The Unlikely Hero of Room 13B

by Teresa Toten

  Robyn cupped the rosary in her hands, brought it to her face and kissed the beads. “It’s so, so beautiful, but you really shouldn’t have.”

  “No, it’s okay, I got it from home. We have a million of them.” Adam winced remembering the drawer full of rosary beads. “Literally.”

  Robyn turned to him.

  “My mom’s a collector.”

  She didn’t even blink.

  “An intense collector.”

  “Hey,” she said. “I should have gotten you a present. Wasn’t it your birthday last week? How did it go at the restaurant with your dad and everyone?”

  “Good,” he lied. “Mainly. Sweetie and me were born, like, not even a week apart. So we always get these combo deals. Last year we were at Warhammer Day at the BattleCraft store in the mall, and this time it was a private room at La Tourangelle. My brother is like this pint-sized gourmand.” Robyn smiled while fingering the rosary. “Brenda, that’s my stepmom, arranged everything, but it’s cool of my dad to get into it the way he does. He makes it a big deal.” Adam paused. “He tries—we all try—but we just miss, you know?”

  Robyn nodded but didn’t interrupt. Adam remembered summoning up the requisite enthusiasm for the Plan B skateboard plus the helmet and pads that his dad had given him at the restaurant. It was the latest and greatest. “Wow, unbelievable, Dad … Too much!” His father had almost bought it. And once again, more than anything, Adam wished that he was that guy, the guy who would have loved all that fresh stuff. Sweetie, on the other hand, was not quite as polished about faking his enthusiasm over killer hockey skates.

  “Poor guy,” Adam sighed, thinking of his dad. “All he wants is a kid that will kick around a soccer ball with him, and he’s struck out with both his sons.”

  Robyn nodded. “And then …?”

  “And then Brenda got a bit frazzled and my mom got a bit tipsy. I mean, she was fine—you wouldn’t know unless you knew, you know?—but I was freaking out for the rest of the night about whether she was going to have another glass of Chardonnay, which may have put her over the limit. But other than that, it was outstanding!”

  “So Brenda and your mom …”

  “Can both be a little intense, I guess.” He said this more to himself than to her. “My mom way, way more than Brenda, to be honest.”

  “Hmm.” Robyn smiled. “You Ross men seem to like your women complicated. Come on, I’ve got to go. Tonight is a ‘Dad dinner night.’ He tries for one every week or so and complains about it non-stop while trying. It’s soooo almost, you know? Tonight he cooks his not-so-famous lasagna. It’s like your dad and the birthdays.”

  “They try,” he said.

  “Sort of,” she said.

  It wasn’t until he was halfway home and replaying every word, gesture and touch that it hit him. What did she mean back there? You Ross men seem to like your women complicated. You Ross men! She was including him. Robyn was complicated. Did that mean she knew? She knew, right? She had to know. Girls knew this stuff, so she knew. Absolutely she knew. Not only did she know, but she knew and she wasn’t running.

  His life was going to be perfect—better than perfect. Adam was on his way straight to superior.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Adam painstakingly drizzled a lemon-and-butter mixture onto the free-range, organic chicken breasts. The chicken was nestled in a special glass microwave container. They had a bazillion glass containers. More, even. Despite the fact that you could barely see the stove or the counter surfaces these days, Mrs. Ross was alive and alert to the dangers of Bisphenol A. She would not allow canned goods into the house and forbade her son to use anything but glass in the microwave lest the BPA mess with his hormone health. You couldn’t put your foot down without stepping on a box of something, yet Carmella waged a personal war against a toxic universe. As if to underscore that point, Adam tripped over an industrial-sized box of Greenearth Biodegradable Garbage Bags.

  “Ouch!”

  He could get rid of some stuff. He could. Adam thought about sneaking stuff out at least a hundred times every day. There was so much, she wouldn’t notice. He’d start with a couple of small things in the dining room and if she—

  “Honey?” The front door slammed.

  “In the kitchen, Mom.”

  He could hear her picking her way along the hallway and shuffling the mail at the same time. “Damn it to hell.” Something was kicked.

  When she got to the kitchen, Carmella smiled broadly for her son. “Hey, baby, that smells so good!”

