by Darlene Ryan
I pull off her clothes and dress her in a warm nightgown. I can see the outline of her ribs and her almost nonexistent breasts.
I get Mom into bed, turn on the electric blanket and roll her on her left side, wedging her in place with a couple of pillows so that she can’t roll on her back, maybe vomit again and choke. That much I do remember from first aid.
I sit on the floor by her head. Eventually I hear her breathing change, and I know that she’s asleep. I’ve been taking every breath with her. Now I lean against the side of the bed and stretch my legs across the carpet. Closing my eyes, I let my breathing find its own pattern. I stay there for a while longer, listening, watching, but she stays asleep.
There’s a nearly full bottle of some kind of disinfectant cleaner in the cupboard under the bathroom sink. I pour half of it into the toilet bowl. Then I throw Mom’s clothes into the tub with the wet towel and add water and the rest of the bottle.
Suddenly I can barely stand up. My legs feel like plastic bags of water. My mouth is dry, my upper lip sticks to my teeth. I look at my hands. They’re moving as though they are being controlled by someone else. I sag against the sink, close my eyes.
No. C’mon, c’mon, I tell myself. Get up. Move.
I can’t but somehow I do.
Downstairs I check everything twice—doors, windows, the stove. I can take care of us.
I get my robe and take the chair from my desk into my mom’s room. She’s still sleeping. Her forehead is cool. Her breathing is steady. I drag the big chair by the window close to the bed and settle myself in it, wrapped in a blanket, with my feet on the desk chair. It’s not a bad bed. I know there are much worse ways to sleep in the world.
I’ve brought the broom upstairs with me. It leans against my knee. I wrap my hand around the wooden handle. It makes me feel better to hold something solid.
I sit there listening to the night sounds and the house’s own rhythms and noises. I try not to think about anything at all, so I won’t be afraid. Tomorrow this will all be over. I close my eyes for just a minute.
I wake up with a start. For a moment I don’t know where I am, even as I have the sense that I’m not in my own bed. My head has flopped back and off to the side. Slowly I roll it down and around to the other side. Some of the knots release and the stiffness loosens.
I look over at the bed. Mom’s moving in her sleep. She shifts and twitches, making small, hurt sounds. The blankets have slipped down off her shoulders. I get up, unwinding myself from my own blanket, and cover her, tucking the sheet against her neck.
Her sleep is still agitated. I kneel next to the bed and gently stroke her temple. Suddenly a memory is there in my mind: My mother is doing the same thing for me. I’m very little, sick with the measles or chicken pox. I’m hot and itchy. Mom’s singing something about a dancing bear. The words aren’t part of the memory, but the tune is there. I hum it, very softly. Mom’s face relaxes, and she settles back into a quiet sleep.
It’s cold the next time I wake up. Light’s peeking in around the curtains, so it’s morning. The quilt’s slipped onto the floor. My skin puckers into goose bumps. I glance over at the bed.
Mom is gone.
I scramble out of the chair and run down the hall to the bathroom. The door is open.
No one.
I take the stairs two, three at a time, half falling. I have two hearts, pounding, pounding, one in each ear. And in my head I’m begging, Pleasegodpleasegodpleasegod.
She’s in the kitchen, slumped against the counter.
“Mom, are you all right?” I ask, grabbing both sides of the doorframe for support.
“Yes.” Her voice is raspy. Her robe is belted crookedly over her nightgown, one side hanging longer than the other. Hair sticks out in wisps all around her face, which is waxy pale. I can see the fine blue veins under her skin like rivers seen from the sky. In one hand she holds a cup of something. Tea? Water?
My legs go wobbly with relief, and I keep one hand on the wall for balance. “Go back to bed. I’ll get you anything you want,” I say.
“I am going. This is fine. It’s all I want right now.” She straightens up, pulling at her disheveled housecoat. “I’m okay.” She clears her throat. Coughs. Swallows. “Thank you. For taking care of me last night.” She stares at me for a long moment. “You get that from your father,” she says softly. “It’s what he would have done. You’re so much like him.”
