The Foreseeable Future Read online

  “She’s a professor of political science.”

  Kristy stared deep into my eyes. “And your father?”

  “He teaches English.”

  “Wow. So, is it safe to say that the apple falls pretty far from the tree?”

  Nothing was safe to say. I attempted to smile and discovered I’d forgotten how.

  “Well, thank you so much for taking the time to chat with us today. And let me tell you, if I’m ever in the hospital— knock on wood—I’m requesting Audrey Nelson at my bedside.”

  The red light on the wall blinked and went off. Kristy’s face relaxed as she leaned forward, shook my hand, and hurried off the set like someone desperate to pee. A cameraman hollered in my direction: “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re free to go.”

  My palms had left damp streaks on my jeans.

  * * *

  * * *

  Before leaving the parking lot, I opened the YouTube app on my phone, my gut already twisting with dread. Prior to my interview, the Steeds County News had aired a fifteen-second clip of me pounding on Cameron’s chest. I knew I would find a fresh batch of comments beneath the original video, and I’d developed something of an addiction to the comments section. It felt like a version of myself was trapped on that page—doomed to suffer strangers’ criticism from now through eternity, or until the Internet finally imploded. It was my job to check on that other Audrey, make sure things hadn’t gotten out of hand.

  Like reading my mother’s blog, it was the responsible thing to do.

  That Asian girl owes that white girl her life. Or at least her firstborn. LOL.

  CPR Girl: 1

  Heart Attack Girl: 0

  Pretty sure this was staged. Females hardly ever have heart attacks, and never this young. + I don’t think that’s how you do compressions. imho this is FAKE.

  They are both so hot I want them to take turns sucking my ****.

  I don’t get it. Any1 can do CPR??? I’ve done it and I’m 12.

  Should we really be encouraging today’s youth to seek attention in this way? What happened to living in the moment and enjoying the simpler things in life? This is sad, if you ask me.

  Why is this chick so sweaty?

  Audrey Nelson is an angel sent by God. Her parents must be so proud she’s not whoring around like most skank-ass whores her age.

  Some of the comments were irrelevant—links to websites selling weight loss supplements—or else only vaguely applicable; one user had posted the lyrics to “Wind Beneath My Wings” three different times. But most, especially those liked so many times they’d been bumped to the top of the page, were inexplicably crude. I tried to tell myself that the messages weren’t really meant for me—that people had their own reasons for commenting, other than the hope that I would imagine their words being whispered in my ear.

  Not that I had any idea what those other reasons would be.

  The occasional comment was actually nice.

  Audrey is so cute!!!

  This girl is going to be such a good nurse!

  Can’t believe she’s only eighteen.

  And, over and over again:

  Audrey Nelson is a hero.

  FOURTEEN

  There were nights when Seth and I managed to take our lunch breaks at the same time, but sacrificed the meal itself in favor of hooking up inside a vacant room in the Health and Rehabilitation wing. Because the doors to those rooms didn’t lock, we had agreed that our place of employment was not the best venue in which to go all the way. And because I knew that those horizontal, hospital bed kisses could under no circumstances lead to sex, it was those nights when I became singularly obsessed with the idea. The fluorescent lights would be buzzing. The air would smell strongly of antiseptic, faintly of sweat. The back of Seth’s neck would be hot, but his fingers cold as they worked their way beneath the elastic of my scrubs. And all I wanted was to sleep with him.

  But tonight—about a week after my live television appearance—Seth was preoccupied, mostly keeping his hands to himself as we kissed. Every time I asked him what was wrong, he repeated, “Nothing at all.”

  As far as I knew, Seth had no idea I’d gone on TV. He’d never mentioned it, and now my goal was to erase the whole ordeal from my memory. After a quick phase of teasing me for my alleged joyriding habit, my dad and siblings had dropped the subject, and whether or not Iris had seen the segment was unclear.

  Recently, Mom had turned her blog into an episodic recap of a lengthy date she’d been on with her Italian suitor. References to the two of them wine-tasting and stripping the shells from grilled prawns with their sticky, bare hands were almost enough to make me quit reading, forever. During last Sunday’s family video chat, I’d found it impossible to look directly into my mother’s pixelated eyes. Luckily, Jake had commandeered the conversation with descriptions of his various summer adventures. A camping trip he took with his high school friends to Agate Beach. A night he stayed up reading Plato’s Republic for the seventh time. A faded Justin Bieber T-shirt he found in a thrift shop in Eureka and was now wearing exclusively.

  Without warning, Seth detached his mouth from mine and said, “Cameron wants to see you.”

  I sat up so fast, our heads nearly collided. “She does?”

  “Yeah.” He watched as I straightened my shirt, crossed my legs.

  “But why?”

  “Well. Remember that time you saved her life?” His smile was sweet, like always.

  “Vaguely.”

  “I think she wants to thank you.”

  “Does she know—” The question began to leave my mouth before I could catch myself. Seth may have believed that Cameron wanted to thank me, but I suspected she had something else to convey, something other than gratitude.

  “Know what?” Seth asked.

  “That I went on TV.”