  “Thanks, Mom, but I haven’t put it in yet. The potatoes are done, though, and the chicken will only be a few minutes.”

  “Right, well, the potatoes smell awesome. You’re a great chef. You and that brother of yours should open up a restaurant someday.” Adam glanced at her hand, which was clutching the day’s mail. “Except, of course, you’re on track for Princeton.” She clutched harder. “Right?” Her voice was tight. “I’m raising a Princeton man, right?”

  “Right.”

  His mother crumpled the mail in her left hand. Adam considered telling her about Robyn. He’d sort of wanted to for weeks now. He would tell her about Robyn wanting to be a Catholic. A new friend, a friend who was a girl, and one who was deep into religion. That would have been a Carmella Ross trifecta of happiness, but the time was never right. Her hand held the balled-up mail so tight that it looked like her veins were going to pop.

  The time was never right.

  “Is Ben’s dad still coming to pick you up after dinner?” His mom was in her scrubs and wearing one of Dad’s old sweaters. Not that long ago, Carmella always changed and put on a fresh coat of lipstick before coming home, no matter the time, the shift or who was awake.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t take his eyes off the letters. “We’re going to video his garage Warhammer set-up for YouTube. It’ll be chill!”

  Carmella nodded as if she understood what her son had just said. The veins in her hand popped with the strain of clutching. She wasn’t paying attention, not really. “He’s a good kid, that Ben. Always there for you.” The microwave tinged and she jumped. “Oh!” She collected herself. “I’ve, uh, always liked Ben … He’s a good boy.”

  Adam frowned and pulled out the chicken. He tried to direct a plate to her clenched left hand. “Mom?” He had to ask. “Look, what’s up with those?”

  “Nothing! I’m not even going to read it, honey.” She ignored the plate and fished out a cream-coloured envelope amidst the rolled-up junk mail and pleas from environmental groups. It had a typed label, indicating recipient and recipient’s address. So innocuous. Adam put her plate down and tapped his forefinger behind him on the counter edge. This would need seven sets of nine taps counter-clockwise. Just as he started, she ripped the envelope apart.

  “Mom, don’t!” He had to start counting all over again.

  “It’s garbage, Adam. Ugly, ugly garbage.”

  Three sets, then. One, three, five, seven…

  She shut the cupboard door, trembling just a little. “The last one … the last one said I had to die, that I was a maggot polluting the world, that I was a—” She did not look at her son. He did not look at her.

  Eleven, thirteen, fifteen, seventeen, nineteen…

  “It said I sucked up too much oxygen and was a greedy, selfish bitch.” She turned to Adam, utterly confused. “Who talks like that?”

  Twenty-three, twenty-five, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, thirty-one … Wait, wait! The numbers were wrong. It was a nine count. Stupid, stupid!

  She caught him tapping out of the corner of her eye and winced.

  One, three, five, seven…

  Carmella threw away the bits of letter along with the junk mail, their telephone bill and what looked like a reminder from Dr. Dave’s dental office. He’d have to retrieve those later. Adam finally handed her the plate.

  “You’re right, Mom. It sounds like some demented kid, or a pissed-off patient.”

  He heard her exhale. “Yeah, see?
It’s like I was telling you: it’s some kind of prank.” She helped herself to potatoes and chicken and a stiff shot of vodka over ice. “I’m going up to eat this in my room, okay? I’m so beat. You have a good time with Ben tonight. Don’t get home too late, though. You got enough money for the bus back?”

  He nodded.

  “Adam, honey?” Her voice slipped like a silk scarf.

  He lifted his plate and tapped underneath it as he ladled on the chicken and potatoes. Twenty-nine, thirty-one. One, three, five…

  “You know we can’t talk about it, right? Not to anyone.”

  “Yeah, sure. But what if—” Eleven, thirteen, fifteen, seventeen…

  “No! This is all connected to me, Adam. It’s all a part of it. It’s like the house.” She leaned against the doorway. “They will use it as an excuse to …”

  “Yeah, I know.” Twenty-one, twenty-three…

  “Of course you do.” She kissed his forehead. “I love you so much.” She kissed him again before she turned and left.

