The Foreseeable Future Page 4

  More than once over the six-week course, I almost fell asleep at my desk. To avoid collapsing I developed an addiction to the muddy coffee spat out by the vending machine in the hall. The caffeine, entering my bloodstream so late in the evening, mostly just made my temples ache and my eyes water—but there was something about constant fatigue that worked for me. When the instructor—a retired RN named Joan—finally got her PowerPoint working, her lecture rolling, I found it easy to absorb every word. Maybe it was just because the information was so obviously essential to the job I wanted. If I was going to be a CNA, I was determined to be a good one, and that meant knowing the precise way to assist a patient with a bedpan, minimizing mess and embarrassment. It meant studying the ideal body temperatures and heart rates for people of different ages, genders, and sizes. It meant defining Aphasia and Embolism and Bradycardia.

  Arrhythmia and tachycardia and rigor mortis.

  None of which was entirely riveting by itself, but when Joan asked us questions about bedside manner and patient safety—about actually taking care of people—I wasn’t just interested; most of the time I could guess the answers. On a night toward the end of May, our instructor put her fists on her hips and said, “Okay. Say you have a patient who’s recovering from a stroke. Over the last few months he’s regained some mobility in his arms and legs, but he’s still shaky, still struggling with his exercises. And he won’t let you feed him. He wants to feed himself. What do you do?”

  A girl named Felicia stuck her hand in the air. She was close to my age, maybe nineteen, and always wore a faded sweatshirt advertising an aquarium in Newport, Oregon. “I would tell him he has to let me do it,” Felicia said. “Respectfully, of course. But otherwise he’ll make a mess, right? And then I’ll have to clean him, change his sheets. I don’t have the time. I have other patients to take care of.”

  Joan’s expression was hard to read. “Anyone else?”

  I raised my hand. Joan called on me, her lips twitching into a preemptive smile. Never once had a teacher looked at me like that.

  “I would let him feed himself,” I said.

  “Why?” Joan asked.

  “Because he wants to.”

  She nodded. “Good answer.”

  During our ten-minute break, Felicia followed me to the bathroom. As we washed our hands in front of a warped mirror, she asked if I knew where I wanted to do my clinicals. Assuming we didn’t fail our written exams, we would all have to work two weeks of unpaid shifts at the hospitals or clinics that would eventually hire us.

  “Retirement home in Crescent Bay,” I told her.

  Officially, we were supposed to submit our top three choices to our instructor, and Joan would do her best to match each of us with our preferred employer. But, on one of the rare mornings he’d shown up to math class, Seth O’Malley had all but promised I would get my first pick.

  “I know a guy,” was all he would say, when pressed.

  “You know a guy?” I’d repeated. Seth’s hair was always damp in the mornings. He smelled like the kind of cheap shampoo that’s advertised exclusively to men—more spicy than sweet. I imagined him setting his alarm for the last possible minute, rolling out of bed, his mind still mired in dreams.

  “Well, technically I know a lady,” Seth had said.

  Pulling paper towels from the dispenser, I asked Felicia, “What about you? Where do you want to train?”

  “Anywhere. But as soon as I pass my clinicals, I’m looking for a job in LA.”

  “Really?”

  “There’s a ton of work in LA,” she said, “and it’s my favorite city. Have you ever been?”

  “Sure.” My parents were always combining academic conferences with family vacations; I had been all over.

  “It’s awesome, right?”

  I shrugged. LA, in my experience, was all traffic and billboards and drive-through car washes. The palm trees lining every massive boulevard weren’t enough to make the air smell like something you should breathe. “I like Seattle better.”

  “Is that where you’ll look for work?”

  For a few seconds, before I remembered I had already accepted a spot at Whedon, my heart lurched at the idea. Sometimes, I wished I had the nerve to tell my parents I wasn’t particularly interested in college, that I would rather move to any big city, get a job, and see what happened. But more often than not, such a plan seemed so vague as to be completely terrifying.