I blink away the tears that have come out of nowhere. “You...uh...you should see a doctor or somebody,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I’m not going to bother a doctor. It was probably just something I ate.”
“How could it be? We ate the same things and I’m okay.”
“I had a sandwich last night. The tuna salad.” She shrugs. “I guess it didn’t agree with me.”
“What tuna salad?” I cross the kitchen, open the refrigerator and root inside.
“Just what was in there. D’Arcy, leave it. It doesn’t matter.” She waves one hand at me.
I find a container and pull the lid off. The smell is rank and sour, worse than cat food that’s been left in the sun.
I jerk my head back. Gag. “God! How could you eat this? It smells awful. Oh lord, and there’s blue fur on the top.” I throw the dish into the sink.
“I wasn’t thinking.” She pulls at her bathrobe again. “I was tired. I didn’t pay attention. It was just a little food poisoning. You took good care of me, and I’m all right.”
“I just don’t know how...” I stop and swallow down the roiling in my stomach. “How could you have eaten that?”
“I was distracted. It’s not a big deal. It’s over now.”
“People die from food poisoning.” The words get out even though I don’t really mean them to.
“Don’t”—the word comes out sharp and angry. She closes her eyes for a second—”fuss. It’s over. I’m all right.” She doesn’t look at me. “I’m going back to bed for a while.”
I grab the end of the counter so hard my fingernails hurt. I have to keep holding on. I just have to keep holding on.
twenty-two
Seth isn’t in math again. And I can’t get past the first equation on the sheet Mr. Kelly handed out. I keep looking over at the door, hoping Seth will walk in late, and then I lose my place in the calculation and have to start again.
Mr. Kelly stops at my desk and smiles at me. Marissa says he’s a hunk. Actually, what she said was, “You know, I could almost stand to take dork math with a hunk like that for a teacher.”
Mr. Kelly is tall with blue eyes and dark hair and dimples when he smiles. It isn’t until he starts talking about derivatives and integrals and the Newton-Raphson Method that you can tell he’s a math nerd. “Having problems, D’Arcy?” he asks.
“A little,” I say. “Do you know where Seth is today?”
The smile disappears and his eyes shift away from me for a second. “Seth has some personal things to take care of. He’ll probably be back tomorrow.”
“Is he all right?”
Mr. Kelly nods. “He’s okay.” He turns to the sheet of problems on my desk. “Show me where you’re stuck,” he says. His way of saying, I guess, that if he knows anything else about Seth, he’s not going to tell me.
I manage to get all but the last equation solved by the time the bell rings. I head back to my locker the long way so I can walk past Seth’s. He isn’t there, and I don’t see him in the halls or on the stairs anywhere.
“Hey, D’Arcy,” Jaron says as he pushes past me, taking the stairs two at a time. I give him a wave as the back of his varsity jacket disappears around the corner. And then I remember: Today’s the day they posted the results of the track team tryouts.
I think about Seth running up the hill, and the way his foot splayed out with every other step. Maybe that’s why he missed class. Maybe he was pissed or depressed or something because he hadn’t made the team.
After any kind of team tryouts, they alway
s post the results on the bulletin board just outside the gym doors where everyone can see them. That way the people who made the team get to make the people who didn’t feel like losers.
I head down the breezeway to the gym. There’s a red sheet of paper tacked to the bulletin board. I scan down the list of names and, one up from the bottom, there it is: Seth Thomas. He made the team.
“D’Arcy?”
I turn around. Brendan, already wearing his red practice jersey and baggy gray shorts, wraps me in a hug. I remember too late to hold my breath. Brendan only washes his lucky jersey when the season’s over.
“Hey, you came to watch practice.”
“Hi, umm...” Crap. Now what?
Brendan tilts my chin up and kisses me. “Mmm, I’m glad you’re here, but you can’t stay. It’s a closed practice.”
“Oh. How come?”
Brendan rolls his eyes. “Coach is going to ream us out for something.”
