The Arrival of Someday

by Jen Malone

  I appreciate that Dr. Wah uses the word when, never if. I allow myself to be lulled by the back and forth of my parents’ questions and my doctor’s calm, measured responses. A few minutes later, she’s bidding us goodbye and squeezing out of the exam room, probably on her way to patiently reassure some other terrified family down the hall. How does she do this job day in and day out?

  Dad helps Mom into her coat, then holds mine up for me. He gives my shoulders an extra squeeze as he settles the jacket over them. “Love you, Sunshine,” he whispers. I want to say it back but I can’t form words over the lump that forms in my throat, so I just nod.

  My mother is already five strides ahead of us, beelining for the front desk to make my next appointment, entering the reminder into the calendar on her phone with angry jabs. She’s prickly efficiency and my dad and I trail her to the elevator like obedient ducklings. She summons it with a forceful button punch and we all face the doors, waiting for them to slide open.

  “When we get home, I think we should call the admissions office at Amherst and—” Mom begins.

  “No!”

  “I just meant so we could get their take on—”

  “Mom, please, no! Dr. Wah said that’s premature.”

  “Well, she—”

  “Nat, let her be for now,” Dad interrupts, in a quiet but sturdy voice. From the corner of my eye, I watch them exchange glances, then my mother exhales a breath that registers as half annoyed, half resigned, but she doesn’t pursue the conversation.

  Instead we enter the elevator mutely and all turn to face the doors. I press the button marked Lobby and we begin our descent. We watch the numbers light up with each floor we pass, until Dad breaks the weighted silence with, “Hey, did you ever wonder how you can be overwhelmed or underwhelmed, when there’s no such thing as whelmed?”

  I manage a small groan of appreciation and my mother just sighs.

  What I’m actually wondering, though, is: Why is all this happening to me?

  11

  WE DROP MOM BACK OFF AT THE LAW FIRM, THEN DAD POINTS his car toward home, both of us quiet as we put distance between us and Dr. Wah’s office.

  “How you holding up, Sunshine?” Dad asks.

  “I’m okay,” I reply.

  I’m not okay.

  He doesn’t push the issue, though, which I love about my father. But he doesn’t drive straight home either. Instead, he parks in front of Linehan’s Hardware.

  “Do you need to grab something?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and smiles. “I thought you might.”

  When I return his look with a blank one of my own, he adds, “I peeked at the ten-day forecast and it looks like the sun might finally make a return by the end of the week. Thought it might cheer you up to shop for some supplies to—”

  “Start my mural!” It doesn’t wipe out my dark mood, but it does give it a tiny lift.

  I trail Dad around the store, pointing to tarps and debating brushes with him. I’ve never worked with paint as a medium before, so I’m glad to have his guidance. I’m even more grateful for the family discount—the arts commission gave me a budget to work within and I’m going to blow them away when they see how far under it I’m staying.

  If only it hadn’t rained earlier today. I would love to work out my frustration over my MELD score by slapping paint all over a brick wall right this second. But that’s not an option, so we head back home after finishing our mini spree.

  “Sox preseason game starts soon. Wanna watch with me?” Dad offers as we enter the front hall.

  I shake my head and retreat to the safety of my room, where I attempt to immerse myself in finding a new chalk design for Lemondrop. Although I update the left and right side every week, tomorrow will mark four Saturdays since I changed the center menu and it’s due for a refresh.

  But all I can think about as I scroll through Instagram is how different my life was the last time I worked on that panel. Has all this really only been going on for less than a month?

  Stop it! Focus on the menu design.

  But I can’t get there; I need a plan B.

  I eye the pile of laundry in the corner of my room. Maybe a change of scenery will help. Balancing my iPad, sketchbook, and colored pencils on top of my hamper, I drag the whole thing into Mom and Dad’s walk-in closet, where they’d (shockingly) scored permission to relocate the washer and dryer from the basement after going a bit heavy-handed on the pours of Babi’s favorite wine during one of her visits home a couple years ago.

