TWENTY MINUTES ON THE ROAD and the silence inside Seung’s car consumes me.
“Why are we on the highway? Why are you driving so fast?”
“Seeing Ham, Linden. Remember?”
“Shouldn’t you slow down?” I say. “Drive like an old man? Yourself?”
Abide by rules of the road. Adhere to etiquette. Drive the proper speed while traveling to see a friend’s body.
Seung ignores my questions, so I toss another.
“Where is he, anyway?” Because not only are we speeding, but we are driving in the wrong direction, away from the town’s only funeral home.
“Bend.”
“Bend? That’s an hour away. Why Bend? What about Ham’s parents?”
Seung side-eyes me and says, “Ham’s parents are in Bend, Linden. Been there since the accident.”
I drop my head against the seat. Of course Ham’s parents won’t leave his side. Maybe it’s a religious thing. Maybe it’s what they want to do for their one and only son.
I stare at the blur of pines and sagebrush moving at sixty miles per hour. Within seconds the greens and browns become hazy blobs and I free a much-needed moan.
“You don’t look so good,” Seung says.
“I look how I feel.”
“I don’t mean you look bad. You never look bad. I mean you look sick.”
And then I am. It crawls up my throat and sours my mouth. I slap my hands on my lips and fill them with vomit.
Seung doesn’t yell, Oh, shit! or laugh or swerve. He checks the rearview mirror, signals, pulls over, and flips on the hazard lights. He jogs to my side of the car, opens the door, and lifts me by the elbow. He pours a half gallon of water on my hands and dabs my face with a dingy blanket from the trunk. Supplies reserved for emergency situations.
We drive to a rest stop a few miles away and Seung waits while I wash my face and hands. When I reach the car, he is leaning against the passenger’s-side door. All four windows are down, welcoming fresh air. I smile and his slouch goes straight. “All better?”
I shrug.
He opens the passenger’s-side door and says, “Let’s go see our buddy.”
Seung smiles at the road. Either he is in denial or he’s mastered the art of coping. His eyes blink and his lips mouth words to the song playing on the radio. I want him to be angry and sad and queasy like me, but in actuality, I appreciate his still and stable mood.
“So, you and Bea.” Once the words spit out, I know I’ve ruined the stability.
Seung shakes his head. “No. No.”
“Yes.”
“It’s not how it is.”
“You’re the king and she’s the queen. It’s what it is. How it works at this school. Isn’t it?”
He smiles. Damnitall. He smiles.
Minutes pass while I stare at the dashboard, afraid to look anywhere but straight ahead. The green blur in my peripheral vision makes my jaw squeeze tight, bringing back the sour taste in my mouth. I push my head into the seat and close my eyes.
“So, you and Reed,” Seung says, re-ruining the moment.
I finger part the back of my hair and scoop it forward. “There’s something you don’t know about our beloved Reed Clemmings,” I mumble, my eyes still shut.
“Do I want to know?”
“You might. I mean, it could affect things with your queen.”
“Would you please stop calling her that.”
I open my eyes. Too tired for more sarcasm. Besides, Ham hated when Seung and I argued, claimed it was cover for sexual tension.
I drop my head to the side and whisper, “Sorry.”
Seung sighs and stares at the road. “So what about Reed?”
“We had the wrong guy. Reed’s the one who’s been hurting Bea, not Toby. In fact, as surprising as it sounds, Asswipe’s been trying to help her.”
I fill Seung in on homecoming night, postkiss, and he insists that we talk to Mr. George or Principal Falsetto when we return to school. He’s typical overprotective Seung, but I think he’s right. No matter what Bea says, she needs our help.
“Is Toby okay?” I ask.
“Define okay,” Seung says, and chuckles.
“Not the best time for jokes,” I whisper.
“Sorry, but yes. Well, Asswipe’s never going to be okay, by our definition, but physically he got off easy. I’d say the crash into the school wall was minor compared to what happened to him earlier.”
“Minor?”
“A bit concussed, but he left the hospital with only a bruised chest and ego. Despite a few hair-related items missing from his body, he got off easy.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, enough to start a canker sore. Yeah. Toby got off easy.
Traffic picks up. Some of the buildings I recognize from my visits to the city—and I use that term loosely because a population over 80,000 in central Oregon equals city—with Seung’s parents. If anyone wants to shop for anything besides milk and bread, they travel the distance to the only mall on this section of the state. I always ride along for the comfort I get from Seung’s family. Today, I am here for Seung. He needs me. I need him. We need to say good-bye to our best friend, together. I just wish Seung showed more grief.
An urge bubbles up and I blurt, “You know I saw my mother die?” All of a sudden I feel like I need to assist my lungs to function, when all they want to do is close up and constrict. I don’t know why I chose now to tell Seung about my mom. But it feels right to share something personal now, something I’ve kept hidden.
Seung glances at me, and then the road. He taps the brake and slows. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I stare at the road, lines, bumpers. My head shakes no; my mouth says, “Yes.”
“Well, I didn’t actually see it happen.” Does it count if I was in the closet, hiding, refusing to look, even though I knew she was there? My mother never woke up. She never moved. She never saw her daughter grow up, get hips, start her period, or take the SAT. It’s what happens when you’re beaten with a fist and the end of something hard and sharp.
Seung glances over, looking like he does when fighting for answers on trig problems. But all he says is “I bet your mother was beautiful.”
And all I say is “Bettie Page pretty.”