  Adam was counting with fingers raised and into a thirties set when Ben rang the bell. He hadn’t touched his chicken, couldn’t eat. Without missing any finger movements, Adam retrieved some letter pieces from the garbage, along with the telephone bill and Dr. Dave’s appointment reminder. He shoved them all in his pocket and dumped his untouched chicken in their place. Then he grabbed his jacket and ran for the door.

  “Dude!” Ben punched him in the shoulder. “Are you ready for an epic game? It’ll be massive, can ya dig it?”

  Dig it? Ben must have taken a shuttle back to the 1970s. He did that on occasion. Adam nodded. Twenty-five, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, thirty-one. One… What was epic was just seeing his friend. Three, five, seven, nine, eleven…

  Ben glanced back at Adam as he locked up. Adam knew he’d spied the telltale finger raises.

  They both got into the car, and as they did, Mr. Stone turned around to face the boys. “Adam, great to see you, son.”

  “Thank you, sir.” And they were off.

  Son. Adam loved that word coming out of Mr. Stone’s mouth. Seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one, twenty-three…

  “Dude?” Ben whispered. “You counting?”

  “Yeah.” Adam nodded. Twenty-five, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, thirty-one.

  Ben slumped into the back seat. “It’s cool, okay? Relax, I can dig it.”

  “Thanks, man.” One, three, five, seven…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Adam’s cellphone vibrated. He didn’t even know it had that feature. But there it was, rattling down his desk like a cockroach caught in a kitchen light. The phone was at least a hundred and seventy-three years old. It used to be Carmella’s and it had less than no features. Well, except apparently it vibrated. The stupid thing could barely rouse itself to execute a phone call. Texting made it lethargic and in need of an immediate battery resuscitation. And the phone was a monster, so big it practically needed its own transportation system. And of course, more than anything, it was way, way too lame to be seen in public. His mom urged him to consider the thing as his “placeholder” birthday gift, a “training phone.” She had promised him a “normal” phone as soon as she got the go-ahead from Chuck, but Adam kept forgetting to ask Chuck about it. He’d bring it up at the next one-on-one for sure.

  The trainer vibrated itself right off the desk and onto his slipper.

  “Batman?”

  “Sweetie?” Adam glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eleven-thirty! What’s up? I just got home. I’m going to bed.”

  “I know. I been calling and calling and calling. I’ve even been calling your new old phone, this phone.”

  “Don’t ever call this phone, Sweetie.”

  “Okay.” Pause. “Why not?”

  “Because it will never leave my room.”

  “Okay,” Sweetie said, instantly satisfied with his brother’s reasoning. “But you weren’t in your room.”

  “I was at Ben’s.”

  “I know,” he said. They were in danger of having one of their circular conversations. “Your mom, Mrs. Carmella Ross, told me that at 9.4.7 p.m. because that’s what my clock said. But Mrs. Carmella Ross did not answer the phone before or after that, Batman. Nope.”

  Adam groaned. He tried to groan quietly. He’d explained a thousand times why his mom didn’t answer after the first couple of times when call display announced that it was Sweetie on his private cell. “Who the hell gives a five-year-old a smartphone, for God’s sake! I’m telling you, they’re bonkers over there.” It was just easier not answering, and it was also easier not re-explaining why not answering was preferable all around. To further complicate things, Sweetie refused to leave messages. The thought of his voice trapped and disembodied all by itself on a machine made him anxious.

  “Why doesn’t your mother, Mrs. Carmella Ross—”

  His mother. Adam winced remembering the letter. It was still in his pocket. “Look, we gotta cut her some slack, okay? She’s kinda more nervous than usual these days.” He should fish it out and piece it together.

  “Okay,” Sweetie agreed. “I thought you were with the girl.”

  “Robyn?”

  “Yeah.”

  Adam could see his brother’s head bobbing up and down in the dark. Well, okay, not the dark; there were four separate plug-in night lights in that room. “No, just Ben,” he said.

  “I like Ben. I like Ben a lot,” Sweetie insisted.

  “Good.” Adam started undressing.

  “I don’t like the girl.”

  “You don’t even know her.”