I run my hand along his arm and make myself smile at him. “Then you better not be late.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I gotta go.” He pulls me against him again with his free hand and kisses me again. Then he lets go and takes off down the hall. “I’ll call you later,” he says over his shoulder.
I cruise past Seth’s locker again. He isn’t there. He isn’t anywhere on that floor. Mr. Kelly is at the board, working on a string of equations with a couple of guys from our class, but neither one is Seth.
I walk back to my locker, put my books away and get my stuff. I go out the bottom door and head up the sidewalk, half expecting to find Seth sitting on the wall juggling. He isn’t.
He isn’t at the track either. I watch the runners for a minute. They all have such long legs and smooth, elegant strides in their black spandex runner’s pants. There’s no one with Seth’s old gray sweatshirt and spazzy way of running.
It had seemed like such a big deal to Seth to make the team, so why wasn’t he out there with the rest of them, running and freezing and sweating at the same time, pounding around the loop? I still didn’t get why he would want to be a jock when he could play the piano that way.
The piano.
I go back into the school through the doors closest to the breezeway and head for the auditorium. There’s no music this time, but still I want to check inside.
The door’s locked. I twist the knob and push my shoulder against the wood, hoping it will somehow just pop open. It doesn’t. He probably isn’t even in there but...
I eye the doorknob. Brendan and Jaron used Brendan’s bank card once to get the door to Jaron’s parents’ cottage open. They ended up breaking the card in half, but they got in.
I rummage in my backpack and find my library card. No teachers in the hall. I slip the card between the doorframe and the edge of the door. Nothing happens. It won’t slide up or down. I can’t move it from side to side and it won’t go in any farther. This isn’t going to work. I yank at the card, and for a second I think maybe it’ll break too, but then I get it out.
Great. How come this door wasn’t like the balcony doors to the auditorium, which didn’t close all the way half the time? For a second I don’t move. The balcony doors. What’s the matter with me? I head upstairs again.
The left-hand side of the double doors opens as soon as I turn the knob and lean against it. I stand by the top row of seats and let my eyes adjust to the darkness.
The piano is still at center stage. But there’s no Seth. I’m about to go when I see something move at the edge of the stage, a bit left of center. I ease my way down to the balcony railing, holding on to the end chair of each row. Someone is sitting on the top step to the stage, throwing something from hand to hand, up and over in a perfect arc.
I feel my way along the railing to the wall and find the stairs down to the main floor of the auditorium. I’m not even certain it is Seth until I’m almost to the stage.
He’s cut his hair, not buzzed like the guys on the track team, but a lot shorter than it was. And he’s wearing a suit. Well, part of one. The jacket and tie are on the back of a chair in the first row.
I stop at the end of the aisle because...because I’m not even sure I should be there. “Hi,” I say.
Seth looks up. “You spending all your time in here now?” he says.
“I was looking for you.”
He shrugs. “Well, you found me. Guess I didn’t hide very well.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” I ask. “Hiding?”
“I’m just sitting, that’s all. I like it in here. It’s quiet.” Back and forth. Back and forth. His hands never stop moving, never stop tossing whatever that thing in his hand is back and forth. I think maybe I could get hypnotized if I keep watching it.
There’s something at the back of my throat that I can’t seem to get down no matter how many times I swallow. “You weren’t in math class,” I say.
“No, I wasn’t,” Seth says.
He doesn’t look right. He doesn’t sound right. I feel a finger of fear crawl up my back. “You made the track team,” I say. I try to make my voice happy as though maybe somehow Seth will catch the feeling.
He snatches the whatever-it-is he’s been throwing right out of the air. “Whoopee,” he says in a flat, bored voice. “Wow.” He looks over at me for a second and then looks away.
“Yeah, whoopee,” I say, anger sharpening my words. “Because you worked hard to make the team. You were out running all the time when it was, like, one hundred below. And you did it. And now you don’t care?” I let out a breath. “I don’t get it. What’s wrong with you?”
Seth laughs. It isn’t funny. The sound echoes around the auditorium, harsh and mean. “What’s wrong with me? Me!” He slaps his chest with one hand. “Don’t you get it, D’Arcy? I’m me. That’s all I can ever be. That’s what’s wrong.”