  I shut myself inside the small closet and start a load of whites before plopping down on top of the remaining pile. I don’t even care that it’s not the most hygienic of seats; it’s a cozy cocoon in here and this isn’t the first time I’ve used the space as a makeshift art studio. The washer fills with a whoosh as I prop my pad on my knees and begin to sketch a menu board.

  I’m still buzzing from the appointment, so I don’t get lost in my drawing the way I often can, but with effort I manage to keep my thoughts from spiraling. I pause forty-five minutes later only to transfer my first load to the dryer and start a second one before picking up my pencils again. It’s soothing: the scratching on the paper, the clicks of the machine working its way through each cycle, the rhythmic thumping of my clothes, the ping! that makes me jump whenever the metal button from my jeans hits the dryer’s spinning ceramic drum.

  What if this is one of the last times I hear a washing machine churn water back and forth?

  The sentence flits across my brain before I can stop it and I chide myself immediately. Who would miss something so random? WHY ARE YOU ALLOWING YOURSELF TO HAVE MORBID THOUGHTS? Shouldn’t they be over the possibility of missing something more, I don’t know . . . normal? Like Christmas morning or a new Billie Eilish song on repeat or buying school supplies or the slippery rocks under your toes at Lake Winnipesaukee or an unexpected snow day or nailing the perfect hair color on the first attempt or stepping off an airplane in a different time zone. The smell of sunscreen. The texture of Sibby’s curls. Trying to make a box of Milk Duds last the whole movie. Laughing so hard you snort your drink through your nose.

  BUZZZZZZZZ! The dryer signals the completion of its cycle and jerks me back to the present. I try to calm myself as I shovel the entire load of laundry into my arms, but a vise in my chest holds my breath hostage. Why is it so claustrophobic in here? I struggle to free a hand to turn the knob, then knee the closet door open and stumble to my parents’ bed, leaving a trail of clean clothes on the floor in my wake.

  I dump the surviving armload in the middle of the comforter, grab Mom’s pillow and tuck it between my legs, bending at the waist and trying to force big gulps of air.

  Dad’s footsteps sound on the stairs. Crap!

  He can’t see me like this.

  I straighten and stuff the pillow back into place, frantically pulling the sheets up over it. I’m petting the top third of the bed in long strokes to smooth out any wrinkles when Dad walks in.

  “Sunshine, do you want to—uh, what are you doing?”

  “Laundry, why?”

  I offer a small prayer of thanks that my scramble to appear ordinary has somehow loosened the fist in my chest and my inhales are halfway normal again.

  I snap the creases out of my MOTHER OF DRAGONS T-shirt and fold it in neat thirds. Dad squints at me, obviously confused by my behavior, but doesn’t comment further. He collects my discarded items from the floor and places them on top of the pile on the bed.

  “Okay, well, I was just coming up to see if you wanted to get subs from Alfredo’s for dinner. We’ve got about six different dropped-off lasagnas in the freezer, but I’m not sure I can handle another one tonight, and I thought maybe we could take advantage of your mom working late to indulge a little—wouldn’t want to guess how many thousands of Weight Watchers points are in a meatball deluxe. But I figure if we take the trash outside and open the windows to air out the smell she won’t be tortured by any evidence when she gets hom
e. Whaddya think?”

  “Um, sure.”

  What if it’s the last meatball sub from Alfredo’s I ever eat?

  STOP IT! I scream at my brain.

  The news about my MELD score rising three points is doing a total number on me.

  I force a smile. “I mean, that sounds like a solid plan, Dad.”

  “Mmmm” is his only response. He can definitely tell something is off with me. But instead of probing, he reaches for a towel and begins helping me fold my laundry. I subtly dig around the underside of the pile to make sure he’s not going to encounter any of my underwear. But it’s not a bra he holds up a second later—it’s the smock from Miss Leekley’s art room. “What’s this?”

