Loving Emily (22 page)

Soldier Rock. It was one of the best moments of my life. And it happened because of Michael.

•   •   •

It was the summer we were eleven. A bunch of us at camp had broken the rules and sneaked over to Soldier Rock, which stood in Lake Evergreen, just far enough from the shore that you had to swim to get there. Most of us had climbed up to a ledge we used for diving that was probably a fifteen foot drop to the water.

But Michael had climbed to the top. He was maybe forty feet up from the lake. If a counselor had caught him up there, he would have been in big trouble.

“Come on down, Michael!” I yelled to him. “Dive from down here.”

“It’s awesome up here!” he yelled to me. “You gotta see this!”

As so often happened, I followed his lead. I half-crawled, half-climbed my way up, grabbing small outcroppings of rock and gripping with my toes, like some humanoid-gecko life form. Too late, it occurred to me that it would be awfully hard to go down the same way.

We could see the entire lake, the surrounding forest, and a backdrop of saw-toothed mountain peaks. An eagle floated by, very close, and Michael and I stared at it, following it with our eyes until it arrived at a messy bunch of branches and twigs in a tree some two hundred yards away.

“Look, it’s got a nest!” Michael said.

The others were yelling to us. It was time to go. One by one, they dove into the water and swam to the beach where our backpacks lay. I looked at Michael, and he was laughing at me.

“Only one way down,” he challenged me. We peered over the edge. Huge boulders surrounded the rock, poking up out of the water. It looked like we were a million feet in the air. I leapt back from the edge, gasping.

“
Jeez
, Michael!” I was practically shouting. “What’re we gonna do?”

“We’re gonna jump,” he said.

“We can’t jump! We’re gonna
die!”

“Look.” He pointed down. “All we have to do is aim for that patch of deep water. See?”

I followed where his finger was pointing. “There are
big rocks
down there!”

“So, we jump past them. We can do it.” Michael said it like he was suggesting a walk on the beach. He stood there in his swim trunks, with his sunstreaked hair, already starting to look studly at age eleven, while I pictured our lives coming to a swift end on the boulders down below.

“I can’t do this,” I said.

“Sure you can. You’re a beast.”

There was no choice, other than waiting to be helicoptered off the rock by a rescue squad of grown-ups. I decided I would rather die.

“On the count of three,” he said.

I tensed up. The rock felt hot and rough under my bare feet.

“One, two, three…” Together, we ran across the top of the rock and jumped. I remember the rush of air, the slap of my legs hitting the water, plunging down, down, down into the green depths, then fighting my way to the surface, breaking free of the water with a huge intake of breath, Michael bobbing up beside me, and then the cheering of campers on the beach as we paddled for shore and struggled out of the lake. One of the guys took a Polaroid of us, arms raised over our heads, exhilarated by our incredible leap.

The word spread between the kids at camp. No one that we knew had ever been brave enough to jump off the top of Soldier Rock. For the rest of the summer, Michael and I were gods, secret heroes among the campers, unbeknownst to the counselors.

And I owed it all to Michael. When I tried to tell him that, he brushed it off. “I knew you could do it,” was all he said.

For me and Michael, “Soldier Rock” became our mantra for those times when life really sucked, or when it seemed like we were completely screwed. When we got caught toilet papering the Hathaway’s cactus garden, that time we got lost hiking on the mountain up at camp, and even when my dog Jasper died, one or both of us would say, “Soldier Rock!”

It meant
If you can jump off Soldier Rock, you can handle anything.
But it meant more than that, too. Although we didn’t say it, Michael and I both knew that when you jumped off of Soldier Rock with someone else, you were going to be friends forever.

Soldier Rock.
They were the last words Michael ever said to me.

Feeling suddenly really tired, I slide the photos back into the envelope. I replace it in the drawer along with the box of white powder and climb into bed. But I still can’t sleep.

I lie there for hours, looking at the ceiling, while the giant Zamboni machine returns and does a slow parade across my chest.

J
ay and Spencer meet me outside Chrissie’s door late the next afternoon. This morning, while I was at school, they brought her home from the hospital. When Chrissie opens the door, Spencer screeches at her.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“Lettin’ y’all in.” Chrissie looks as tired as I feel. Four hours of sleep has turned my brain into oatmeal.

