jack Cheddar.

  He was beautiful. Just a beautiful, sweet, sullen boy. Turning nine in a few months. A thought popped into my head.

  What if he’s forgotten me?

  He pulled off his sweatshirt and threw it on the ground. Then he sat down cross-legged on the grass, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a deck of cards. I’d been teaching him how to shuffle over the summer. He’d nearly gotten it. But his hands were still just a little too small to master it. He split the deck in half like I’d shown him (fewer cards makes it easier), but when he went to make the bridge—trying to bend the cards in a smooth, rounded arch—they slipped out of his fingers and flew all over the grass.

  “Shoot,” he muttered.

  “Try again,” I called out. “Use your thumbs this time.”

  He repeated the same exact steps, but just like before, the cards went flying. “Damnit!” He gave up and went back to kicking his soccer ball.

  There’s nothing I can do. I’m totally useless. A complete and total waste of space.

  “Well, not technically, since you’re not technically taking up any space,” Patrick said. “You know, if we’re being technical.”

  I smacked my hand against my forehead. “Oh my god, do you EVER shut up?”

  He smiled. “Not really.”

  I would’ve come up with some kind of witty retort, but the sound of yelling caught my attention. I got up and walked over toward the kitchen window to get a better look. There they were. Mom and Dad. Sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. An untouched mug of coffee sat in front of him; an unread newspaper and empty plate in front of her. She was crying. He had his head buried in his hands.

  “You’ve got to stop,” she said. “How much longer are you going to put us all through this? How much longer are you going to put Brie through it?”

  Me? They’re fighting about me?

  “I need to understand,” he said. “I can’t let it go until I do.”

  “You’re obsessed,” Mom said, her voice breaking. “You can’t fix her. She’s gone, Daniel. When are you going to accept it?”

  “It doesn’t make sense, Katie.”

  “She’s gone, Daniel, listen to yourself.” She got up from the table and carried her plate to the kitchen sink. Turned the hot water on, so steam began fogging up the window where I was peering in. I leaned in closer.

  “She was healthy,” Dad continued. “We were on top of it. Her heart was healthy.”

  “Or maybe it wasn’t.” Mom was crying again. She paused to wipe her tears away. “Maybe we were wrong.”

  “No!” Dad slammed his fist down on the kitchen table suddenly, knocking over the sugar bowl. The sound made Mom and me both jump. “An acute massive coronary in a fifteen-year-old girl? Tissue doesn’t just tear, Katie. A heart doesn’t just split in goddamn half!”

  “Calm down,” said Mom. “Jack can hear you.”

  Dad took a deep breath. Looked like he was trying to collect himself. “My team has never seen a case like it,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Brie could help us save other people—to make sure something like this won’t happen again.”

  “It’s not your fault, Daniel,” Mom whispered. “It’s not anybody’s fault.”

  “That boy had something to do with this.” Dad shook his head. “I know he did.”

  You’re right, Dad. You’re so close.

  “What are you going to do?” Mom demanded. “Lock up a sixteen-year-old boy for having a fight with your daughter? He’s a child, Daniel. You saw her heart—” Her voice wavered. “You saw it with your own eyes. We all did. Don’t you dare try and tell me Jacob Fischer is responsible for that.” She broke down, sobbing.

  More than you think.

  “You’ve been sleeping at the office for weeks.” Mom turned around to face him, tears flowing down her cheeks. “We need you here, Daniel. Jack and I need you.”

  “What about Brie?” he said. “She doesn’t?”

  “She’s GONE!” Mom screamed at the top of her lungs, her shoulders shaking.

  No, no, no, please don’t fight, please don’t fight.

  I wanted to cover my eyes and my ears—I wanted to run away and never come back. But I couldn’t tear myself away from the window.

  “I’m close,” said Dad. “I have a theory.”

  “You have us,” sobbed Mom. “Isn’t that enough?” She tried to hug him, but he pulled away.

  “No.” He stood up. “Not right now it’s not.” He took his car keys from the counter. “I’m one of the top cardiac surgeons in the world, Katie. How do you think it looks? How do you think it looks when I don’t have an answer for what happened to my own daughter?”

  That’s my dad for you. Always the realist. It was what he did best, after all. He gave the facts. He laid out the truth. People came from all over the country—all over the world, even—seeking his help. It had to be killing him that he hadn’t been able to put me, his own daughter, back together again.

