by S R Savell
He looks to me, lowers the heavy coat. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I know. If you don’t like it, the receipt’s in the bag.”
He pulls it closer, rubs a thumb over the black fabric. “No, it’s nice. Thank you, Michelle.”
“No problem.”
I wait, thinking he’ll put it on, but he doesn’t, not when we head to the bus station or when he leaves with a wave.
The next day, I think I won’t bother him with it. But the curiosity gets the best of me and I have to.
“My shirt was dirty. I didn’t want to mess up the jacket,” he replies, sanding the fixer-upper shelf Peter towed in today.
“It’s for messing up. You’re going to freeze when you’re dirty. Which, because you’re you, means a lot.”
He looks at a rough spot on the upper corner. Dissatisfied, he starts sanding. “It’s a special present. I don’t want it ruined.”
I rest my chin on my arms. “Doofus.”
He glances over and smiles. “I know.”
“If I asked you to push me in the basket, would you?”
“I don’t want to get banned from H-E-B,” he replies, tugging at the end of my ponytail.
We turn down the canned food aisle, squeezing against the side to let a family of six pass.
I grab some sweet potatoes. “You’re no fun at all.” I give him my best puppy eyes.
“Do you seriously want me to push you in the basket?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Is it just me or does most of our fun involve things on wheels?” he says, stepping aside for a group of guys.
“Yes. Yes, it does.” I remember the spinny chair and how happy it made him. Simple things could do that for Nathaniel.
Almost all the food is discount price, which is great for a cheapo like me. We halve the bill and head on to the house. Only we don’t get there right off.
We see it at the same time. I swear we thought it simultaneously too, like a telepathic connection quickly made and severed.
One lone cart separated from the others in the rack. Just standing there.
“We are not seriously about to take a joyride on a shopping cart,” he says, looking like he’s trying not to laugh.
I’m giggling already. “Uh, well, it would appear that way, Mr. Slater. There don’t seem to be many shoppers today or any cops, so”—I drop the bag in the baby seat of the cart, take Nathaniel’s sack and do the same—“one little zip won’t hurt, will it?”
“Well . . .”
I’m already pushing the basket down the ramp and to flat ground. “So methinks you should get us rolling and then jump up on the little metal thingy. We shall coast to the shopping cart corral down there, ditch the cart, and hurry home to prepare this delicious rotisserie turkey. Sound good?”
He weighs his options and reweighs them once I’ve climbed in and attached myself to the front side.
Two pumps of his legs and we’re sailing, wind slapping our cheeks.
“Hold on to yer giblets!” I whoop.
Nathaniel’s depth perception isn’t so great. Or maybe he’s laughing too much to see how quickly our little team has charged the metal enclosure.
Wham!
I almost flip over the edge.
I hear a pained “Gah” behind me and feel a forehead bang into my back.
“Christ, damn it, owie, owie,” I groan, rubbing my ribs.
“You okay?” He walks to the side, rubbing his ribs too.
I can’t answer because I’m laughing so hard.
Before long, he’s laughing too, losing his breath as quick as he gains it.
How to say it? Two idiots, enjoying their joyride home.
Like all good things, dinner with Mrs. Stotes goes way too fast: three hours of eating and laughter, of bad puns and great company, fast-forwarded and not easily rewound.
“You two give me hugs before you go.”
Nate and I knock into each other trying to hug her first.
“Thank you. It was wonderful,” she whispers in my ear. She kisses my cheek, then gives Nate his hug and kiss.
“How would you rate it? Maybe a ten?” I ask, shouldering my bag.
“Most definitely a ten. ” She sighs, elated, like she’s releasing her energy reserve in one fluid breath.
We creep out the door, clicking the light off on our way.
The next note card from Mrs. Stotes says I have to go find another book. No surprise there, but I wish she’d been a wee bit less secretive as to what she’s up to. And when I tell her, she laughs so hard that the nurse charges in, ready to toss me out.
Visiting hours are short this day. She’s got stuff to do and tells me in no uncertain terms to make with the bye-bye. I do with a warning that the end of this magical adventure best be worthwhile.
She says it is.
So it is.
Two days later, I’m sick as a dog, trying to convince Mom to go get the book from the library. We argue, and she finally says she’ll go before work. I return to my nausea and fever and regret not having some prescription to knock me out until it’s over.
The rainy weather is perfect for a leisure day or, in my case, a sick one. The sky spirits have the wind stirred up, a cutting wind spiked with razor rain. It plummets icily to the concrete, stabbing the sidewalk and swelling the gutters like a pile of bloated corpses.
I watch some of it from the window on the way from the kitchen. Orange juice, Tylenol, and NyQuil accompany me to the couch, where I pass out.
My clothes are too heavy. They’re pushing in, hot and uncomfortable all around me, even on my face, and so I squint to look into the dim. The fever has taken my strength. I mutter a curse and try to swing upright but lose momentum and fall back. I snag the cushion and drag myself to a sitting spot, shaking like my bones have liquefied.
I take more Tylenol, down two bottles of water, and go back to sleep.
