Free Something Wicked by Lesley Anne Cowan Page B

nurses came in to check his vitals, they’d just give this adoring look at the two of us.
    Before he got sick, Bradley was a pain-in-the-ass little brat, but as soon as he went into the hospital, he became pale and cute, and I felt bad for being so mean to him all the time. As time goes on, the cuter he becomes in my memory, and the guiltier I feel about giving him such a hard time.
    The thing with Bradley was that when he was around, we were a family. It wasn’t just him being an innocent little kid that made our home happy. It was that we were all linked, connected in some way. Grounded, I guess. It didn’t seem to matter we didn’t have a father around. We felt complete. My mom was happy almost all the time, so she didn’t miss work or get fired. And I guess I was happy too. I can’t entirely remember, but it’s like I think of myself then and I can see my face in the memories; I can see my smile. And I don’t know what the hell I was so happy about, except that there was nothing yet to be miserable about. I think that’s just growing up—you grow into misery and complication.
    My mother and I don’t talk about what happened next. After Bradley died, she got depressed and began drinking and was a real mess. She couldn’t work. She couldn’t do anything.We lost our apartment, and we had to live at a shelter for a few months until Crystal got us an apartment in her building and helped my mom get back on track. Except my mom never really went back to “normal,” the way she was before. And I don’t think I ever felt we were a family after that.
    So it’s no wonder it’s a time my mom and I just want to forget about. But it’s not like we ever forget Bradley. There are photographs of him all over the apartment. Other than doing something special on his birthday, though, we rarely mention his name. We don’t need to. He’s always there. He’s always here.

    So instead of going to see Eric, I meet up with Ally to blaze in the alley behind her house. We sit inside an old wood garage where she and people in her neighbourhood go to chill when it’s cold out. It’s got some plastic jugs to sit on, and a little table made of plywood propped up on milk crates. Usually someone’s in there, smoking or drinking or just chilling, but this time we’re alone. Ally just got her nose pierced and wanted me to see it. It doesn’t look good. Her nose is sort of pug-like and you need a nice pointy nose for a piercing to look good. She says she’s trying to look more girlie because she thinks she looks too much like a guy. Truth is, I think she’s gay but she just doesn’t want to admit it yet.
    “It’s ’cause your hair is so short,” I say, which it is. It’s like a boy’s—plain and brown and short. “Grow it. And stop wearing those butch guy jeans,” I suggest.
    “Yeah,” she agrees, but she won’t do it.
    We stay there for about an hour, while she tells me what’s happening with everyone at school. While she talks, I compose a letter to Michael in my head.
    Michael,
    Sometimes you occupy everything in my sight and in my mind. No matter what I do, all I think about is you, all I see is you. You’re this heavy, solid mass standing directly in front of me, like a door, and beyond you life is happening. I try to look beyond. I try to strain my neck to peek around, or stand on my tippytoes, or slip underneath. But it’s hopeless. You block everything I experience, everything but the edges.
    “It was hilarious in class today. You know Aiden, right? He’s friends with Mark? He’s always causing shit, but in a funny way, you know? And so …”
    Other times, you’re not so solid. During those times it’s like I’m living two lives at once, and I can easily pull myself in and out of them. It’s like looking out a subway window when you’re stuck in the tunnel. I can see what’s on the subway behind me, but I can also see through the window. It’s like I’m simultaneously looking backward and