  The marker faded a ton in the hot water, but the words WHY ARE YOU STARING AT MY LEGS ANYWAY? are still visible.

  “Nothing, as it turns out.” I grimace and fill him in briefly on Sibby’s and my brief and futile dress code protest.

  “You never fail to amaze me, Sunshine. I’m in awe of all you’ve been juggling these last few years trying to beef up your college application, and you’re still making time to devote to worthy causes. Proud of you, kiddo.”

  “Well, I mean, I’m already accepted into Amherst, so taking on the dress code wouldn’t really have been in addition to any of that other stuff I was doing before.”

  It wouldn’t have been in addition to anything, which is precisely the problem.

  “Even so,” he says. “You’re passionate. Your mother’s daughter, that’s for sure.”

  I flush at the compliment and cradle a warm towel against my chest for an extra second before folding it. “Thanks.”

  “Thing is . . . ,” he begins, pausing to take a big breath. The blush on my skin turns to goose bumps. I hope he’s not going to try some earnest heart-to-heart talk here, because I’m barely recovered from whatever was happening to my body a few minutes ago and I don’t think I can handle anything upsetting right now.

  But no. He wouldn’t, right? My dad and I don’t do deep discussions; no one in my family does, but most especially not the two of us. We do smoothie challenges. We do Father Daughter Restaurant Week. We do carpool karaoke on road trips.

  “You should see your face right now! You look like a deer in headlights!” he says, chuckling. “Take it easy there. I was just going to tell you the same thing I’m always saying to your mom, which is that it’s okay to ease up sometimes. You’re allowed to just be, without having any end goal in mind.”

  I’m a little offended because, yes, I love making plans of action and a lot of my hobbies involve reaching a particular goal, but that doesn’t mean I’m high-strung. I’m proud to be a blend of both my parents: Mom’s drive plus Dad’s playful nature.

  I struggle not to sound overly defensive when I reply, “I know how to relax.”

  His eyebrows go up as he aims his gaze meaningfully at my hands. They’re fisting the sweatshirt I’m holding so tightly it’s turning my hands red. I grimace and force my fingers open, allowing the shirt to drop onto the bed.

  Luckily Dad simply shrugs. “I’m just suggesting maybe you take some time to goof off for the sake of goofing off every now and then. Escape the chaos, you know? Get lost in the moment.”

  If only he had a clue how constant my quest for that has been these last three weeks. Not necessarily the goofing off part, but the escape? Yes, please. Any heartbeat that doesn’t contain thoughts of biliary atresia or transplants or . . . not getting a transplant . . . is one I’d like to stay lost in for a good long while. Preferably until a liver is located.

  Dad’s quiet for a second, then a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

  “What are you plotting?” I ask, suspicious.

  “Alexa, what time is it?” he asks the Echo on his nightstand.

  “Six forty,” replies the disembodied voice.

  “Dad?”

  He grins. “Plenty of time to fit this and meatball subs in before Mom gets home. Speaking of your mother, you can never tell her I did this. I promised her I wouldn’t the night we moved back into this house.”

  Now I’m really curious. I can’t even begin to imagine what could be so mysteriously off-limits about a structure whose every nook and cranny I’ve explored, so I follow him down the hall toward my brother’s room.

  “If it’s Alex’s hiding spot for his pot stash, that’s old news and it’s empty.”

  There’s a tiny crawl space that connects Alex’s closet to the attic, which served many illicit purposes throughout our childhoods.

  Dad halts and spins around. “You think I’d smoke pot with my high-school-aged daughter?”

  “I mean, no, I guess not really, but you did say not to tell Mom, and then we started walking this way, so . . .”

  “Alex had a secret pot stash? That little shit.”

  I smile. “If you think that’s bad, wait until I tell you about his—”

  “La la la la,” Dad says, sticking his fingers in his ears. “Don’t say anything else to disparage my favorite son.”

  “Dad, he’s your only son.”

  He looks over his shoulder and grins. “So the competition isn’t exactly fierce.”