  Mom was different. She was the artist in our family. The free spirit. She t
aught advanced drawing classes at the SF Art Institute. When they first met, their differences made them stronger. Now those very same differences were tearing them apart.

  “They need me at the hospital,” Dad said.

  “We need you here,” said Mom.

  Stop it, stop it, please don’t fight, not over me. I’m so sorry.

  “I’ll try not to be too late.”

  “What about dinner?” said Mom bitterly. “It’s her birthday, Daniel. You’re really going to work late tonight?”

  I froze. My birthday. I turned to Patrick.

  “Sixteen,” he said. “Happy birthday, Brie.”

  Dad sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Your best isn’t good enough.”

  “I have to do this, Kathryn.” His voice was cold. Angry. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d called my mom by her full name.

  She stormed out of the kitchen. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

  I darted from the kitchen window, back across the yard. I took the porch steps two at a time, racing to the front door. I had to try and talk to them. I had to let them know they didn’t have to worry about me. I would go inside, and everything would be okay. I’d find a way to make it okay. This was my family. And they needed my help.

  You can’t, Patrick whispered inside my head.

  Can’t what? Stop telling me what I can and can’t do.

  I reached out, preparing to feel the cool touch of smooth, hard metal just like I had a thousand times before. But when I grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it, nothing happened.

  What the—?

  I tried again. Then again. I was locked out.

  “I hate this stupid house!” I lashed out, trying to kick the door in.

  Still nothing. No matter what I did or how much I pushed and shoved and rammed my body into the door, it wouldn’t budge.

  “I hate it I hate it I hate it!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, the words burning my throat like hot coals. After a minute, I collapsed on the porch stairs, breathing hard. I was so angry that tiny wisps of steam were rolling off my arms and back. I was literally on fire.

  Patrick slowly made his way up the steps. “Feel better?”

  I’ve got to go inside.

  You CAN’T.

  “That’s crazy!” I screamed. “Why not?” I spun back around, jumped up, and tried the door all over again. Yelled for someone—anyone—to please, please, please let me in.

  “You’re not ready, Brie. Not yet.”

  “What do you mean, not yet?” I snapped. “I went to Jacob’s party. Why can’t I go home? Look, I’m focusing.” I squinted at the door and concentrated as hard as I could. “I’m focused. None of this makes any sense.”

  Patrick spoke quietly. “It doesn’t have to, Angel.”

  Jack darted right past me then, pulling the front door open with one quick turn, no big deal. I tried to sneak in behind him. Tried to shove my foot in the opening. Anything to get inside. But the door slammed shut in my face.

  Not welcome.

  I sank to my knees, resting my head against one of the windows on either side of the front door. They were yelling again. Dad’s voice was booming through the house loud and clear, and I could hear Hamloaf barking his head off. I banged on my thighs with my fists. “I’m right here! Stop it, you two! Stop fighting!”

  I glanced through the window. Inside, things looked the same as always. The same hardwood floors; the same coat closets; the same china cabinet in the dining room; the same big comfy couches peeking out from the family room; the same shelves and shelves and shelves of books. Mom’s cute little potted plants lining our glassed-in back porch, all wild and unkempt and probably needing water like crazy.

  But there was nothing I could do. Nothing but watch my sweet, once-perfect family fall apart around me. I squeezed my eyes shut and clunked my forehead against the glass.

  I hate this. I hate this so much. Everything is so unfair.

  A tiny sniff suddenly caught my attention. Then a whine, followed by an excited sneeze. I looked up and felt myself melt into pieces.

  There, staring at me through the window, his long, silky ears and kissable face just inches from my own, was Hamloaf.

  CHAPTER 16

  total eclipse of the heart

  This couldn’t be real. Those big brown eyes couldn’t possibly be looking at me. I spun around to check the street. There had to be a squirrel, or a cat, or some other animal that must have caught his attention. A jogger, maybe? Or a stray Frisbee from the Brenners’ front yard? But nothing stood out. Nothing seemed to be moving at all.

  Well, that’s weird.

  I turned back to the window, and there was Hamloaf, still sitting in the exact same spot as before and still looking right at me. He hadn’t budged an inch. His bright white chest was all puffed out, and his head was cocked curiously to the side. He sniffed the air and let out a deep, uncertain woof.

  “Hey there, handsome boy,” I whispered.

  He tilted his head again in that unbelievably cute way dogs do when they’re like, huh?, and I watched as his tail began to thump gently on the floor.

  This is not even a little bit possible.