My legs are wobbling. I feel behind me and grab on to the arm of a chair. “I don’t understand,” I say.
He just stares. Not at me, at something out in the dark somewhere—something only he sees. The silence winds around us. “Go away,” he says finally.
The metal edge of the armrest is cutting into my hand, but if I let go I think I might fall. “Maybe if you tell me what’s—”
“Go away.”
“I just...I just want to help.” It’s hard to breathe. The air has changed all of a sudden.
Seth shifts his eyes to me. “Get the fuck out of my face,” he spits.
I take a step back, as though the words pushed me. Tears fill my eyes. I feel my way back a row and then another row. Then I turn away, arms tight against my chest, and I go.
What am I doing here? I think I’m stuck in some kind of hiccup in time. Brendan is squeezed in next to me on the sofa again. Any second he’s going to offer me a drink of his beer. Again. The place reeks of smoke and it’s too hot. Again. Jaron’s wearing that stupid cowboy hat he always wears when they win a game. What does a cowboy hat have to do with basketball?
Don’t Jaron’s parents ever notice that their cottage smells like an ashtray? Don’t they ever come out here?
I hate these parties.
I start to stand up. Brendan grabs my arm. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I’m just going to the washroom,” I say, pushing his hand away.
“Hurry back,” he says.
The only bathroom at Jaron’s parents’ cottage is off the kitchen. And somebody’s already in it. I lean on the wall by the door, waiting. There are beer bottles all over the place and pizza boxes and empty chip bags. Whoever’s in the bathroom has left their drink on the table. I pick up the paper cup and sniff what’s inside. Lemonade?
I try a sip. It’s not lemonade. It’s some other kind of cooler. I take another couple of quick sips and put the cup back on the table before someone comes in and catches me with it. I’ve ragged on Brendan about his drinking a bunch of times. How would I explain this?
The table’s dirty. This place is a hole. How can Jaron’s parents not know what’s going
on? What do the guys do? Come out here every Saturday and clean?
I get an image of Jaron and Brendan and the rest of those guys in aprons and hairnets, washing the counters and scrubbing the floors. Right.
“Hi, D’Arcy.” Becca Jensen squeezes her way around the wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. She lifts the lids of a couple of the pizza boxes, I’m guessing she’s looking for something to eat that hasn’t been here since last Friday night.
“Hi,” I say, but she isn’t paying any attention. She’s checking out the room, and I can’t tell if she’s looking for food or for someone to hook up with.
Whoever’s in the bathroom is taking forever.
Ric and Dylan come in from the deck. They’re laughing about something. “Okay, okay,” Ric says. “My turn.” He stops, swallows and lets out a long loud burp.
“Christ! How do you do that?” Dylan asks, shaking his head and fanning in front of his face. “That was foul.”
Ric pats his stomach and smirks. “Talent, my man. Talent.” He notices me then. “Hey, D’Arcy. Where’s Brendan?”
“Living room.” I point.
Ric drops on the corner of the table and pulls one of the open pizza boxes over. He grabs a slice, pinches it in half and crams most of it in his mouth. “Your brother gonna run track?” he says to Dylan, talking and chewing at the same time.
I lean over and bang on the bathroom door.
“Just a minute,” a voice calls.
“Yeah,” Dylan says, “it’s pretty much the same team as last year. Except, do you remember that Thomas guy who used to run for St. Vincent’s?”
A rushing sound fills my ears, like water is running somewhere close by.
“Yeah,” Ric says. There’s a string of cheese dangling off his bottom lip. “That’s the guy who offed himself, right? About this time last year?” He snaps the pizza crust in half and shoves it in his mouth.
“Right. Well, his brother made our team. Pity vote. Matt says he can’t even run. He’s some kind of math geek.”
I pound on the door again and this time it opens. “Jeez, D’Arcy, what’re you in such a rush about?” Lindsey Waters asks. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek braid and her makeup looks perfect. Was that what she was doing in there?