  In school, Seth O’Malley’s grin had been constant. It was like every time you saw the guy he had just found five dollars. But now I was getting acquainted with the full range of his facial expressions, and some of them were devastating.

  “You did? When?”

  “About a week ago. It was a live interview on the Steeds County News.”

  “You answered questions about Cam?”

  “Not really. Most of the questions were about me. Or about some weird, selfless, heroic version of me. But they showed the video again, obviously.”

  Seth held perfectly still. “So . . . that morning we climbed the dune . . . you had already agreed to do this? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “No. I had no idea I was going to do it. It was a spontaneous decision.”

  Seth gave me a look, like my spontaneity was in no way comforting. “I didn’t think you were interested in any of that.”

  “You just sort of assumed. And I didn’t correct you.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Look, I’ve never really resembled anyone in my family. They’re like this cult. This brainy, bookish cult. And all through high school I thought the only solution was to try to be more like them, not less. Now I’m thinking maybe it’s less.”

  Slowly, Seth turned his palms toward the ceiling. “So . . . you’re telling me you went on TV to prove a point to your parents? That doesn’t make any sense, Aud.”

  I had gone on TV because I wanted to hear the host introduce me as Audrey Nelson, Certified Nurse Assistant. I wanted to test-drive a version of myself defined by what I did and who I helped—not by my grades, or which college had accepted me, or whose daughter I happened to be.

  “Not to prove a point to my parents,” I said, “but maybe to prove something to myself.”

  Seth was probably right; my split-second decision hadn’t made any sense. Ultimately, the interview had mortified me.

  “I just think you should have asked her permission,” he said.

  “Wh
ose permission? Cameron’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened on the beach happened to me, too.”

  “Cameron almost died. You didn’t.”

  “Yeah, but—” I took a breath. The distinction felt so important. “She didn’t die. No one died.”

  Seth was silent as his eyes roamed the room. The white medical carts and sterilized countertops seemed suddenly sinister. The overhead lights were buzzing like a warning. What the hell were we doing here?

  He said, “I guess I don’t understand why you would want more attention than you’ve already gotten.” He was tranquil, even as he shamed me. It wasn’t fair. If he wasn’t going to smile and assure me everything was fine, the least he could do was get legitimately angry until we were both shouting things we regretted. Until we both owed each other an apology.

  “I don’t know, Seth. Maybe because I wasn’t prom king.”

  “Excuse me?” Finally, an edge to his voice.

  “This is the first thing I’ve ever been good at.”

  “Yeah, you’re good at your job, Audrey. You’ll be a good RN or doctor or paramedic or whatever you want to be when you grow up. But Cameron’s heart attack isn’t, like, a flashy addition to your résumé. You understand that, right?”

  It felt like he was trying to take something away from me, but I didn’t know exactly what. If I could have traveled back in time and somehow ensured that Seth’s ex-girlfriend was born with a heart that never failed her, obviously, that’s what I would have done. I wasn’t a monster. It was harder to know whether I’d delete the video from the Internet, given the chance. But I thought I probably would—if only to eliminate those few seconds of daily dread while I waited for the comments’ section to load.

  I would take it all back, if I could. So why did it feel like Seth was trying to negate some crucial part of the story?

  “I do understand that,” I said, sounding calmer than I felt. “But you have to understand that this is mostly out of my control. I can’t stop people from watching that video, or talking about me and Cameron.”

  Seth nodded, but in slow motion, like he wasn’t agreeing with me so much as agreeing to think it over. I touched his cheek. He turned his head and faced me, finally. Because he was Seth O’Malley, and I was a girl who believed she had him figured out, I attempted to fix the problem with my lips on his. Our fight hadn’t had anything to do with our bodies, but I thought our bodies could probably erase it.

  Gently, Seth grabbed my shoulders and pushed me away.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said. “My boss gets pissed if I’m late.”

  He rose from the plastic-wrapped mattress and pushed through the door that didn’t lock. We had at least ten minutes to spare; Seth was nowhere near late.

  Our argument had never really escalated. We’d used our indoor voices the entire time. I had no idea if I should chase after him and apologize profusely, or if he was the type to prefer space and silence to frantic pleas for forgiveness.

  Not knowing was the worst part.

  * * *

  * * *

  At the end of my shift, I was grabbing my bag from my locker in the break room when I sensed someone’s eyes on my back. Assuming Seth had come looking for me, I turned, relieved.

  It wasn’t Seth. It was Maureen.

  “You okay?” she asked, sticking out her bottom lip. “You looked upset earlier.”

  “I’m fine.” To make up for my obvious disappointment upon seeing her, I admitted, “I got into a fight with my boyfriend.”

  “Oh?” Maureen cocked her head. “He’s your boyfriend? That guy with the . . . ?” She fluttered her hand around her face, indicating Seth’s general scruff.

  The label had sort of slipped out. I wondered if being Seth’s girlfriend was still an option. When I didn’t say anything right away, Maureen asked, “You want to go to Dot’s? My hubby’s with the twins this morning.”

  Dot’s was the local dingy tavern, separated from Highway 101 by a gravel parking lot and a stagnant collection of motorcycles. “I’m eighteen,” I reminded her.

