When You're In Love with a girl

Chapter 21, The Days That Go By

THE DAYS THAT GO BY

My brother stays in the hospital 24/7. "When will he be able to come home?" my mom has asked, and the doctor told her, vaguely, "In a few weeks." They want to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't develop an infection after the amputation, and they want to give him some physical therapy while he's still in the hospital.

The road to recovery will be hard, of course. While at home, he will have to be attended on all the time, making sure his leg doesn't take a turn for the worse, and he will need to do physical therapy every day. "We'll have to hire a nurse for him," I hear Mom telling Dad in the kitchen one evening after we come back from the hospital. "I can't stay home all day to take care of him, and you need to go to work."

"That would be expensive," Dad says slowly. "But we could afford—"

Mom interrupts him. "—Or, we can have Alie take care of Sam sometimes."

I sigh inside: Sam is my brother, but I don't want to be the one to clean him if he urinates over himself, I don't want to be the one who makes him take his medicines. Sam is my elder brother; why should the responsibility fall on me?

To my surprise, Dad says, "Maybe we should get a nurse, Marley." He lowers his voice to a whisper. "It doesn't seem quite fair that she should have to take care of her older brother. Maybe she can help out, but I think she should concentrate on school. She's the smart one in the family."

That is the longest speech I have heard him say to my mother. Dad is usually so reserved towards her.

"She should be concentrating on helping me with the Gemney Days. I want to teach her to edit videos," Mom growls.

Well, there's one job spared, but another burden put on. I think my mom wants me to slowly take over the job. With horror, I imagine that she expects me to marry Byron, have children, and vlog with the family we create. I try to get the image out of my mind. I would aspire to be an author, or a painter, or a musician, if I am good enough. I try not to sigh again.

Each time we go to the hospital, which is almost every night, when I see Sam in that devastated condition, so unlike his previous strong body that was so full of vitality, I lose hope all over again.

I regret, to the moon and back, how I have treated him thus far. I disgust myself. Even though I treated him as he treated me unkindly, I should have recognized how it is truly a wonder that we were both alive, both living.

Isn't that always a wonder? That he, he held breath in his lungs, that chance came together and gave him me, a sister? Isn't it amazing that he shares my blood? The blood that runs through my veins may not be very good blood, coming from my...(will I say it?) mildly despicable parents, but Sam and I share blood too, and Sam isn't always a bad person, is he? He is just remarkably ignorant, I reflect sadly. I could have risen to the higher level and treated him more kindly, and maybe we could have been friends.

Now, nothing will be the same. I can't help imagining, what if Janice had a little sister, like me? What would Janice's little sister be feeling? How would she cope?

What if Sam had died, too?

Does Sam even want to live with 1.5 legs? His dreams are dashed.

At school, they hold a short assembly for Janice and they offer to email around a Zoom link to her burial to those familiar to her. There's pictures of Janice laughing with friends, selfies with filters, and yearbook pictures. They turn her into a poster girl to encourage abstinence and sobriety and not skipping school.

My brother has not asked anything about Janice. Maybe he already knows she is dead; maybe he doesn't care. No one has told him, I think.

Meanwhile, though, I still have to suffer through school and other bores. "How is your brother doing?" Arya asks me as we walk to the band room.

Perhaps Arya is not a bore. Arya and Tom are the only non-bores. "He is getting better, I think. He won't be coming home for a while, though."

"Sara is always crying about and writing letters... oh and she asked me if you could give him this letter," says Arya, stopping to take out a little heart-shaped envelope from her backpack. "She told me to tell you to not read it or else—and these are her words: you will be sorry." We laugh together.

But Bohemian Rhapsody is going awfully, still.

"I understand you are still recovering from the tragic shock of Sam and Janice's accident, but you need to focus on this piece," Mr. Berswick tells me gravely, nodding his head and looking into my eyes.

"I know, I know!" I mutter frantically. I promise to him that I will practice even more. (Not that I had been slacking off, but I will just somehow work harder.)

Tom and I do several art modeling sessions together. We are back to our close-knit friendship—we are intellectual studious partners again. Tom is a wonderful model. He has a beautiful round Asian nose, but the jawline of a Nordic. "You are very beautiful," I tell him, when our eyes meet as I analytically look over his body.

Tom catches my eye and smiles. He waves me over. "Are you sure you don't like me, just a bit?" he whispers, teasingly. We both know we can only be friends now. Well, I hope he knows.

"No, I don't," I say and smile good-naturedly.

Everything's good, everything's copacetic, except the painting... doesn't really look like Tom.

"Can I see it?" he asks immediately as I put my paintbrush down.

"Nope," I tell him playfully. But I am serious. I haven't let anyone see the portrait, not even Mrs. Walson, the art teacher. I paint with my back to the wall so no one can see it.

I feel like the painting would lose its specialness, its purity if I had shown it to someone before Tom. And I want Tom to see the perfect painting of himself. I want to insert every bit of meaning into this painting; I want to put all of my regrets, all the wrong things I said to him that day he confessed his love to me, and put it in this painting. When he looks at this painting, he will see my regrets, and he will recognize my sorrow, and my guilt.

My hope... I admit that it is probably impossible... but I want our friendship to be restored. I hope this painting can be the healing balm.

So, I've painted ten fails so far. Today is the eleventh.

I take a chance after school. The worst someone can say is no, I try to convince myself.

I find Arya as she's walking out the building. "Want to hang out this afternoon?" I say. Inside I am pleading, because if she said no, it would be very embarrassing, but outward I try not to seem too desperate.

Arya scans my face. She smiles radiantly. "Sure."

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! 

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Also, feel free to comment! I will respond to all comments. How do you feel about the Sam's accident? Are you anticipating Alie meeting Arya in the next chapter? 

-Tara