  “You love her, you said. You said you love her. But she doesn’t love you.”

  “Not yet, I said. Remember? I said she doesn’t love me yet. She will, though. It’s like a quest thingy.”

  “But you love her,” Sweetie accused.

  “Yeah.” Adam climbed out of his pants. “But it’s totally different from the way I love you, or Mom, or Dad, or—”

  “You love me way, way, way better, right?”

  Sigh. “Yeah, way better.”

  “Okay, I like her. You’re Batman and Robin, except in all the cartoons—”

  “Comics.”

  “Yeah, in all the comics, Robin is a boy.”

  “But it’s also a girl’s name. And, Sweetie, look, we got to keep Robyn to ourselves for now, okay? It’s just … well, it’s in development, you know?”

  “So it’s just our secret?”

  “Yeah. Well, us and Ben too. I told him about her tonight.”

  “So just us boys, right?”

  “Right! That’s exactly it. Look, it’s really late. Why’d you call? You okay?”

  Silence. Was he trying to remember?

  “I’m scared, Batman.”

  “There’s nothing to be scared of, remember? Nothing. It’ll be okay. Is Dad there?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sebastian Ross and Mrs. Brenda Ross turned out their lights at 10.4.6 p.m.”

  Sweetie was a stickler for precision. He hated getting himself into a muddle over which of the two moms they were talking about at any given moment. There were the two Mrs. Rosses, after all, who each had a son, and there were two separate houses, but they shared the one dad. It gave Sweetie a stomach ache trying to sort it all out unless he was very, very specific. “But I’m still scared, Batman.”

  “Why, Sweetie? Why are you scared?”

  “I don’t know.” His little voice got littler with each syllable.

  Adam sat down in his underwear and started tapping.

  “Can you come over, Batman?”

  “No, I can’t. It’s late and it would piss off Brenda.”

  “No, it wouldn’t, Batman. Mrs. Brenda Ross loves you. She loves you lots. I hear her telling Mr. Sebastian Ross all the time. He really should be here with us, Sebastian. The boy is not safe in that firetrap. That’s what she says. Are you in a firetrap, Batman? Do you have a big hose? Should we call the—”

  “No, Sweetie, no firemen! It’s
all good, okay? Is that why you’re scared?”

  Long pause. “I don’t think so.” Snuffle, snuffle. “I can’t sleep. Should I go wash my hands, like you did?”

  “No!” Adam’s stomach constricted. Sweetie remembered that? He was just—what?—three when Adam was washing. “It doesn’t work. I stopped. You know I don’t—”

  “Should I count?”

  “No!” Adam shivered and rooted around looking for his PJs. “That doesn’t work either, believe me!”

  “But you still—”

  “Yeah, and I go to that special group with all the nice people on Mondays to help me stop that too.”

  “The superheroes! Are they your friends now?”

  “Uh, it’s not like …” He got one leg in. “They’re not, uh, well …” He shoved his second leg into his pyjama bottoms while balancing the unwieldy phone between his shoulder and his ear. “I mean, I don’t know. Kind of, I guess.”

  It could be true.

  “Just a minute.” He put the phone down to get his T-shirt off, then picked it up again. “Hey, little guy. We can think about the pretty numbers. How about we think about some nice prime—”

  “That doesn’t work unless you’re here.” The voice was tiny now, tears nibbling on the edges. “I’m sooo tired, Batman. And sooo scared.”

  “Scared of what? You’ve gotta tell me. I can help, but only if you tell me.”

  “Of the bad, bad thing that’s gonna happen.” A beat of silence. “I’m waiting for the bad thing.”

  Jesus. Adam knew exactly what his little brother meant. He couldn’t toss off that fear. He knew about the bad thing, about the waiting. Adam had been waiting, preparing, for forever.

  “Okay, okay … hang on. The bad thing won’t happen tonight, I promise.” Adam lay down on top of his covers. “Listen, get into bed and pretend I’m tucking you in.”

  “Smooshing me in?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m smooshing the covers in all around you exactly like you like.”

  “Okay,” agreed an increasingly tiny voice.

  “Are you all tucked in?”

  “Uh-hmm.”