Everything That Makes You(42)

Since fate mocked her, the one time a real conversation might have taken  place was the day David arrived. Fiona had met him at the "L" platform  nearest campus and walked him back to her dorm. They'd stepped into the  refuge of the heated building just as Jackson was walking out. He'd held  the door open-Fiona imagined he didn't realize who he was holding the  door for until it was too late-and it was David who stopped and said,  "Aren't you the guy from Memphis?"

Jackson stood there, at a loss. Finally he released the door and shook David's hand.

"Yeah. Jackson. We met at the coffee shop." Jackson nodded toward the bag. "You came to visit?"

"My spring break," David said, snaking his arm around Fiona's waist and pulling her closer.

After that rousing conversation, the three stood there awkwardly until Jackson said, "I've got class. See y'all later."

"He seemed friendlier over Christmas," David said, watching him leave through the glass doors.

Indeed, he did.

Now finished with her bagel and the paper, Fiona looked at her watch.  David slept like the dead, something she hadn't known about him. Last  night, two of her suitemates were partying with a bunch of friends in  the suite common room-at one in the morning. David hadn't so much as  flipped over.

He also took forever to wake up. He had time before his flight, and she  didn't want it to look like she was kicking him out or anything-but  still, she was ready. Her suitemates kept telling her how lucky she was  to have a single-no closet space to argue over, no one else's alarm to  sleep through, no quirky habits to deal with. Now she understood. Her  tiny, cement-walled, perpetually cold room with poor acoustics was, at  least, all hers.                       
       
           



       

Getting herself a refill and fixing a cup for David, Fiona started  upstairs. She wrestled with the suite door a moment, juggling the two  hot cups, before walking through the common room on the way to her own.

There on the couch sat Jackson. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands held in a tepee in front of him. "Got a sec?"

He looked awful-bags under dulled eyes, skin more yellow than olive. His  voice sounded thinned. Whatever had taken him from there to here must  have been quite a journey.

She stood there a moment, not sure what to do. His eyes traveled to the two cups.

"Oh," he said, getting up. "I didn't realize he was still here."

"He's sleeping, I think," she said, looking toward her door.

Jackson looked at the door, too. "I can catch you later. It's okay."

"No," she said, too quickly. Putting the cups on a table, she pulled a  chair over. She was at a weird angle to the couch, but she wasn't sure  how lined up he wanted her to be. "It's fine," she said.

He looked at the door again, his expression simply devoid-no sarcasm, no  joy, no anger. Just emptiness. He resumed his original place on the  couch, looking at his knees a long while.

They sat there several silent minutes before Fiona asked, "So . . . you wanted to talk about something?"

Jackson chewed on the inside of his cheek, glancing from his hands to  the backpack at his feet and back again. "I've been meaning to come by,  to check on you. You seemed upset, you know, after . . ." His voice  trailed away. Fiona wasn't sure to which after he referred.

"I've been here. You could have just talked to me." Her voice sounded  watery to Jackson's thinned. Both used only a fraction of their vocal  cords.

"Yeah, well, it's pretty complicated." He dragged a hand through his  hair, nodding toward the closed door. "Exhibit A." He frowned. "Or B."

She picked imaginary lint from her jeans.

Jackson's eyes were locked on his legs as well. His elbows rested on his  knees. "I really fought my mom about coming up here-didn't see the rush  and all that. But once I got here, I don't know, it was nice.  Everything was new. Mine." He shook his head. "That sounds awful."

"No. I get it," Fiona answered quietly.

He spoke quickly, like if he didn't say it right then he wasn't going to  say it at all. "Having a sick brother changed every part of my life. I  mean, I let it. But still, it defined everything."

Fiona swallowed. She didn't know where this was going. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

Jackson leaned forward and dug through the backpack. When he sat up, he  held five Moleskine notebooks. "They were sticking out of the trash  downstairs. I haven't read them."

After a few seconds of gaping, Fiona carefully took the notebooks,  resting them on her knees like they might break. She opened the cover of  the top one, letting her fingers drag down the length of the page. As  always seemed to happen in the presence of Jackson King, she struggled  to speak past the lump in her throat. "Thank you."

"I know I should have given them to you earlier."

She nodded, not able to process past the shock. Maybe she should be mad. But, after everything, she figured he deserved a pass.

Jackson took a breath, looking Fiona head-on. Bloodshot veins turned the  whites of his eyes near pink. "I wanted to see you. I just didn't know  what to say." He gave a faint smile. "Ironic as it sounds, Marcus would  have loved this little dilemma. The guy loved any and all hypotheticals.  Not to mention he could talk to a post."

Fiona shook her head. She couldn't have this conversation. "Jackson-"

"Just hear me out," he said, holding up a hand. "I prepared a little speech and everything."

She gave a reluctant, terrified nod.

"Even though Marcus really believed some miracle would happen, he didn't  waste a second." He gave a sad, lopsided smile. "So I learned this from  my dying brother. Don't waste it."

"Waste what?" she whispered.

He looked at her a long time. "Everything that makes you."

"I don't understand."

Grabbing the arms of her chair, he dragged her over until they lined up  knee to knee. His eyes drifted down as he spoke. Not deliberately  away-more like he gradually focused on nothing in order to stay on track  in his head. "Look, in the end we're all just experiences. Some are  crappy, some are great, some are just plain dumb. But the more you have,  the more you are. And I think Marcus knew that, it's why he wanted to  do, do, do. It made him bigger than his disease.                       
       
           



       

"Being sick was part of that experience, too. It shaped his life, but it  wasn't all that defined him. Eventually, the disease killed him. But it  never, ever won."

Fiona felt humbled by this boy she'd never know. Even from a sickbed, he  lived bigger than she did. He had looked his fate in the eye. He had  faced his fear-while she always took the cowardly route around.

Even now that she was fixed, was she really any better?

No. No, she was not.

She swallowed, shaking her head. "It's not that easy."

For the first time since they discovered the horrible May 18  coincidence, Jackson touched her. After tucking some fallen strands  behind her ear, his fingertips grazed her cheek for the slightest  moment. Her skin tingled beneath his touch. Then he dropped his hand,  wrapping it around hers and edging himself closer. With their knees  staggered between each other-Jackson-Fiona-Jackson-Fiona-he nodded to  the notebooks in her lap. "We've all got baggage, Fiona."

"I'm the only one wearing it on my face."

He shrugged. "So what? Other people wear it in bruises. Or on their  hearts, when they lose the people they love. Kids who grow up surrounded  by hate have it all over their souls. And the rest of us? We shove it  way down where it rots, poisoning us slowly. Which way's better?"

She stared at her notebooks, watching fat tears plop on them one by one. "It's too hard."

"Only because you make it that way."

Again, she shook her head. "If I get up there and sing these songs,  everything I feel, I am, it's just up for grabs. It becomes  entertainment. Everyone knows me, but no one has to give it back. I'm  naked when everyone else is in fur coats."

Jackson gave a short, unamused laugh. "Fiona, no one demands you write.  No one's forcing you to play that guitar. There's no grand conspiracy to  know you." Using the knot of their four hands, he pointed toward the  notebooks, now splattered in tears. "So the question is, if it's not  fundamentally important to you, why have you spent a small fortune on  these notebooks? Why did you come to one of the country's best writing  and music schools? If this isn't who you are, why are you so tormented  over it?"

"It is who I am," she argued, annoyed now. "That's what I'm saying."