  I groan. “You’re so cheesy.”

  “You love my cheese.”

  I really do.

  We zoom straight past Alex’s room and descend the back staircase that leads into our kitchen, but Dad stops us on the landing halfway down.

  “Might need a hand, this window sticks,” he says, making room for me beside him. We both tug at the hundred-and-something-year-old frame until it finally budges with a scraping noise that’s worse than nails on chalkboard.

  I wince, but the promise of an adventure—a forbidden one at that—chases away any unpleasantness.

  “After you,” Dad says, sweeping his hand out the open window.

  “Have you lost it? We’re almost two stories off the ground!”

  “There’s a ledge. It’s narrow, but it’ll hold us both.”

  He smirks at my look of doubt, drops a foot through the window frame, and bends at the waist to fit under the raised glass. A second later, he’s standing outside.

  I barely hesitate before scrambling out to join him. “This is incredible!”

  We’re around the side, near the back corner of the house, where the narrow yard between us and the tall stucco wall edging our property is all scrub, meaning I haven’t spent much time down there. Never enough to notice the small ledge beneath this window.

  “Have a seat,” Dad orders, and we gingerly edge onto our butts. It’s disconcerting to dangle my legs over the side and peer across at eye-level tree branches, though admittedly intriguing.

  While the night air isn’t exactly warm, the breeze has a fullness to it that promises the spring that arrived on the calendar this week will soon be here in more than just name. Nonetheless, I shiver, and my dad responds by shucking his fleece and wrapping it around me. It smells like his aftershave and the supply room at the hardware store. Like safety.

  “Your mom and I snuck through this window for the first time when we were your age, but we practically lived out here when she was in law school. Talk about stressed! I’d make her count stars until the tension left her shoulders.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, that and sip whiskey from a flask. But I maintain it was the stars that did the trick. Feel like testing my theory?”

  “Um. Okay? Sure?”

  I tilt my head to the sky and squint through the empty branches of the maples ringing our house.

  A few seconds later I say, “Done.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t expect it to work that fast. Give it a little—”

  “No, I mean, I counted all the stars I can see.”

  Dad peers at the sky and his brow wrinkles. “Damn light pollution. It’s gotten so much worse since those days.”

  I snuggle into his chest. “It’s okay. It’s still early; I’ll bet more will come out as it gets darker.”

>   He rubs my arm in acknowledgment and we sit quietly like this for a long time. At first I’m okay, listening to my dad’s heartbeat through his shirt, but it doesn’t take long for my brain to return to the closet and the thoughts that swirled there. The yawning vastness of the indigo sky presses into my rib cage and my breathing turns shallow again. I shift away from my father’s hold so he doesn’t notice.

  “You get a butt cramp?” he asks.

  “Uh-huh,” I manage, but the hum in my ears is now a roaring and the neckline of my shirt is tightening at the base of my throat and the thing that started in the closet, which I’m guessing might be my first ever panic attack, is beginning again and—

  I scramble to a standing position, nearly edging my dad off the ledge in my haste.

  “Whoa! Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Sorry,” I squeak. “I need—”

  Not air. We’re already outside, surrounded by endless quantities of that. I gulp some in, forcing it by sheer will into my collapsing lungs as I struggle to look composed on the outside. “I mean—I just remembered something I forgot to do.”

  I slip one foot, then the other, back into the house, touching down on the landing before Dad can situate himself enough to see me clearly.

  “Mentally running through your to-do list is not what I meant by relaxation, Sunshine,” he calls after me. Then, “I’ll call you when Alfredo’s delivers?”

  “Sounds good!” I yell back, nearly to my room now.

  I flop on my bed. Too late, I remember that my iPad is still on the floor of my parents’ closet, but I need noise this very second so I turn up the volume on my phone as loud as it will go and find the playlist Sibby and I sing along to on our way to derby practices. I pull my knees in and rock back and forth as I count to a hundred in my head and wait for my vision to clear at its edges.