by AJ Matthews
MAC PUTS DOWN HIS CHOPSTICKS and closes his eyes when he chews his food. I am amazed someone who never learned to tie his own shoes has mastered chopsticks.
The first time I saw him eat like this was in the cafeteria on my second day of school in Key West. The first day, I’d sat all alone because I was new. Then I’d stuck up for Mac on the playground, and I never ate lunch alone again.
He says he closes his eyes and can’t touch his utensils because he enjoys tasting his food. When he has to focus on visual and tactile stimuli, the taste is lost to him. I sort of understand, because I’ve mindlessly eaten in front of the television or while on the computer. I’d enjoy the first few bites, and then the bag of chips or cookies was empty. I learned at weight-loss camp how eating should be done when it’s the primary focus.
Mac had it right all these years, and I never gave him credit.
Still, watching him eat this way is fascinating. His eyes wrinkle at the corners as he squeezes them shut, and the muscles of his jaw flex repeatedly until the audible swallow.
I finish my first serving of steamed chicken and vegetables with a miniscule portion of rice, the blandest and healthiest thing on the menu. It wasn’t too bad. Okay, it was rather tasteless, but at least my stomach isn’t protesting.
I want a little more rice. At the same time, Mac reaches for his container and our hands brush. He jumps back. He’s not adverse to my touch, so he must be surprised. Did he feel the tiny jolt of electricity too? I jump as well, because I’m shocked, not by the contact, but how the touch makes me catch my breath and sends shivers up my arm.
Mac stares at me. He doesn’t smile. He’s expressionless. Anybody else might say he’s unfeeling, but I know better. I can almost hear the metaphorical gears in his head grinding, trying to process everything from the past day. Only a day has passed since he punched Dean and kissed me, but it seems like a lifetime ago.
I fork a little more rice into my mouth, chewing and thinking, aware of this dangerous combination. I should be focused on the food and not trying to process emotions at the same time.
Easy to say. Hard to do.
Mac finishes his food and peeks into my half-filled container. I nod and push the food toward him. There’s no way I’ll eat the rest—my body revolts at the idea of eating more —and with no refrigerator in the room, the food would spoil.
I gather up the trash into the empty plastic bag from the super center. I don’t want the odor of Chinese food lingering in the room later.
He finishes and takes the bag out, presumably to the dumpster he used earlier to discard my clothes.
I search for the television remote, but I don’t want to watch anything.
My text alert dings on my phone. I expect another message from Mom, but the text is not from her.
It’s Dean.
What the hell does he want?
I open the text, but get no answers:
Dean: I need to talk to you. Please call me.
“I don’t think so, dipshit.”
“What?” I hadn’t heard Mac come back into the room.
“Nothing. Thinking out loud.” I need to work a little on the movie. I pull out my laptop and queue up the latest footage.
He sits in the chair, fidgeting with his clothes, his eyelids heavy. “You’ve never called yourself a dipshit. You’re weird.”
True, on both counts. I won’t tell him I meant Dean. “Look who’s calling somebody weird.”
“The world’s biggest weirdo. Yeah, yeah.” He stifles a yawn, picks up his backpack, and retrieves a bottle of pills. The meds to help him sleep more soundly. They help with other things too, but sleep makes the biggest difference in his moods. With too little sleep, the meltdowns attack like Godzilla in a Japanese city. The late night on New Year’s Eve was an anomaly, and he needs his rest.
He opens the bottle with his long fingers and pops a large white trapezoidal pill into his mouth. He’s never swallowed pills, even little ones, so I’m not surprised when his teeth grind against this monstrosity. Ugh.
I eyeball the bed, then Mac. He glances at the bed, then the floor. Like he is sorting out sleeping arrangements in his head.
“You take the bed,” we blurt out at the same time.
Mac wrings his hands together. He doesn’t want the floor, but I appreciate his offer. Being selfless and relinquishing his comfort for others is difficult.
I guess in this way he’s a lot like any other person.
“How about this?” I open the closet and find the extra pillows and blanket. I nod at the bed. “You sleep under the covers. I’ll sleep on top of the covers and use this.”