  Whedon College was my best option. There was nothing vague or unknown about it.

  “Maybe,” was all I told Felicia.

  “You should get out of here,” she said firmly. “We should all get out of here.”

  Felicia made it sound like Crescent Bay would soon be swallowed by a tidal wave.

  To be fair, it was a real possibility.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sara wouldn’t stop declaring everything we did a milestone: last ever cafeteria breadstick. Last time filling in Scantron bubbles. Last assembly at which we had to watch the football team—including Seth, who wore a bandanna tied around his neck—perform a mortifying dance routine in the name of school spirit. On a Thursday in June, I exited the bathroom in the south hallway, saying, “That tampon dispenser ate my quarters again,” and Sara cried, “That tampon dispenser has robbed you for the last time! Less than one menstrual cycle until graduation!”

  Dutifully, Elliot said, “T-M-I,” as if we’d never before subjected him to a conversation concerning our bodily fluids. As Sara spun in dreamy circles, it dawned on me that she was correct. And also that, soon, we probably wouldn’t see each other often enough to discuss things as banal as tampons. That maybe, after people grew up and got lives and mortgages, they stopped discussing tampons altogether.

  It seemed like a loss.

  And then, despite incessant reminders from Sara, and also from the posters plastering the walls at school, I accidentally scheduled my CNA exam for Saturday evening, also known as prom night. We had chosen our time slots at the end of an especially long class—the projection screen had rebelled; our instructor had refused to stop quizzing us on heart attack symptoms—and in that moment, prom and Sara’s recent obsession with it had been far from my mind. Taking the exam required driving forty miles south to a testing center in another town. I wouldn’t be back in Crescent Bay until eight, at the earliest.

  “I’m sorry,” I groaned into the phone. “I guess I could throw a dress in my car and change in the parking lot.”

  “But who am I going to get ready with?” Sara asked. “Elliot?”

  It was Friday night. I was lying with the phone pressed between my ear and the pillow. On the top bunk, Rosie was tossing from side to side, letting her bedsprings voice her annoyance. “Sure,” I yawned. “Get him to French braid your hair.”

  Elliot had two little sisters. His braiding was top-notch.

  “I wanted to get ready with you.” Sara pouted.

  I didn’t know what to say. Maybe once, in seventh grade, Sara and I had idly wondered who our prom dates would be. In general, it wasn’t a fantasy on which we’d dwelled.

  “Since when do you care about prom so much?”

  “I don’t care about prom so much. I care about you so much. I miss you.”

  “You’re the one who’s leaving,” I snapped, as if Sara Quintero spending her college years in Crescent Bay had ever been an option. She had a perfect grade point average, had known she wanted to be a veterinarian since she was six.

  “And you’re the one who’s making sure we have no time to spend together before I leave!”

  “It’s not like I’m avoiding you. I’m just trying to . . .”

  Trying to do something different. Trying to make my life in Crescent Bay feel as fresh and as daunting as Sara’s would feel, the moment she arrived in Davis. But I couldn’t make myself say any of this out loud. I worried Sara
would think my efforts were pathetic, that in reality I was turning into the kind of girl who would get a job in town, marry a boy from school, and have three kids by the time she was twenty-four.

  “Meet me at the dance,” Sara said, excusing me from finishing my sentence.

  “I’ll throw a dress in my car,” I agreed.

  “By a dress, do you mean the only dress you own, which you already wore to your cousin’s wedding in Baltimore two years ago?”

  I took mental inventory of my closet. “I do.”

  “I’ll loan you a dress. Text me when you get there and I’ll do your makeup in the bathroom.”

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The exam took longer than I had expected, but I was pretty sure I had passed. Only two questions gave me pause—one about the precise definition of a stage-three bedsore, and one about the common signs of deep-vein thrombosis. On the drive back to Crescent Bay, I kept hoping for some kind of post-test adrenaline rush to kick in—some feeling I could exchange for prom-worthy levels of excitement. But I only felt beat. By the time I pulled into the school parking lot, I was trying to gauge the consequences of letting Sara down.