  “Stick with me, and Dot won’t even think of carding you.”

  I hadn’t had a drink in months. Toward the end of the school year, I’d stopped going to the weekly bonfire parties up on Cape Defiance. All anyone ever talked about was graduation and what they were doing next. I’d been reasonably excited to become a legal adult. Excited, even, to test my parents’ theory that college would change everything. But not excited enough to raise my can of PBR and toast the future, Friday after Friday night.

  Part of me didn’t want to step foot inside of Dot’s Tavern. Part of me didn’t want to go anywhere with Maureen. She was the kind of Crescent Bay local my parents had raised me not to be, the kind of girl Sara and I had defined ourselves against—because the two of us weren’t doomed to work, breed, and die in this salt-eroded town. We were better than that.

  Or maybe I wasn’t better than anyone.

  “Let’s go,” I told Maureen.

  FIFTEEN

  Seth’s car was already missing from the parking lot. Climbing into Maureen’s old Civic, I stared at the space normally occupied by the Jeep and had to swallow the lump forming fast in my throat. My hand reached for my phone.

  “Don’t text him!” Maureen screeched.

  “Why not?” I asked, kicking aside fast-food wrappers. The back of the car was furnished with two car seats, a mountain of stuffed toys and cardboard picture books rising up between them.

  “It’s too soon,” she said. “You say sorry now, you’re claiming responsibility for the whole dispute. I always wait at least a day to see if I can get Chad to apologize first.”

  “How long have you been married?” I asked her.

  Maureen waved her hand. “Oh. Forever.”

  She was, at most, about twenty-five.

  Dot’s Tavern was the kind of establishment most people I knew only joked about patronizing. I assumed the barstools would be planted with drunk, grizzled seamen who hadn’t moved in decades, the only lights filled with neon, and every surface sticky to the touch. As it turned out, my guesses weren’t completely off base. Inside, a solitary customer had a white beard hanging to his lap. The place smelled like old popcorn, old carpet, and booze—but a row of windows against the back wall let in the early morning light, and Dot herself greeted us warmly before gesturing toward a cracked vinyl booth that appeared to be my supervisor’s regular spot. Maureen ordered us two pints of Sam Adams. True to her promise, no one asked to see my ID.

  “So,” Maureen said, dipping her lips into the frothy head of her beer. “You like gossip?”

  “Sure,” I said, gulping my own drink. “Who doesn’t?”

  “Two of our new CNAs on day shift are already getting the boot. Both of them from your program.”

  “Seriously?” I asked, wondering who it was. Maybe the girl with the aquarium sweatshirt who had dreamed of taking her newly acquired skills to Los Angeles. I had never met any of the staff on day shift; I’d only learned to decipher their initials, scrawled along the edge of each resident’s chart.

  Maureen nodded. “They barely passed their clinicals, and now they’re just not cutting it.” She sighed. “You’d be surprised at how many CNAs pass through. The turnover rate is high. I don’t know, it’s like most of these girls think it’s going to be a fun, easy job. Something they can do without going to college. I guess I don’t have to tell you how misguided that is.”

  “It can be pretty fun, though.” I hadn’t eaten anything since before my shift, almost nine hours ago, and now my body was eagerly absorbing the beer. “So much more fun than watching the clock. You know, back in high school—”

  “Back in high school?” Maureen interrupted. “You mean, like, two months ago?”

  “Yeah, two months ago, I watched the clock like it was my job. It got
to the point where I felt actual rage at the minute hand taking its sweet time moving over the numbers. I wanted to get up from my desk, smash the thing with my giant calculus textbook, and ask who among my peers had a clock that wasn’t a lying a piece of shit.”

  “Language!” cried Maureen, but she was laughing into her pint glass.

  “Being a CNA is way more fun than being a professional clock-watcher,” I said.

  “You’re the best CNA I’ve trained, probably ever,” said Maureen. The compliment was as surprising as it was abrupt. “The residents all adore you. And the director knows it. If you have any desire to switch to days, I’d check in with her.”

  Maureen had never been so nice to me for such a sustained period of time. The alcohol made me trust her faster than I normally would have.

  “I like nights, personally, because I get to spend the afternoons with my kids. I used to work seven to seven, up at Steeds Memorial? Never even saw the twins awake. But obviously,” Maureen said neutrally, “you don’t have kids.”

  What I really needed was to cut my hours in half. Now might be the perfect time to tell my supervisor I was going to Whedon. And I tried to make myself do it, but the admission got stuck in my throat. That I would be a freshman at Whedon College in September had never felt less plausible.

  “Are you thinking about nursing school, eventually?” Maureen asked.

  “Um.” I took a drink. “I’m not sure.” Nursing school would mean going to college—but not a small liberal arts college like Whedon. Something more like the soulless state university of my parents’ nightmares.

  “You should. You’ll make more money as an RN, have more options. And you’d be really good at it. You have that quality, that thing where the crazier stuff gets, the calmer you get? Like when you saved that girl. That was cool.”

  Maureen spoke casually, as if resuscitating Cameron Suzuki was something I’d done on the job, in between combing what remained of Mrs. Lu’s hair and arguing with Tamora over the availability of midnight snacks.