“I gotta to go to the bathroom,” she says, leaving us alone.

“She’s still on her feet!” Spencer moans.

“We’ve gotta make a schedule,” I say. Someone has to check Chrissie every few hours to see what she needs. All errands, shopping, and food preparation have to be done for her.

“Where do you guys work?”

“I go to Cal State Northridge during the day,” Jay says. “and tend bar at night. Spencer works at Bloomingdale’s.”

“Fine linens and towels. Afternoons and evenings,” Spencer says.

“Don’t worry,” Jay says to me. It turns out one of them is usually home in the morning, so they can check in on Chrissie regularly and help her up until about two in the afternoon.

Chrissie comes back from the bathroom and climbs into bed. “Juanita in 401 said she would help, too.”

We call Juanita, who’s a nurse at the same hospital we took Chrissie to. She can take weekends. The three of them will help with Chrissie’s groceries and errands.

Which means that I’m responsible for Chrissie Monday through Friday, from whenever I can get there until bedtime.

I go into shock.
Every day during the week.
Images run through my mind. The guest house. Hot sex in the bedroom. Spooning together on the sofa. Emily, her hair ruffled, padding around bare legged in one of my t-shirts. Studying together side by side.

The hours we spend after school in the guest house are our favorite times together. We can’t go there on weekends, because my family’s usually home then.

Gone. Emily will kill me.
I’ll
kill me.

“I can’t do this.” It takes a minute before I realize I’ve spoken aloud.

“You don’t have to,” Chrissie says. “I’ll be fine in the afternoon by myself.”

“You will not!” Jay says. “You need someone here.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be here,” I say. I can still take Emily home after school. I’ll just have to drop her, then go straight to Chrissie’s. The fact that Emily lives south of school and Chrissie lives north of it, and that dropping Emily will add an hour every day to my travel time, are not important.

I’m glad I can get her home every day. I try not to think about the other part, that all trips to the guest house are off, at least for now.

•   •   •

“So you’re just going to let it all go?” Emily says. “Us? Our relationship?” We are sitting in my car, parked in front of her house.

“No! We’ll still have lunch together. I’ll still take you home from school. And see you on weekends. And on the East Coast trip in May. And this summer in England.”
Please understand.

She crosses her arms in front of her. “You’ll take me home from school, then five days a week go off to play nursemaid to some
blonde flirt
you barely know?”

“Who means nothing to me. Emily, she could
die
. The baby could die. How can I walk away from that?” My hands clench and unclench themselves on the steering wheel.

“How are you going to help her? You’re not a doctor. You’re not her husband. You’re practically a stranger to her.” Emily shakes her head in frustration. “She should be asking her friends and family to help her—or a medical person. Not
you.”

Chrissie’s other options don’t matter to me.
I’m
the bad karma guy
. I’m
the one with the debt to repay.

“What about us?” Emily asks again.

“It’s just for a few months. And then we have England.” I put my hand on her shoulder and then touch her hair, but she pulls away.

“You think this is going to end with the pregnancy? What’s she going to want from you next?”

I don’t know. I’m just trying to get the baby born. But I can see why Emily’s mad at me. I’m a bad friend. I failed Michael, and now, in trying to make it up to him, I’m failing Emily.

I’m a loser, a person who means well and tries hard, but who in the end messes up everything he touches. I’m bad news. No matter what I do, I hurt people.

I sit there, paralyzed, unable to speak.

“Ryan, say something!”

My whole life I’ve never been anything much. A guy with average talent who doesn’t work very hard. A person who slides by.

Emily’s voice continues, but only random phrases pierce through the fog around me.
Nat and Yancy need to know. This girl’s manipulating you. Too much responsibility. You’re only sixteen.

Only one thing is clear to me.
No one is ever again going to die because of me.
This baby—and Chrissie—are going to live. Or if they don’t, it won’t be because of anything I did or didn’t do.

“I’m sorry,” I finally tell Emily. “I’m sorry for everything.”