Seung drives, without a word. He continues to glance at me, wondering if I’ll share more, but refuses to probe. I decide now is not the time to discuss my mother. This moment belongs to Ham.
Seung flexes his forearm as he steers and I can’t lure my eyes away. I force myself to stop because I feel like I’m disrespecting the dead. He slows and we turn left, then right. We pass medical buildings and doctors’ offices before pulling into a hospital’s parking lot.
“Hospital?”
Seung stares at the building without speaking. Either he doesn’t want to see me cry or doesn’t want me to spot his tears.
We walk toward the main entrance. Seung takes the lead. Not on purpose, but I’m dragging my feet, shuffling them on the tile, mentally preparing myself for arrows pointing to the morgue. White sheets and metal drawers big enough for mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. Steel tables with metal body scoops that reach down and turn your loved ones. The last time I was in a morgue, I ran. Death doesn’t discriminate against age. Neither does body identification. And when you’re young, and the body is your mother’s, a part of your brain and heart dies. When you see your mom on a stainless-steel table, marked with a tag, you run, hide, and never look back.
Seung punches the wheelchair button and the doors open. I watch my feet to make sure they’re still moving. We stop at the elevator and I’m breathing like I do after running from security. My chest tightens. My stomach shifts like it’s rising to the top floor. “Seung!” I shout, and cup my hands over my mouth.
“Linden?” He pushes me toward a drinking fountain and twists my hair around his wrist.
I wipe my face with my knuckles and Seung hands me a ball of paper towels he grabbed from the restroom. I rub the sandpaper over my chin and dab at my lips.
“You okay?”
I shake my head.
“You want to sit before we see Ham?”
My jaw tightens. I inhale-exhale before another wave of nausea hits. Then I shoot Seung a thumbs-up.
“You sure?”
I nod. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
The elevator opens, and a man steps out with a yellow bucket and biohazard bags. Sorry, dude. I lean against the wall and grip the rail until we stop. “This can’t be the basement,” I say, following Seung off the elevator. “We went up instead of down.”
Seung says nothing, and I’m too focused on not puking to argue. We pass the nurses’ station and round an open room lined with carts and IV stands. We walk toward the back of the wing until we reach the last door on the right. Ham’s grandparents are sitting in the hall on stools. His grandmother’s face is dark and droopy, and his grandfather looks like a gloomy gray sky. The sides of their mouths hang. Grandma Ham swirls her forehead with her index finger, probably sketching a cross.
“Seung!” Grandpa Ham shoots out of his stool and drapes his arms over Seung’s shoulders, squeezing him like an orange. “Good to see you, boy.”
Seung says, “Okay to go in? Is now a good time?”
As if any time is good. But at least Ham is in a room and not somewhere cold, like the basement. I promise myself I’ll focus on Ham’s sweet round face and big heart, not the tag on his toe or the gauze clamping his jaw closed. I’m happy Ham’s family is Catholic, offering access to him for long good-byes. At least I think Ham’s Catholic. He mentioned chatting with Jarrell at Mass once.
We walk into the room and I stare at the back of Seung’s shoes. Mrs. Royse reaches for Seung while tears cover her cheeks. I’m motionless and dizzy at the same time. My head spins. I stumble backward. I want to run, hide, go anywhere but here. I want to replace the images of Ham in my head, but I’m afraid the new ones might be worse. I slap both hands on my mouth. Damnitall. I leap into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind me, and spill my guts into the toilet.
The heaves pause, and I’m breathing regularly again, so I shuffle to the door and let my hand linger on the handle. Ham would want me to hold my head high and march with shoulders back. I’m the vertex of our triangle, not the leg. It’s time I act the way Ham saw me. The way I pretend to see myself when others are watching. I swallow, twist the knob, and face the most wonderful friend I’ve ever known.
And . . .
He faces me back.
Eyes wide, chest moving, breathing, doing everything it’s supposed to do.
“Ham? Ham. Ham!” I scream, shout, roar.
“Linden,” Ham whispers. “You came.”
I hop on the bed and straddle his waist. I squeeze Ham’s face, then mash mine against his cheeks. I crawl alongside him and pat his chest. It’s too much, I know, but whothehellcares.
“Ham. Ham. Ham!” I’m on repeat. His laugh is Chopin to my ears, and I can’t stop singing his name and listening when his mouth makes a melody of words, with air in his lungs and a beat in his chest.
“What the fuck, Linden?” Ham says, his face flinching, showing signs of terror.
“Franklin,” Ham’s mom says, “your friends are happy to see you.”
Happy? There’s not even a word to describe the emotion I feel. I can’t stop squeezing Ham’s body to make sure he’s alive and well and here in this world with me.
After many seconds of pawing and pinching and patting, Ham swats my hand and tells me it’s enough. I ignore, squeezing his belly one more time, and he yells, “Ouch! Not my side! It’s still tender.”
“Oh, Ham. I’m sorry. But I thought you were dead. I thought you left me. Left us.” I glance at Seung and he’s wiping his eyes.
Seung says, “Would have brought you flowers, buddy, but you know I’m broke.”
Ham smiles. “I prefer candy, anyway.”
I flop against Ham’s pillow and snuggle next to him in the hospital bed, careful not to bump his side. I rest my head in the crook of his neck and my tears soak the pillow.
“I’m glad you’re here, Linden,” Ham whispers.
“I’m glad you’re here, too, Ham.”
“Revenge plot backfired. But I guess you already know that.”