I knew the call would come eventually, but Hannah's tears and inability to speak still stunned me into my own silence. I thought of a thousand days with my best friend Brandon, of his gleeful smile when he would win at video and board games, of the way he loved to reach out and swat my horn any time we drove by a hot woman on the street when I first got my driver's license, of fireworks and way too many goddamn hot dogs on the Fourth of July, his favorite holiday, and him waiting with eager anticipation as I unwrapped his presents to me on my least favorite, Christmas.
And I thought too of the last couple years, of hospital visits and his mumbled speech and the way he still tried to tell me dumb jokes even when his brain slipped further and further away from us every day. I was just there two days ago, and already I was clawing at myself for not going there the day before or that morning, before my shift at the gas station.
I thought about the unfairness of my best friend, my brother in everything but blood, dying at twenty. And I could say nothing except, "I'm on..." the way, I meant to finish, but even those two words were lost to a wall of pain that slammed itself in place.
Two customers waited in line. I stared at them blankly, and the man in front waggled his bag of chips in front of my face. I didn't think. I just reacted, slapping the bag out of his hand and sending it flying. He shouted more in surprise and maybe a little fear -- I was a tall, intimidating motherfucker even if I leaned towards gaunt -- and my coworker Michelle gasped, "Nick!" but I didn't care. I knew I'd be fired for that and I shut down emotionally. I took off my employee vest and walked out of there, never to come back again.
* * *
The Cavalier's bald tires could barely handle the ice and snow, but it wasn't them I was worried about. It was the low cat-sick sound the sedan made every time I had to hit the gas. It could no longer do more than forty, which was usually okay because I pretty much went to work, the hospital, and home, and that was it. No gym membership, no bars, no clubs, and definitely no road trips.
I hated to stop the damn car because I had a feeling I was always minutes or hours away from it breaking down entirely, and when that happened, it would mean walking thirteen blocks through bad Evanile streets to get to a bus every day. They didn't come to my neighborhood. Too much violence, too few people who mattered to the city. I couldn't do another car for a few years, not until I paid off my lone semester in college and a thousand or so in credit card debt. On top of that, I owed my roommates a hundred bucks in back utilities too. Quitting my job would probably mean Jimmy, the de facto head of the house and a self-righteous prick, would probably throw me out. At the moment, I had a hard time caring.
Hannah and her mom Deana lived on the far end of the city, and would be heading back there to begin the work of saying goodbye to Brandon. I drove as fast as I dared, but it still took me the better part of a frustrating forty-five minutes before I pulled up in front of their house, the car wheezing and shuddering to a stop.
Before I even got out, there was Deana Labine. In better days, I would have sucked in my gut at the sight of her or Hannah. The two of them were among my earliest crushes. Even with the pain of the last couple years, of the constant highs of Brandon's early victories with his surgeries and the later grimmer and grimmer news, I still held a lot of feelings for them. That was always going to be there, I supposed, even if now it came with a strange survivor's guilt, as though Brandon's sickness and death meant I shouldn't be human.
Because it was human to want to stare. Even in her worst days, Deana Labine was a stunning woman. Before Brandon's illness she carried some comfortable mom weight, complaining often about her belly bump, I think just to get a compliment out of me or whoever was listening, which it invariably did. Now she looked thin to me, though I was probably too close to her to really tell. Regardless, she had a model's face, strong-jawed, with high cheekbones and brown eyes that made me always wonder what she was thinking, feeling, wanting.
But that day, I felt nothing but sorrow as I stepped out of the car and slammed the creaking door shut. She took a few steps towards me on legs so shaky I thought she was going to collapse. I hurried to her despite the ice and my shoddy sneakers, and grabbed her up in a hug. She was crying, but hell, I'd been crying since I left work.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, "I'm so sorry."
I just kept repeating that dumbly over and over. Deana didn't try to silence me or say anything. Instead, she tightened her grip on me and hung on for what little life could be found that day. I don't remember going inside, but there was a man with us, Brandon's uncle Timothy, and he gently nudged me so he could shut the door behind us. Only then did Deana break away.
"Hannah?" I asked.
"Taking a few minutes to herself," Timothy said.
"Go up. She'll want to see you," Deana said.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded with enough force that I believed her. Whereas Deana's soul was as still as a pond on a windless day, Hannah was far more complex a creature, or at least she used to be. She was two years older than Brandon and me, and she loved to give me shit about my obvious crush on her when she wasn't calling us names or throwing fits about us doing anything at all. A typical teenager, then, but I bore it all because... well, she was fucking crazy hot.
Like her mom, Hannah had a face made for Instagram and maybe some adult-themed sites, a little narrower and less sharply-etched. Just as beautiful, but softer. Hannah was slimmer than her mom but there were still plenty of curves to drool over. One thing I loved about her was her hair. She kept it long and wavy. It looked like if you reached out, took a handful, and bit into it, you'd taste honey. I dreamed about that hair spread out on a bed or tugging on it as I took her from behind.
I headed upstairs to Hannah's room. It used to be Brandon's in high school, but once his motor functions started to go, they had to move him downstairs. I should have still thought of the room as his, considering how many nights we spent in there laughing and watching movies or playing games or just bullshitting, but it hadn't held that magic for me in a long while. It was now firmly Hannah's space in my head.
I knocked and got no response. "Hannah?" I asked.
I heard a muffled sniff, not from her room, but further down the hallway, from her mom's room. I headed down that way and called her name again.
"I'm in here," she said weakly.
"Is it okay to come in?"
"Sure."
I stepped inside, feeling a dash of funny guilt. I guess that was natural. Deana's room had always been off-limits. I'd only ever been in there a few times, once to sneak a peek at her bras and panties, but getting so flustered about maybe being caught that I fled before I even opened up her closet or her drawers.
It was a beautiful room, one of the highlights of the house. The creamy walls were tinged with just a touch of green. Not quite pastel but aiming in that direction. The bed was a low-slung four-post bed, big enough for an army. There were three good-sized windows, but the shades were drawn and no lights were on.
Hannah was curled up in the bed, a digital picture frame in hand and hooked up to a laptop. But both were dark, and I had a feeling I'd caught Hannah either napping or on the verge of sleep. She smiled weakly at me, and I walked slowly to her.
"Feels like... your mom should be getting angry at me... for being... oh fuck, Hannah, I'm sorry."
She sobbed and pushed herself upright. I swooped in on her, hugging her tight to my chest. We held each other a long time like that, much like her mother downstairs.
"He loved you so much," she whispered when we finally pulled apart, at least a few inches. "Thank you for being... being a brother to him."
"I wish I'd been by more often the last few weeks," I said, more to the friend I hoped was there with us than her.
"You can't do that," Hannah said. "I know you were there as much as you could be."
I wasn't, though, and Hannah knew that. In the last months, Brandon was unable to communicate in any coherent way. He would ramble nonsense words, and towards the end, a mishmash of baby-like syllables. That wasn't the worst, though. The worst was his silence. When all that was left of him was a body, I kind of broke. I wanted to be there in the end for Hannah and Deana, but I couldn't take it. I knew Brandon would forgive me but I wasn't about to forgive myself.
"What are you doing?" I asked tonelessly, and sat on the bed next to her.
"Oh. Mom's going to finalize the f..." Her words caught and I took her hand in mine. It was not a gesture either one of us was accustomed to but she didn't take her hand back, either. "The funeral. I figured I'd get a jump on the coffee hour. We're going to need pictures. I could have used the computer downstairs but Mom has the best ones on here, and I wanted to be alone."
"Do you want me to go?"