  Every few minutes, the metal doors to the gym would fly open and eject a group of giggly, glittery seniors. The bass line of a pop song thumped, deafening, until the doors fell shut.

  Seth O’Malley appeared in my passenger-side window.

  My heart raced as I scrambled to lower the glass. As soon as there was space, Seth reached inside and unlocked the door. I watched, amused, as the guy struggled to fit his long legs between the seat and the glove compartment. My dad’s car was a MINI Cooper, suited to people of average height, or else large numbers of clowns.

  “Uh, what’s up?” I asked him.

  “Just taking a break.” Seth flashed me the broad, unselfconscious smile of a little kid saying cheese for the camera. His tux had been tailored for someone much shorter and wider than he was.

  “In my car?”

  “I just came out to get something from my Jeep real quick. Then I saw you sitting alone in the dark . . . and I thought, there’s Audrey Nelson again.”

  “Again?”

  “You’re everywhere, lately.”

  “I’m exactly where I’ve always been.”

  “Well, now I see you.”

  “I see you, too.”

  “So it’s mutual. We’re both visible.”

  “Neither of us is a ghost.”

  He poked me in the arm, then nodded, satisfied. “So did you pass your exam?”

  I had told Seth the date of my CNA exam whenever he’d last been in class, but I was surprised he remembered. “I think so.”

  “Good. As long as you passed, you’ll be joining the exemplary staff at the Crescent Bay Retirement Home.”

  “According to the lady you know?”

  “The director of the nursing home. We had a chat, and I vouched for you. Of course, I had to fudge some of the details—didn’t mention your drug habit, or your snaggletooth.”

  Reflexively, my tongue sought each of my canines, but three years of orthodontia had forced my teeth into alignment long ago.

  “Just kidding,” Seth went on. “The only thing I had to say was that you’re up for a long-term commitment.”

  I blinked.

  “To the job,” he clarified. “You’re not planning to quit the moment you pass your clinicals, right?”

  “Right.” My dread of going inside the gym, of dancing, began to dissolve. The pieces of my summer were falling into place. “Thanks, Seth.” Experimentally, I angled my right knee closer to his left.

  Our legs remained separated by the gearshift.

  “No problem,” he said. “Working nights gets lonely. I like to try and sync my breaks with whoever’s around, so I don’t forget how to interact with other humans.”

  Socializing seemed like the last thing Seth O’Malley would ever forget how to do.

  “I thought you worked days,” I said.

  “Only during the school year. Every summer I go nocturnal.”

  My phone vibrated against the cup holder. Sara’s message lit up the screen: Where are you??

  “You know—” I reached for my phone. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to see Sara. “Your tux doesn’t really fit you. Like, at all.”

  “That’s what my date said!”

  “Who’s your date?”

  “Manda Hastings.” All I knew about Manda Hastings was that her parents owned the surf shop in town, and also that her hair was the exact color of uncooked pasta. “Anyway,” Seth said, gesturing to my body, making my skin feel tight, “you’re the one wearing jeans.”

  “I’m about to change. Shouldn’t you get back inside before they crown you prom king?”

  Seth winced.

  “Were you actually nominated?” I asked, starting to laugh.

  “I’m very popular.”

  I cracked up, hard.

  “Don’t laugh,” Seth said, but his shoulders were shaking. “We can’t all be mysterious loners.”

  “I’m not a loner!”

  “Oh, pardon me. I forgot about your two friends.”

  “Two is plenty!”

  “If you say so, Audrey.” He pronounced my name carefully, taking his time with both syllables. “Will I see you inside?”

  “I thought we established that you see me everywhere.”

  Seth grinned. “That’s right. How could I forget?”

  “You’ll see me inside. You’ll see me in class. You’ll even see me at graduation.”

  “And I’ll see you at work, all summer long.”

  “All summer long,” I echoed.

