I wipe the tears from my cheeks as a tension headache grips my skull. “It’s not that. I’m not afraid of you.”
He glances at me a couple of times as he changes lanes to transition to highway 520. “You still haven’t told me your name.”
The giddiness I initially felt at not knowing his name doesn’t return with this revelation.
“Colette.”
“Colette? Is that French?”
“I think so. My mom is a bit of a Francophile. My sister’s name is—was—” I shake my head at my slip-up. “Her name was Gabrielle, but everyone called her Elle.”
“You want to tell me more about her?”
My headache spreads to my neck. “She had leukemia.”
He continues driving in silence, though I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t know what to say or because he’s trying to encourage me to keep talking. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m drunk, and I need to tell someone. I’ll likely never see this guy again. This is the perfect time to over-share.
“They discovered it when she was six, but she was in remission for ten years. Then, about a year and a half ago, it came back and never went away.” I give up on my futile attempts to dry my face. “This morning, she called me close and whispered in my ear, ‘I’m so scared. I don’t want to die. Please tell them I don’t want to die.’ And now I don’t know what to do with that information. I mean, how am I ever supposed to be happy again knowing how scared she was?”
He lets out a soft sigh. “I’m so fucking sorry. I wish I knew what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Listening is enough.”
As I say this, it occurs to me I should apply this logic to my feelings about Elle’s final moments.
Words are inadequate when trying to comfort someone who’s grieving. Actions speak louder. Maybe Elle’s words should not be taken so seriously. Perhaps they were just thoughts she had no control over as her brain was shutting down. Or maybe the words weren’t connected to the meaning behind them.
But that type of logic would require objectivity; something I’m incapable of feeling right now. All I can think of is how my beautiful sister no longer exists, and how fucking unfair that is.
She didn’t deserve to spend so many months anticipating her death. She didn’t deserve to spend so many years of her young life in misery. She didn’t deserve to feel so fucking scared and helpless in her final moments.
She deserved to grow old and fall in love. She deserved her chance to save the bees, or whatever it is she would have done with her life. She deserved better, and the world deserved her.
“It should have been me in that hospital bed.”
He flashes me a look of deep concern. “That’s not something you should think about today.”
I wonder if he has experience talking someone down from the brink of hopelessness. His tone is gentle, but his words are firm. Even with three drinks in my system, I understand what he means. It’s dangerous to think about my death when I’m freshly grieving my sister’s.
I extract my feet from the sea of empty water bottles in the footwell and place them on the seat to hug my knees against my chest.
His gaze flits toward me. “I know it’s still raw, but maybe it will help to make plans. Like, what if you learn about beekeeping, or something, in your sister’s honor?”
I rest my chin on my knee and stare at the gray sky as I imagine myself in a beekeeper’s suit. “I’m afraid of bees.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“Because you don’t know me.” My response is cold, but I can’t bring myself to care. “Besides, I don’t want to work with bees. I like working with animals.”
“Bees are animals.”
I rest my cheek on my knee, so I’m facing him. “You’re not giving up on this bee thing, are you?”
He turns the volume down on his phone as the Google Maps lady announces our next exit.
“My dad died when I was nine,” he says with a shrug. “I guess I wish someone had convinced me to do something in his honor.”
“You’re not too old to take your own advice.”
“I’ve already taken it.” There’s no joy in his declaration. The muscles in his neck tense up, and he sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “If you don’t want to be a beekeeper, what do you want to be?”
“I’m a dog groomer. I used to want to be a veterinarian, but I dropped out of U-Dub… Ever since I could remember, I’ve wanted a big hobby farm with dogs and horses and goats and cats and… I guess if I could work with animals for the rest of my life, I’d be pretty happy. How about you? What are your hopes and dreams?”
“Don’t have any.”
I squint at him. “Come on. Everyone has dreams.”
“Guess I’m not like everyone.”
The note of finality in his tone feels like a challenge.
“Ooh, so broody and mysterious.”
This makes him laugh, but there’s still an uneasiness in his eyes. “I used to think I wanted to be like my dad.”
“What did your dad do?”
“He was a helicopter pilot. He worked with search and rescue organizations.” He doesn’t blink as he seems lost in thought for a moment. “He died in a helicopter crash.”
As he stares out at the road ahead of us, I wonder if this is the pain I saw in his eyes earlier. I want to say something to acknowledge it, but I don’t think either of us wants platitudes right now. Better to just shut up and listen.
“I actually got my degree in data science,” he continues. “I fell into bartending after graduation because of the flexible hours.”
He glances at me with an apprehensive look in his eyes.
A lazy grin spreads across my mouth. “Don’t worry. I don’t judge guys based on what they do for a living. I mean, I think there are better things you can do with a data science degree than spending your time driving drunk girls home. But you do you, you know?”
He laughs out loud. “Damn, girl. That’s some savage criticism of my life choices.”
“Sorry. That’s the alcohol talking. I didn’t mean it that way. I actually envy you.”
“Envy me?” he says, still chuckling as he looks much more relaxed now.
“Yeah, you’re lucky you at least have a degree. If I hadn’t dropped out, I’d be graduating with my bachelor’s next month and applying for the master’s program in comparative medicine.” I inhale a deep breath as my chest tightens. “It would be hella difficult to get U-Dub to take me back now.”
I’m grateful he doesn’t try to offer advice on getting accepted back into UW. I’ve already had that conversation with my parents a million times. I know what I need to do; I just don’t think I have the mental fortitude to do it.
As he drives in silence, the muscle in his jaw twitches occasionally, as if he’s stressed about something. I consider asking him what he’s thinking about, but this question may open up the conversation to subjects I’m not prepared to deal with right now. Still, it doesn’t stop my mind from wandering to the many possibilities.