Blame The Weeds (gxg)

24

It rained for six hours. As the house was assailed, thunder rumbled in the distance and the old windows trembled. Still, nothing could drown out my father's anger downstairs. Gabrielle tried to calm him, to help him understand why Ida and Frank asked what they had, but nothing helped. If the Hoffmanns had been next door, my father wouldn't have been pacing around our kitchen.

Rue hadn't spoken; not even a word since being pulled out of the hospital. She lay with me on my bed, her head on my outstretched legs, eyes shut. She'd dug out Gabrielle's old MP3 player and jammed her headphones into the jack. While I knew she was awake, she wished she wasn't. Her medallion was makeshift-mended around her neck, resting on her yellow jersey and that chain, and she clutched it.

As carefully as I could, I slipped out from under Rue, setting her head back on the bed. A tear leaked from her closed eye as she turned to face the wall, the hum still thrumming from her music.

I finally unzipped my bloodied dress and dropped it in my hamper. Next, I donned sweats and a tee-shirt, both black like my tangled hair, and cracked my neck. Then I hid the crumpled pamphlet in my pocket and grabbed my wallet, slipping right out of the room.

Downstairs, dad paced by the fireplace while Gabrielle sat on the couch with the phone to her ear. One of my steps was loud enough that they locked eyes with me. Gabrielle hung up and padded over in a bathrobe.

"Hey, honey. Feel better after a good nap?" Her smile was shaky.

"Yes," I lied.

My father stood frozen on the other side of the room. He'd said everything hours ago. That should not have occurred. You should not have been asked such a thing. You will not do it.

"I'm going for a walk," I announced, my voice so horse I sounded sick. Dad opened his mouth to protest, so I added, "Just for a little."

"It's still raining, honey. You'll come down with something—"

"Just for a little," I said again.

I strode to the door, stepped into my old runners, and opened the door.

Slowly, I set one foot in front of the other until I was halfway down our street. I hiked against the rain, the wind, and the pain. The water pelted my face and soaked into my clothes. I kept my sights ahead, careful not to look back at Luke's house, yard, driveway, chipping paint, or worn roof.

I trekked with my eyes down through every paved road, each slab of smashed sidewalk, and each puddle. Rain bathed everything on me, weighing me down, including my bandaged forehead. When I saw the first phone booth, I slipped inside and closed the door. Moisture overlaid the glass panes, obscuring my view of the cars whipping by.

The coins in my watery wallet were more than enough, so I inserted what was needed and pressed the digits I had memorized while helping Moe organize his paperwork one day at the bookstore. As soon as the receiver buzzed to life, I set it to my ear.

"Pier Pages Bookstore, this is Freya," she said. My chest hollowed right out. I raised a palm to the glass, dragging five lines down the condensation. "How can I help you?" Her voice was distant. Maybe it was the low-quality connection. Maybe the rain. "Hello?" she said. I wedged the phone with my shoulder and reached into my pocket, pulling out the soggy pamphlet. It was all grey and bleeding black. LIVING DONATION: WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT DIRECTED LIVER DONATION. "Hell—o?" she said. I had read the pamphlet ten times. I didn't understand what I was supposed to do. Freya's voice sounded one last time. "Moe! There's something wrong with the phones again! Didn't Bill come in—" With a click! and a dial tone, she was gone.

I hung the heavy phone in its slot and had to move on.

~

I nearly fell off the bus in front of the hospital but caught myself in time. In a haze, I ambled into the towering grey building with its illuminated H crowning the top.