shave yet?"
"No."
"Well, then?"
He took my hand off his face, plopped it down on my own chest, then patted it with too much patience. "Go to sleep, why don't you? Let me think..."
"I'm not asking you to solve my problems." He looked too stirred up. I felt uncomfortable, like I was a pain. "Don't fret. If I'm not in remission anymore, there's nothing we can do."
His hand came down on my head in a "dad" sort of way that gave me another weird twitch. He rubbed my hair and stared off at the ceiling, either like I was three or he was sixty. It left me half annoyed, half hypnotized.
"Claire, I'm not saying you're still in remission or not in remission. I'm saying you've got so many issues, I don't see how you could tell one thing from the other."
"'Issues' ... What do you mean?"
He kept thumping his head lightly against the wall, staring at the ceiling. But his hand came down over my forehead and then my eyes, so I had to shut them.
"I'm not going to sleep on your bed," I informed him.
"Then try to relax so I can think."
I didn't exactly have a choice. I could imagine myself trying to walk home and heaving in the gutter with ten drivers catching the view.
"Sometimes I have nightmares." I tried to warn him.
"Go figure."
I caught more sarcasm but couldn't figure how he would know about my nightmares. "They're bloody. I don't wake up well."
"Do you scream? I can turn up the radio."
My eyes filled up, to my shock. I wanted to think of something awful to say so he would stop being so nice. But I couldn't think of anything. "I don't scream. I'm just not ... in a great mood when I wake up."
"You're in a worse mood than
this
?"
I laughed, sniffing up tears, feeling completely stupid. "Sorry if ... I upset you."
He laced his fingers on his stomach and stared at me with a look of shock that I would have expected when I said I'd had cancer, but I couldn't make sense of it now.
"You're an odd one..." I yawned. "Are you going to tell me how old you are?"
That's the last thing I remember until I was dreaming. It wasn't a bloody nightmare, though it had that same deranged feel to it. I dreamed about Lani's arrival on Hackett. It wasn't by bus or car. I saw him walking toward me out of the mist with something heavy on his back, like a shiny pack or a roll of fluorescent blankets ... coming off the water at the end of Fisherman's Wharf.
5
I stared into a radio alarm that said 8:10, and I couldn't decide whether it was morning or night. The room was dark ...
night.
My surroundings made sense when I saw the three pinheads of candlelight.
Lani lay flat on his back, on the far side of the bed, fingers laced across his stomach. He didn't use a pillow. I hazily remembered having a dream about him that hadn't upset me too badly. But without any pillow, he looked almost laid out, like a vampire, or a corpse in a funeral home. I flicked at his arm, hoping he would roll over, because I had some tingly, power-nap high I didn't want to lose via freaky thoughts.
His lips were a little opened, but I was surprised when they moved so easily. "You're feeling better."
I couldn't argue.
He inhaled deeply. "Mom made meat loaf. Smell?"
I could smell beef wafting up. It made my mouth water as I stood up.
"Wanna eat before you leave?"
"I hardly ever eat red meat, thanks."
He sat up. After a long exhale he asked, "Now, how did I know you were going to say that? No red meat, no sticky buns..." He stood up and stretched. "No fun..."
"I have plenty of fun. Just not with sugar and dead cows."
I tied my cheerleading jacket around my waist because Indian summer had definitely hit and the air had grown thick with wet heat. I hiked up my backpack with a jerk to help me ignore my stomach's begging. Since I lost weight for cheerleading, I had stuck pretty well to a regimented plan—fruit for breakfast, salad for lunch. Dinner, I ate whatever I wanted, so long as it didn't include anything fried, too much red meat, or any desserts. My stomach was
"No."
"Well, then?"
He took my hand off his face, plopped it down on my own chest, then patted it with too much patience. "Go to sleep, why don't you? Let me think..."
"I'm not asking you to solve my problems." He looked too stirred up. I felt uncomfortable, like I was a pain. "Don't fret. If I'm not in remission anymore, there's nothing we can do."
His hand came down on my head in a "dad" sort of way that gave me another weird twitch. He rubbed my hair and stared off at the ceiling, either like I was three or he was sixty. It left me half annoyed, half hypnotized.
"Claire, I'm not saying you're still in remission or not in remission. I'm saying you've got so many issues, I don't see how you could tell one thing from the other."
"'Issues' ... What do you mean?"
He kept thumping his head lightly against the wall, staring at the ceiling. But his hand came down over my forehead and then my eyes, so I had to shut them.
"I'm not going to sleep on your bed," I informed him.
"Then try to relax so I can think."
I didn't exactly have a choice. I could imagine myself trying to walk home and heaving in the gutter with ten drivers catching the view.
"Sometimes I have nightmares." I tried to warn him.
"Go figure."
I caught more sarcasm but couldn't figure how he would know about my nightmares. "They're bloody. I don't wake up well."
"Do you scream? I can turn up the radio."
My eyes filled up, to my shock. I wanted to think of something awful to say so he would stop being so nice. But I couldn't think of anything. "I don't scream. I'm just not ... in a great mood when I wake up."
"You're in a worse mood than
this
?"
I laughed, sniffing up tears, feeling completely stupid. "Sorry if ... I upset you."
He laced his fingers on his stomach and stared at me with a look of shock that I would have expected when I said I'd had cancer, but I couldn't make sense of it now.
"You're an odd one..." I yawned. "Are you going to tell me how old you are?"
That's the last thing I remember until I was dreaming. It wasn't a bloody nightmare, though it had that same deranged feel to it. I dreamed about Lani's arrival on Hackett. It wasn't by bus or car. I saw him walking toward me out of the mist with something heavy on his back, like a shiny pack or a roll of fluorescent blankets ... coming off the water at the end of Fisherman's Wharf.
5
I stared into a radio alarm that said 8:10, and I couldn't decide whether it was morning or night. The room was dark ...
night.
My surroundings made sense when I saw the three pinheads of candlelight.
Lani lay flat on his back, on the far side of the bed, fingers laced across his stomach. He didn't use a pillow. I hazily remembered having a dream about him that hadn't upset me too badly. But without any pillow, he looked almost laid out, like a vampire, or a corpse in a funeral home. I flicked at his arm, hoping he would roll over, because I had some tingly, power-nap high I didn't want to lose via freaky thoughts.
His lips were a little opened, but I was surprised when they moved so easily. "You're feeling better."
I couldn't argue.
He inhaled deeply. "Mom made meat loaf. Smell?"
I could smell beef wafting up. It made my mouth water as I stood up.
"Wanna eat before you leave?"
"I hardly ever eat red meat, thanks."
He sat up. After a long exhale he asked, "Now, how did I know you were going to say that? No red meat, no sticky buns..." He stood up and stretched. "No fun..."
"I have plenty of fun. Just not with sugar and dead cows."
I tied my cheerleading jacket around my waist because Indian summer had definitely hit and the air had grown thick with wet heat. I hiked up my backpack with a jerk to help me ignore my stomach's begging. Since I lost weight for cheerleading, I had stuck pretty well to a regimented plan—fruit for breakfast, salad for lunch. Dinner, I ate whatever I wanted, so long as it didn't include anything fried, too much red meat, or any desserts. My stomach was
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