When I wake, I feel somewhat better. Sweaty and shaky, I stand on toothpick legs and go to bathe.
When I’m back downstairs, there’s a tapping over the storm. I waddle to the door and open it.
“Nathaniel?”
He stands there, black duffel in his hands, empty expression, with the lightning shooting behind him.
And I know she’s gone.
My brain is slush in my skull. I tug him inside and guide him to the bathroom.
No one says a word. He sits on the toilet, arms between his knees, hunched like there are cords dragging him to the floor.
I take his bag, set it on the counter, and look straight into eyes that aren’t seeing anything.
I pull at his arms.
“Nathaniel,” I whisper.
He lifts them.
First goes the jacket and shirt, the wet slap sharp in the tiled room. After I untie the muddy laces, the boots come next, then the socks. I stand, pull his arms, and he stands too. The jeans join the pile last.
I run water in the bath. He steps in.
I pull the curtain and walk to the utility room.
It’s not happening. I refuse to admit she’s gone because if I do, if I let myself accept that horrible truth, then it’ll have to be true. But it’s not. So it can’t be.
I find a pair of super-baggy sweats, a hand-me-down from Aunt Gert. They’ll be too short, but they’ll have to do.
I knock on the door and step inside. The water’s off, and I don’t hear anything.
“Nathaniel?”
Nothing.
I tap the curtain, praying for the best. “When you’re ready, I have some pants until your stuff dries. If you put them on, I can dry your underwear too.”
More nothing.
“I’ll be outside.” For the next half hour, I sit outside the bathroom, talking. Saying everything from apologies to proverbs I didn’t know I knew. Crying off and on, sometimes yelling, and all the while, no words come back to greet me.
The door swings open. I stare up at him, the pink drawstrings tied, the legs of the sweatpan
ts high on his shins.
I wrap my arms around him tight.
He hugs back, a weak attempt. His arms shake, and I close my eyes against the tears burning my lids. I want to scream. I want to shake him until he smiles and tells me this is all some twisted joke. But he doesn’t.
We go downstairs. I watch him curl up on the couch, see his shoulders shaking, but I don’t hear a thing.
I sit on the floor, resting my forehead between his shoulder blades.
I wait for the crying that never comes, but sleep is merciful and takes us both, takes us before the rain stops to wonder what’s wrong.
She shakes me awake. I know it’s her by the lemongrass stench.
“Kitchen. Now.”
I stumble upward, ignore the cramps in my knees. Nathaniel is asleep still. I stroke his hair and head to war.
“What is he doing on my couch?”
“Sleeping.”
She glances past me. “Shut the door.”
“Shut it yourself.”
She leaves it, only speaks lower. It doesn’t hide the rage much. “I have had about enough of that boy coming into my house. And it is my house, not yours, you understand?”
I stay silent.
“You don’t pay bills. You don’t keep this place up. You don’t do anything besides bitch and drag strays in off the street.” She sits.
“Don’t call him that.”
“I’ll call him what I damned well please. Now you go in there and tell him to get out of this house, you hear me?” She glances through the door again, then at me. “I said go.”
“He needs a place to stay.”
She stills in her chair. Glares up to me and shakes her head. “Are you crazy?”
“He needs me. And I need him.”
Her laugh is twisted. “The only thing a man needs a woman for is to be a hand replacement.”
“Not every guy is like Dad. And not every girl’s easy like you.”
She pales and lurches out of her chair. I shield my face, but the slap gets through.
My eyes shut. It all hurts, every part of me, my brain slamming the inside of my skull with each heart pound. A static whine fills my ears, interrupted only by the throbbing pangs.
“Please,” I whisper. “Mom. Please.”
She sits, slow, hands sliding onto the table. Pulls a cig from the purse in her lap, tries to light it, but shaky fingers won’t bring the flames.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning. Go to bed.”
Sticky sheets and bright sunlight pull me from sleep. I mutter and cram my head into the nook between the couch back and seat cushions.
A voice, muffled, draws me from the cavern and into the light.
“Yes, ma’am. Yes, I will. Two is fine. Thank you.”
Nathaniel. I roll to my back. My hand stretches up, floating with grasping fingers before it falls to my midsection.
This is still happening.
She’s still gone.
I shove the pillow over my face.
“Your mom said I could stay.”
I unwrap the sheets from my legs and move over. “How are you?”
He works his teeth like there are rocks in them before settling close to me. “I’m okay.”
“That was stupid. I was trying to say I’m here for you.”
He mumbles something, and I ask him what he said.
“I know.” It’s nearly inaudible.
He leans into the couch, and his gaze locks on the door. He doesn’t talk.
I don’t either because I’m scared if I do, the rest of him will crumble away. I wish I could take his pain and leave him whole and safe. I squeeze his forearm.
“Do you know what she died of?” he says.
I shake my head.
His expression is contorted, somewhere between crying and fading into numbness. He puts a hand on mine and whispers, “It was her immune system. It wasn’t strong, not after she got sick. A dirty needle from when she donated blood. Of all the things to do it, that’s what made her sick.” His fingers brush mine, thumb bumping over the middle knuckle. “They said it was unexpected. The flu maybe or maybe a cold. I guess it doesn’t matter.” He chokes on the last word, lowers his face to his hands, knees holding him up.
