Words and Their Meanings by Kate Bassett Read Free Book Online Page B

Joe’s before mine), and went to the car.
    On the way to the hospital, I told her a story about a land of stardust and bright colors, where all the buildings were made of origami just like Gramps creates. I don’t remember the point of the story, but I do remember the first line: “Birds sat on a wire, fluttering paper wings.”
    I also remember Bea fell asleep by the time I pulled into the parking lot. I sat there, my head against the wheel, knowing the right thing to do meant going back home. I’d already started the car and clicked it into reverse when I saw Nat getting dropped off near the entrance.
    Sliding back into park, I jumped out and waved my arms under the dim parking lot light.
    â€œNat! Nat!” I hissed as loud as possible without yelling.
    She paused for a second before realizing it was me. Looked up toward Joe’s room, which was lit, but just barely. “I was just coming to check on you,” she said, jogging over and giving me a quick squeeze. “Everything okay?”
    â€œYeah, my parents wanted Bea to have a night away from all this.” I swept my hand toward the hospital. “But I hate sitting there, waiting. We decided to come anyway. And then she fell asleep. I guess I have to go home.”
    â€œI’ll take her,” Nat said, pulling the keys from my hand. “Go on inside.”
    â€œUm, you don’t even have your license yet.”
    â€œDetails. I drove the car here. My mom didn’t have to yell at me about a rolling stop once. Honest.”
    â€œI don’t know.” I peeked in at my little sister, sprawled across the seat, bunny ears flopped against her ankles. “I mean, Bea’s in the car.”
    â€œIt’s less than three miles to your house. I will keep my hands locked at ten-and-two. I will go five miles under the speed limit, without the radio or my cell phone on, and when I get there, I’ll tuck Bea in and hang out until someone can run you back home. Besides, I told my mom I was having a sleepover. Other option would be you driving us. Or I could go up and check on things in your place, if you’d rather not get into it with your folks.”
    I must have known deep down that he’d stopped breathing. Because I sent Nat and Bea home, but couldn’t step away from the empty parking lot space until long after the taillights disappeared. I remember glancing up at Joe’s room. It went dark. Then light. I craned my neck to watch his fifth-floor window as I walked.
    I never made it all the way to the front door.
    Halfway up the sidewalk, I saw Gramps stagger out and sort of fall against a bench. A bunch of moths flitted around a beam of light above him. I didn’t have to get any closer to know. His head rested almost on his knees. His body jerked back and forth, muffled with sounds of pain and loss. I’d come to know these signs well in the three weeks Joe was in the hospital. Physical manifestations of what happens when hope ceases to exist.
    I closed my eyes. My lids were made of bricks. I stepped backward again and again until my foot fell off the curb.
    Above me, the biggest meteor shower in a century started dropping stars into the light-polluted sky. I stood in the middle of the street, trying to breathe. I thought about the end of a poem, how we are here, but not really, no different than stars.
    There were too many words tumbling, stabbing, pounding agains t my skull. I had to start walking.
    Joe
    Gone
    My father’s family, wiped away
    Gone
    Joe
    Empty
    Forever
    Erased
    Joe
    I followed traces of light, away from the hospital, away from the bent silhouette of my grandfather, away from the truth.
    I walked five miles, to the highway.
    I moved past the “motorized traffic only” sign. Walked down the C-shaped on-ramp. Down to the four lanes of Friday-night traffic zooming north.
    The short yellow lines between lanes reflected against car headlights like stars on the ground. I