  I couldn’t help myself, and slowly reached out my hand toward the glass.

  He jumped back and began to bark.

  “Shh!” I said. “Quiet!”

  His ears perked up the second the words left my mouth.

  “Good boy,” I said, my eyes locked on his sweet old basset houndy face. “Come on, boy. Come on.” I reached toward him a second time. Let my hand come to rest on the window.

  Hamloaf went still. His tail stopped thumping and he leaned in cautiously for another sniff.

  “Hammy?” I searched his eyes. But there was no recognition. There was nothing.

  He can’t see me. Who am I kidding?

  “I’m sorry,” Patrick said softly from the porch stairs. “I really am.”

  My hand fell back to my side. And I began to cry.

  “I’m so stupid,” I said. “You were right. I’m just stuck here forever and ever, through the rest of this lame-ass eternity, without any family, or any friends—”

  “Um, thanks,” interrupted Patrick.

  “—or my boyfriend, or even my dog—”

  “Brie, wait—”

  “—until, like, my soul disintegrates or the universe explodes—”

  “Brie, look—”

  “—or whichever awful thing comes first—”

  “God, will you LOOK?”

  “Huh?” I looked up.

  Hamloaf was scratching the window. Right where my hand had been.

  “Oh my god,” I whispered. I couldn’t believe it. It was the only trick we’d ever managed to teach him.

  He’s trying to shake.

  Tears began spilling down my cheeks and I let out a giant laugh. “You crazy dog, you CAN see me!” For a moment, all of the anger inside me melted away. I jumped up, clapping my hands and laughing my head off while Hamloaf started barking and baying and spinning in circles on the other side of the glass.

  “Good boy!” I cried. “Good boy!”

  He responded by leaping up and furiously trying to lick the window.

  Patrick shook his head. “I’ll be damned. Never seen anything like that.”

  “Hamloaf, no barking!” I heard Mom yell from the kitchen. “Who’s at the door?”

  “It’s me!” I cried out. “Mom, it’s ME!”

  She walked up to the door and I heard the clicking of the lock. Suddenly, she was there.

  Mom.

  We were face-to-face.

  I reached out, but my hand passed right through her.

  No, please. Please see me. I’m here.

  She shivered a little and pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders. But Hamloaf seized his chance, diving forward through the open door, and started to cover me with doggy kisses. I couldn’t get enough. I’d never wanted to be covered in dog drool so badly.
/>
  “Hamloaf, stop it.” Mom grabbed his collar and tried to pull him back inside, away from me. I could see by the look on her face that she was a little freaked out. Something was off. She just wasn’t sure what.

  Before I could reach her, before I could make her see, she took a step back through the front door. I felt the old anger and resentment bubbling back up.

  “Mom, Mom, Mom, don’t—”

  “Come on, Hamloaf. Let’s get your breakfast.”

  “Stop it! Stay with me!” It wasn’t fair. I just wanted to go inside. Why the hell couldn’t I go inside?! I took a step forward, and Hamloaf began to bark again, the hair on the scruff of his neck puffing up.

  “What’s gotten into you?” said Mom. “Stop it. Stop it right now.”

  He didn’t budge. He didn’t want to leave me.

  “Hamloaf Eagan, get inside this minute.” Mom pointed sternly into the living room.

  He let out a long, high-pitched whine like he knew he was in trouble, and looked up at me for support. He didn’t understand why I couldn’t come inside too. I wished somebody could’ve explained it to both of us.

  “It’s okay, Hammy,” I said softly. “Go inside. Go with Mom.” I kneeled down. Took his snout in my hands and covered his nose with kisses. “At least this is something,” I said. “At least we have something.” Then I pushed him inside.

  Mom closed the door right behind him, locking me out for good. I stared at her through the chilly glass.

  “I hate this.”

  “Don’t we all,” said Patrick. “Don’t we all.”

  Suddenly, the sound of the garage door opening caught my attention. “I’m going to the hospital,” I heard Dad say from inside. His tone wasn’t friendly. Not even a tiny bit.

  No, Dad. Don’t go.

  I wiped my face, jumped to my feet, and flew down the front stairs. If anyone was leaving this house, they’d have to run me down first. I tore around the edge of the house, past Mom’s bright red roses.

  “Dad!” I yelled. “Don’t go!”

  He put the key in the ignition, started the car, and backed right out of the driveway. I watched his face as he checked for oncoming traffic, turned right, and sped away down our block. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough.