“I just need to stretch it out,” he said.
He’d been looking a little paler lately, slower even than usual. I knew he hobbled through the streets of New York, never complaining about any pain. He never took a day off work, never called in sick, never felt the need to see a doctor.
“Why would I do that?” he’d say. “I’m healthy as a horse.”
Why are you limping? people said when they saw him after not seeing him for a while. And he’d laugh, but not really. He’d look away quickly and make a noise with his throat.
“Just a little stiff,” he’d say.
I wished I could have driven, so I could have dropped him off at the front entrance, but he never would have let me drop him off at the front, and he never would have let me drive.
“Do you need help?” I said as I watched him struggle to make his way out of the car. It was too low to the ground.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Fine,” I said.
It wasn’t like I was in a rush. I couldn’t move very fast either.
When I walked, my feet shuffled, another effect of the injury. I stumbled, often, and I was unevenly balanced. My reflexes and coordination didn’t work. I couldn’t play a video game, or throw a ball, and I couldn’t understand how to toss a Frisbee, but I could walk fine. It’s just that I moved in a slanted line, so I sometimes bumped into the person walking next to me, which usually meant Dad.
“Sorry,” I said, every twenty or so steps, but he’d just smile.
It’s not like it hurt him. He was moving too slowly to get hurt.
We were a pair, the two of us, taking hours to get through any museum or park.
WE WENT to the museum first, a historic-looking building dating back to Colonial times. I picked up pamphlets on making apple cider and maple syrup, on constellations observable on common night hikes through the trails, and an advertisement for a special talk on African hedgehogs. There was a great picture of a hedgehog on the cover—beady, angry eyes, as though someone had lifted him from his natural habitat to pose for a stupid promotion, and he could see right through it. When I looked into those eyes, I could sense his frustration.
“Don’t you already have that pamphlet?” Dad said, peeking over my shoulder.
“A hedgehog? No, I definitely don’t own any hedgehog pictures.”
“Did you see this one?”
“What?”
He slapped a pamphlet against his hand: WE NEED YOU! INQUIRE ABOUT WAYS TO HELP.
“You want to donate money?”
“No, not money. You! You could offer service and time! You could ask about volunteering.”
“Why would they want me? I don’t know anything about nature.”
“Of course you do! Who’s a more qualified volunteer than you are?”
“Anyone! But fine. I’ll take the pamphlet. Let’s just go.”
He bought me a handmade candy straw in the gift shop, and we resolved to see some animals.
There were the usual cows, sheep, and piglets at the farm, but they all seemed to be hiding from the sun, huddled in little houses and shady spots behind stacks of hay. They appeared determined to sleep the day away. I understood the impulse, even if I missed the chance to interact with them, so we moved on.
The otter pond was always a favorite stop, as few creatures were more endearing than otters with dark, wide noses and watery eyes. Their fuzzy heads made them indistinguishable from the stuffed animals modeled after them. Dad and I could agree on that, but we had missed the feeding, so they were mostly in the tanks beneath the surface of the water. I took out my sketchbook and thought about drawing.
“There’s nothing to see here,” I said after a while.
“What do you mean? You can see them under the water.”
“Those are rocks.”
“Oh.”
“But we can stay here if you want.”
“No, no,” he said. “We still have to see the ducks. Let’s get otter here.”
I had almost forgotten about the ducks. I volunteered to get the bread because I didn’t mind the idea of a little extra walk, and I thought maybe I could grab a handful of the trail mix in the bag while I was there.
He didn’t argue. He watched me shuffle the whole way.
On the way back, when I was almost there, I fell. I could have tripped on a crack in the gravel, or a misplaced pebble. Or my feet.
I fell a lot. I couldn’t always piece together when the blisters had formed, or the green spots, or bumps, or cuts. I had once plunged through the floor of the museum house here, though I had seen the sign that said HOLE and had told myself to walk around it, because it wasn’t enough to tell myself things. My body acted on its own sometimes, no matter how hard I attempted to retrain it.
The guard saw me and jogged over to help.
“I’m fine,” I said, thinking everyone was staring. In fact, there were only a few people around, and they didn’t seem amused so much as concerned.
That was the thing about people. They were willing to provide me with their helping hands when I had fallen on the ground. That was the only plus side of the physical effects. If people couldn’t see my mind churning out distraction after distraction, squandering my concentration, they didn’t seem to understand why I couldn’t pay attention, or calculate the tip on a bill, or finish a task. But if they could witness the way my left foot dragged behind my right; and my clumsiness, because I couldn’t stand straight; and my falling, they could feel some compassion for my differences.
Over time, bruises, cuts, burns and scratches seemed to hurt less. I liked to believe I’d evolved almost enough to resist the pain, as if I’d developed an extra layer to shield against real hazards. I’d adapted, like that lyrebird in the Amazon who could mimic the call of the chainsaw, or the gecko who could blend into artificial colors, the earthworm who could grow back its behind. They’d all found ways to move beyond humiliation. I could too.
“Really,” I said.
Still, Dad limped over, as fast as he could, and yet slowly enough for me to have enough time to realize I had ripped another pair of pants.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “But look.”
The bread was scattered across the ground. I had been trying to pick up the pieces when a couple of squirrels approached. One of them, a black one, stopped to gaze at me for a second.
“I didn’t hit my head, did I?” I said.
I watched Dad look down to assess the situation. He didn’t have his box of Band-Aids or peroxide to offer. He seemed a little short of breath.
“Actually the bleeding isn’t bad,” he said. “Your head looks fine.”
When I sat up, I noticed the squirrels were gone. All I could see was hot asphalt, dirt, and rocks for what seemed like miles ahead. I could feel the sweat and dirt mingling along my cheeks, and the urge to shower was suddenly overwhelming.
“Can we go home now?” I said.
“You don’t want to feed the ducks?”
“I’d really like to leave,” I said. “If that’s okay.”
“Of course that’s okay,” he said. “You’re the one who likes the ducks.”
“Me? I’m not the one who—”
“What?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m ready to go.”
Both of us were probably too old for the ducks.
ON THE WAY HOME, we made one quick stop.
“Just a minute,” he said as he pulled into the corner store.
He kept the radio on for me, and when he returned, he tossed two packs of gum at me.
I could see he was holding a few lottery tickets.
“Did you win?”
“Three dollars!”
I wondered how many he had bought that week, but he didn’t keep track.
“I have no idea,” he said, backing out of the parking lot without looking. He almost hit a bike, and then a chipmunk.
I closed my eyes.
“What do you want for dinner?” he said.
“Didn’t we just eat?” I said. “All those sandwiches?”
“Did you finish all of it?” he said.
“Not everything,” I said. “But I had enough.”
When we got home, I retreated to my room to read, and Dad returned to the living room, where he could put his feet up and drink his scotch in the glow of the Yankees game.
6
RARELY DID DAD ARRIVE AFTER DARK; ALMOST NEVER DID he not call to check in two or more times before he made it back. But on Monday night, I didn’t hear from him.
I checked the schedule. Dad home 6ish. It was six thirty. There were no notices on the wall calendar—no invites or special events hanging from Superman’s magnetic cape, or Spider-Man’s sticky web, so I sat by the window with Harry to look out for him during commercial breaks. I checked the kitchen clock, over and over again, because I didn’t have a watch. They’d all gone missing—washing mishaps, strap malfunctions, scrapes—so I was always late, but now he was, too. Seven, and then seven thirty, and where was he? When was I going to eat? Was I even hungry? It was hard to tell.
I scanned the television for alerts of accidents on the tracks or holdups on the trains, unexpected weather patterns. There was no news.
When I returned to the window, I saw there was no traffic either. So I watched Nugget, my favorite neighbor. He was sitting in the last strip of sun on his porch, taking in the dusky breeze. I knew that if I could concentrate on the folds in his fur and the half-shut eyes, I could channel all of my energy away from Dad. My most powerful distraction: a sketchbook and an animal, a connection no television show could compete with.
I opened a blank page for Nugget and imagined him as an all-powerful retriever, the kind who could fetch people as well as bones, who could sniff out bodies from the rubble and run to the city to bring home lost fathers. I began to draw with supreme concentration, images of a new kind of superdog filling my head, and my hand, and my canvas. The Yellow Redeemer was born.
Just as I began the process of shading, the phone rang.
“Dad?”
It was Nate. He had just finished his junior year at Columbia. He only called on birthdays and special occasions.
“Did you want to talk to Dad? He’s not here.”
“I know,” he said.
“How do you know?” I knew something was wrong. I could feel it in the tingly vibration beneath my skin.
“Are you with him?”
“I’m not sure how to say this, Lucy, so I’m just going to say it.” He hardly ever used my full name. It was always Luce, or Hey.
“Are you sitting down?”
There was no place to sit. In the kitchen, you had to stand when you got the phone.
“I’m fine,” I said.
He took a breath.
“He’s not okay, is he?” I said.
He didn’t have to answer. I knew by his pause that he wasn’t, and by the fact that he was never late.
It was a heart attack. He was gone before he’d reached the hospital.
Neither of us said anything for what seemed like a long while.
“I’ll be home soon,” Nate said. “Just stay where you are.”
There was nowhere else to go.
7
TECHNICALLY, I WAS THE OLDER SIBLING. BEFORE MOM DIED, I was the babysitter on the few nights they went out without us. I was the one who taught Nate how to draw the perfect Snoopy, a U and P with a nose; the one who explained to him why most of Disney was crap. Though we could appreciate the doors the studio opened for the collective imagination, we could not get behind the saccharine endings, or the flat characters, or the dated standards of beauty and gender roles, especially in the earlier stuff. I was the one who made Nate realize that Batman was better than Superman—because he was known for his intellect, and he didn’t rely on supernatural powers to win. Because Batman was real, and dark, and the darker the better, especially when accompanied by touches of humor. The more complex, the more interesting, the more it was worth investing in. I was also the one who told Nate how to embrace camp—from the Justice League to the Legion of Doom, in pet monkeys and Wonder Twins, and in the marvel of the Super Friends. We could watch without talking then, communicate in glances that only we understood. He had things to tell me.
Did you see him escape that death trap? Nate would say with his eyes.
“Like magic,” I’d say out loud, and he would beam because he knew I understood him.
Sometimes he wanted me to pause so he could use the bathroom, or it was time for a special treat, or he was in the mood to read a book. I could almost always anticipate his needs based on the expression.
“Is this a good one?” he’d ask as he pointed to a comic book on the shelf or a movie on the rack.
“You’ve never seen this? You have to see how great it is!” I’d answer. Or, sometimes, “It’s one of the dumbest things ever. You have to see it to understand how dumb it is!”
Either way, he’d sit beside me on the floor, legs crossed, ready to listen. When I laughed, he laughed too, and when I stopped laughing (which was hard once I got going), I’d look at him, this flawless little boy, and think I only wanted to make him laugh again.
It was around the time Nate was elevenish and I was seventeenish, a few years after Mom died, that things began to change. Dad told us to order pizza one night because he had missed his train, and Nate decided he’d rather have mac and cheese, so he made it himself—enough for both of us. He knew how to use the stove and how to measure out the butter and milk; he even added tuna for a casserole effect, like Mom used to.
He started bagging his own lunches after that, and asking for certain brands of clothes, and different haircuts.
Then there was that morning when I fell down the last three steps and caught him looking at me. As he reached down to help me, I noticed something different in his eyes—concern, sure, but also distance. Like he knew he would never do something like that himself, like he also knew he’d probably have to help me again. Like he realized in that moment how different we were.
Nate didn’t have an awkward phase. He was unburdened by acne, inertia, chronic fatigue, loneliness, excuses, conditionals. He had a sparkling smile, was exceedingly responsible, and possessed a natural air of authority. By the time he eclipsed puberty, he started to appear older than me too. People always said that, that he seemed older than he was.
And what a handsome face, they’d say. Rugged good looks.
When Dad died, it didn’t matter that Nate was born six years after I was, or that he was only twenty-one. We both knew he was in charge.
WAITING FOR HIM to arrive that night, I was afraid to move, worried that the slightest twitch would make the situation real. So I sat on the floor with Harry, clenching every limb, trying not to notice Dad wasn’t in the next room at his desk, or fixing a drink at the bar, that he wasn’t about to waltz in with surprise ice-cream sundaes, because, as he put it, ice cream in itself was cause for celebration.
When I heard Nate approach, the thoughts began to spin: What would he say? What should I say? How would this work? Was there a particular greeting we were supposed to exchange?
As I stumbled up from the floor, I watched him walk to the door. He was moving slowly, weighted down by a heavy backpack. Even with the heat and the sweat, his hair was short and neat, his T-shirt clean.
Sometimes I almost saw myself in him, in a funhouse-mirror kind of way. I was softer and rounder, my face, my body. His eyes were a little bigger, deeper brown, with a better shape to his brows, a defined jawline, perfect calves. He was taller, stronger, more toned. I had less hair, frizzy and scattered, and a redder complexion—marked by many more scars.
Yet I clung to a certain potential. A few years earlier I had wandered into a department store searching for a bathroom and ended up getting coaxed into a makeover from a Clinique counterwoman who had said “there was hope.” Brushes, pow
ders, liners, and shiners—I charged it all to the emergency credit card, figuring if I could just do what she did every day
. . . but I couldn’t. Applying makeup was a routine that involved discipline, planning, and coordination. I didn’t have those qualities. I never seemed to have enough light to see what I was doing, either, couldn’t stand long enough before the mirror to use mascara, got overheated in the bathroom from the steam, was always running so late I was lucky if I managed a coat of lipstick. So I stowed the supplies under the sink in the free vinyl bag, just in case, until the bag collected mold amidst a pile of curlers I’d never found the occasion to use. But I always remembered the woman who had said there was something there, in my face. That something might have been genetic.
Nate was eight when Mom died. At the funeral, he was a miniature version of himself, a tailored suit and tie, matching shoes. The women fawned over him at the ceremony, the men shook his hand, and he stood bravely through it all, never asking for extra attention.
When Nate was eight, it was already clear who he was: attractive, poised, comfortable. Some people seemed to have success written on them from birth, in their smiles and DNA.
I wondered if we would have been more similar had my brain developed the way it was supposed to, had I never had the accident, or the side effects to treat the effects of the accident, if he represented a male version of who I could have been.
Once he put down his things, we found ourselves in prime hugging position. It seemed like the thing to do, though we weren’t natural huggers; neither of us knew how much pressure to apply.
He went in for a kiss on the cheek, but I wasn’t anticipating that, so we missed each other, and then he pulled away.
“You look older,” I said. I hadn’t seen him since his winter break. “You look taller too.”
“Still six feet,” he said, making his way toward the living room. “Even.”
He sank into Dad’s recliner, which was dented from years of watching Jeopardy!, baseball games, History Channel documentaries, local news, and terrible late-night movies. Nate seemed too slight to occupy the space.
Piece of Mind Page 3