  Seth climbed out of my car. I watched him glide across the parking lot, tucking loose strands of hair behind his ears. Crescent Bay’s prom king had worn cowboy boots to the dance.

  I texted Sara: I’m here, I’m here.

  Her reply was a row of exclamation points.

  SIX

  At graduation, Seth and I sat in the same row of folding chairs, waiting for our turn to line up at the base of the stage. Separating us were Annie Nichols and Brian Oakley. On the school bus in fourth grade Brian had, for a reason I no longer remembered, pulled my hair until I screamed. Now he was jiggling his leg beneath his aquamarine robe, casting nervous glances at the sky, muttering, “Totally gonna rain.” Somewhere far behind us sat Sara Quintero and Elliot Slate, banished to the back by virtue of their last names. If I had been allowed to sit with my friends, maybe graduating from high school would have felt more momentous. Instead I just felt detached, and annoyed.

  Seth caught me glaring at Brian. Leaning forward, he said, “Brian, bro? Could you chill with the leg-shaking?”

  Obediently, Brian froze. “Sorry, man.”

  A minute later we were shuffling toward the stage erected temporarily in the middle of the football field. I smiled only because my brother was in the audience; if my face looked weird, Jake would taunt me with pictures of the next three minutes for the rest of my life.

  My name sounded awkward in the school principal’s mouth. I’d never met the guy. Beside him, a receiving line of teachers beamed and mouthed, “Congratulations,” dabbing at their eyes as I reached to shake the principal’s surprisingly clammy hand.

  “Tassel,” he said under his breath.

  Facing the audience for the few seconds it took to move the tassel from one side of my cap to the other, I grinned maniacally. I heard Sara’s squeal, Elliot’s baritone, and my brother hollering, “Nelson!” like I was his favorite baseball player stepping up to the plate.

  After hurrying down the steps, I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see Seth close behind.

  He was still onstage. He was holding up the entire show, keeping so many seniors from their long-sought di
plomas, as he leaned toward one tearful teacher after another and wrapped each of them in a patented Seth O’Malley bear hug.

  The whole process took forever.

  * * *

  * * *

  A fan of graduations, Mom hadn’t committed to going to Italy until I’d sworn up and down that I would not be devastated if she missed my ceremony. Now, in the parking lot, Dad insisted we needed to send her a family photo. In lieu of asking me who would be an appropriate choice, he flagged down the nearest graduate, Cameron Suzuki, to serve as our photographer.

  Of all the girls in Crescent Bay, Cameron was the most widely beloved. While most of us had been born in one of three windowless delivery rooms at Steeds Memorial, Cameron had lived in Tokyo until she was a kindergartner. Every other July she traveled back to Japan with her parents, effectively ruining our teachers for the rest of our “How I Spent My Summer Vacation” reports. By high school, Cameron was so secure in her popularity she broke every rule associated with being adored by several hundred teenagers. For example, in eleventh grade she’d been voted homecoming queen but hadn’t shown up to claim her crown. Later she explained she’d taken an impromptu backpacking trip with her father in Yosemite.

  Now, she accepted my own father’s battered phone and began sweetly bossing us around: “Jake, put your arm around your sister,” and “Audrey, try to look happy! High school’s over!”

  She snapped what must have been fifty pictures before concluding, “You guys are adorable,” returning Dad’s phone, and jogging after a crowd of her friends.

  “What a nice young lady,” Dad said in a perfectly neutral tone that launched Rosie into a fit of giggles.

  “Yep,” I agreed, pulling my robe over my head and tossing it into the trunk of the car. Underneath, I was just wearing jean shorts and a thermal. A lot of kids had donned dresses and heels, curled their hair so it wouldn’t look so oppressed beneath their caps. I hadn’t seen the point.

  “Was that the first time someone’s described you as adorable?” Jake wanted to know. My brother had been home for less than twenty-four hours. His final exams had wrapped up halfway through May, but he’d spent the last couple of weeks with his new boyfriend’s family in some suburb of New York.