I
’m driving with Emily after school, thinking how much it sucks that I have to take her home. When we pass the turn-off to go to my house, I can almost feel my steering wheel try to veer in that direction, as if my car wants to go to the guest house as badly as I do.

“So how was your day?” I ask.

“Fine.” She’s looking out the window.

“Did you see my note?” Since we have each other’s combinations, I’ve started leaving notes and cards in her locker, trying to cheer her up. Today I taped a hand printed piece of paper saying “I heart you” to the inside of the door.

A dimple shows in her cheek for a second then disappears. “Yes. It was sweet.”

Silence. A minute goes by.

“Oh, come on, Emily, talk to me!” I can’t stand feeling awkward and uncomfortable with her, when it used to be so easy.

She pushes out a sigh. “Okay. I was looking online. Didn’t you say Chrissie’s starting her third trimester? Of the pregnancy.”

“Yeah.”

“Well then she’s going to start seeing the doctor twice a month, instead of once.”

“Oh.” More bad news. Just what I need.

She looks at me sideways. “I’ll have to get Derek to cover those days, too.”

“Okay.” Does despair have a taste? There’s a bitter flavor in my mouth that’s new to me. Maybe it’s depression.

We reach her house, and I grab her hand before she can get out of the car. “Emily, come with me to Chrissie’s! You can bring your books, and we’ll study together.”

She pulls her hand back. “I don’t feel comfortable doing that! I don’t have the time. And I’ve got all these extra Songbirds rehearsals for the Nationals.”

“Maybe just once or twice? You could get to know Chrissie.”

“No! There’s no point, Ryan, and I feel really weird about it.”

“But Emily—”

“I need to go now.” She gets out of the car and leaves me there alone.

•   •   •

I bring my books and laptop to Chrissie’s every day.

“I have to study while I’m here,” I tell her, and she agrees.

So I do study, in between getting Chrissie snacks and glasses of water, doing her laundry, running to the post office, and keeping her entertained. The last thing is, for her anyway, the most important.

“I’m goin’ nuts, Ryan! If this abruption doesn’t kill me, the bed rest will!” She shifts around in her bed, stretching her arms and legs, and staring out the window to the sunny day outside.

“You can do it.” I try to sound soothing, but I know I’d be pathological if I were stuck in here every day, unable to move.

I try to find ways to make Chrissie less miserable. I bring her library books, as well as DVDs from my dad’s huge library containing almost every movie ever made. I download game software onto her laptop and help her find a cheap long-distance telephone package so she can call home to South Carolina as often as she wants. I bring her take-out food and play cards with her. I bring her jokes.

Just stay in bed and don’t die.

Then I arrive to find her climbing up on a step stool to catch a spider.

“You’ve got to stay in bed!”

“But the spider…!”

“I’ll get it for you.”

She doesn’t want to hurt it, so I have to capture it and put it outside. When I come back in, she says, “Ryan, do me a favor. Take a picture of me so I can send it to my momma and show her my bump.” She’s wearing her bed rest uniform—my extra-large Pacific Prep t-shirt, which used to be huge on her, but now grips her belly like sausage skin.

I use my cell phone to photograph Chrissie, standing sideways in my t-shirt, then take another shot of her from the front, and hand her the phone. She sends them off by email.

“There we go,” she says. “To Darnell Fellars in South Carolina!” Then, as the phone vibrates in her hand, “I’ll answer it for you!” She starts to punch the “Talk” button.

I dive at her and grab the phone away. Is she crazy? How does she expect me to keep her secret if she starts answering my phone? Scowling at her, I take the call.

“Ryanito?”

“Oh, hi, Ro.” I hate lying to my family, but I have to if I want to keep the news of the baby from Nat and Yancy. “It’s gonna be another late night. This project’s a bear.”

“Mmm.” She clearly doesn’t believe me.

“I wanna talk to him!” It’s Maddy in the background. A few seconds later, she’s on the line. “You’re copying Mom and Dad now,” she says. “When are you gonna be home for dinner?”

“One of these days soon,” I promise and sign off.

Chrissie’s still standing next to me. Why won’t she just do what the doctor says?