I scoot closer and wrap an arm through his, resting against his shoulder.
“She once told me that all she and Frank ever wanted was to get you grown. Once she did that, she said their lives would be complete. And she did, Nathaniel. She raised a wonderful human being. She was so proud. Always bragging.”
The tremors get harder.
I run my fingers across his forehead. “Saying how happy and proud she was of her baby. I know it doesn’t make a difference. I know you feel broken.” My tears come harder now, and I steady my voice. “But she was happy. She died comfortable and happy. That’s more than most ever get.”
We sit as long as the world allows before we have to face it.
Ready or not.
Chapter 11
The funeral is a quiet service with about a dozen people. I recognize Gloria, the nurse from the hospital, and nod through the sunshine glare. She returns the gesture and smears her mascara with a careless wipe of her tissue.
The preacher’s lips are moving, but I don’t hear the words. The casket, the small bouquet so innocently resting on top—they’re siphoning my focus.
She was here, alive and laughing, a week ago. Now she’s a body in a box, and I don’t want to feel anymore.
Mom drives us home. I hear her humming, and I kick the back of her seat. She jerks but shuts her mouth.
We sit on the couch while she talks and digs in her purse. “I should be back around two. I’ll call you when I get there. Try and behave.”
Too bad, Ma, ’cause we’re gonna screw around. Maybe we’ll go do it on the grave, throw some dirt around, and then piss on it when we’re done.
Count on it.
“Fine,” I say.
She leaves. I grab the blanket and wrap it around me, watching Nathaniel. His chin is on his fist, eyes focused on the rug.
“Can I get you anything?”
He doesn’t move.
I ask again.
“No, thank you.” He rubs his hands together.
“You should rest.”
He doesn’t hear me.
“Nate?”
He glances up. “Yeah?”
“You should rest.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
Hands massage his forehead, small deliberate circles. “I know.”
I drop the blanket from my shoulders. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
A few minutes later, I have hot cocoa for two, fat marshmallows wobbling at the top of a chocolate pond.
He looks just as lost. Not that I expected a miraculous recovery. It’s just that I want to help.
We drink in silence.
“I’m sorry.” I stab a marshmallow with my straw.
“I know.” He sets the cup beside the book I’ve been reading.
I lean out and take it, the new acid-green stretch cover squishy under my fingertips. Hands turn to the inner binding, and I read the directions, one note card at a time.
1) Follow all instructions in order.
2) Read this book.
3) Go to chapter six in book two. Read chapter six only.
I run to the counter, push piles of paper out of the way.
“Michelle?”
“It was your grandma’s. This book, I mean.” I hand it to him. “And she told me to read this book.”
He cracks the binding, expression wistful at the familiar writing.
“She didn’t say you couldn’t read it. You want to?” I hand the second book to him.
“Could I read this one first? That’s what it says in the cover.”
“Sure.” I turn it over and over, rustling pages smashed with the shutting of the book binding. “She left us with one hell of a puzzle, huh?”
“Yeah.�
� He reads the lines again, retracing the path. “That’s my grandma.”
Having Nathaniel around the house is a good thing. The circumstance is shit, but life doesn’t bother asking if you like the hand it dealt.
We’ve been catching him up with school stuff before he officially goes for his GED. He’s also found a small apartment next to his job at the docks that he’s going to start renting next month. Meanwhile, I’m quarantined to my room and he to the couch.
Life is picking up, if only a little, for him.
I avoid the girls at school as well as I can, taking Nate’s advice to let sleeping bitches lie. But it gets even worse, like he said it would. They’re as smart as a horde of circus monkeys smearing black bananas on the walls.
It’s not poop they get me with but a spoonful of cheesy, milky chili that splats in my right ear. The laughter is instant, the greasy lump falling into my palm. The heat spreads to the rest of my ear and across my cheeks.
I’m done.
I wipe off what I can and head to their table.
They ignore me and keep laughing. I slam the table.
“Can I help you?” It’s Allyson. In front of her is a mash-up of cheese, chili, milk, and pudding, a plastic spoon staked in the middle.
I don’t answer.
Someone giggles.
“Here. I got something for you.” She slowly pulls the spoon out of Crap Mountain, points it at me. “Try eating with this next time, huh?”
I want to knock her on her ass, tear her apart, and beat her to death with her own limbs.
“Is there a problem here, ladies?”
Officer Schwartz.
The horde is silent. Students at a few surrounding tables are looking over, craning to see over each other. His hand goes to his gun belt, his gaze snapping across the scene like the shutter of a camera.
I see Officer Bean moving in.
“I asked—”
“Everything’s fine, Officer. Just a misunderstanding,” I say.
His stance eases, right hand moving away from his hip.
Across the room, Bean slows his pace.
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
One scream, like spinning tires, sets the room in motion. Kids pour out of their seats, rally around two girls biting and spitting like two cats in a flour sack. Schwartz and Bean plow through the crowd to drag them apart.