I hold up the bag of extra linens.
He nods and swallows audibly. “I’m going to brush my teeth.”
He lumbers to the bathroom, and his large frame overwhelms the tiny space that’s an exact copy of the other bathroom, except yellow instead of pink. He has to duck down a bit to use the sink itself. Fascinating. I’d never noticed how his body had to make accommodations for everyday things like that. I guess stuff is built for shorter people.
I focus on the film footage, but struggle to concentrate. I need to get the editing done soon and record more voice-overs, but not tonight. My eyes keep zoning in on Mac. I feel like such a voyeur.
He finishes up and comes out of the bathroom, and I flick my gaze back to the screen so he doesn’t catch me staring.
He sits his backpack on the floor at the far side of the bed. I leave him to go take care of my own bedtime rituals, scrubbing my mouth clean of peppers and onions and slathering moisturizer on my face. When I go back out, he’s in the bed, staring up at the chipped popcorn ceiling. His body is covered from neck to toe in the bright floral bedspread. His feet, pointed out, appear to extend over the edge of the bed.
His jeans are draped across the chair.
What he’s wearing? Or is he sleeping in nothing at all?
Wait, what?
I can’t believe another thought about Mac’s naked body popped up in my head. I’d always had a type—dark-haired, blue-eyed, and athletic—and while I didn’t date before Dean, my celebrity crushes also possess those qualities. Not like Mac, with his lanky reddish-brown hair, super-fair skin, and freckles. Though he’s not fat, he’s not in athletic shape.
Not unattractive.
Cute, even.
Especially now. His breath is coming in short bursts, and his fingers convulse on the top edge of the bedspread. My fluttery stomach echoes his nervousness. His eyes darts in my direction, but rapidly revert back to the ceiling.
“You … you wanna watch TV or something?” His chin points to the old monstrosity of a television on top of the dresser.
“Nah. I’m good.” A reality show might be a mindless distraction from the crazy that’s descended on my life the past couple of weeks, but I shouldn’t run or hide by immersing myself in the problems of others.
I crawl on top of the covers, tossing the extra blanket over me. It’s a little itchy. Which makes me think of bugs. Bed bugs. My skin crawls, but the bed in the other room seemed sanitary, and I’d checked a bed bug app on my phone and this motel passed.
I click off the lamp. The room is nearly pitch black now, with a sliver of light from the parking lot creeping in under the bottom of the blackout curtain.
The room we moved to is on the back side of the motel, so there’s no street noise either. Mac’s labored breathing breaks through the stillness. Maybe that’s his sleep-breathing.
I should check though, in case something is wrong. “You okay?”
The bed vibrates a little, like I startled him. His teeth click once, twice. “Yep. No.”
I pull my arm out from under the blanket and hold out my hand. His arm snakes out from the covers, his pale skin glowing in the darkness. His fingers intertwine with mine. I squeeze hard.
“Tell me. You know it’s better—hard, but better—if you talk about what’s bothering you.” I’m familiar with this concept.
His breath shudders in and out, and his grip on my hand tightens. “I’m scared. The past few months, there’s been so much change. Dr. Reinhold died, you left for school, now this. For you, leaving home, leaving behind everything familiar is fine. For me, it’s … terrifying. Every second since I left the house this morning, I’ve wanted to throw up.”
He laughs a little at this, since a short time ago I was vomiting on him. The irony is not lost on him. Sometimes people believe he lacks a sense of humor, but it’s there, just dry and understated.
“I do this for you, Cheese. I would do anything for you. So I swallow over the nausea and keep pushing along. These sheets are scratchy.” He swats at his legs. “The room smells like … I don’t know. But it smells.”
I hadn’t noticed anything weird, but I’ll take him at his word.
“So this whole thing is a nightmare for me. Except the part where I get to take care of you, and help you.”
He sniffs like he has a cold, but he doesn’t. His voice cracks. “That part—it’s like a dream come true.”
Oh. I hadn’t expected that. Then again, he’s full of surprises in the last twenty-four hours.
He swats at his eyes, and his hair rustles on the pillow. He releases my hand and rolls over on his side. He’s said what he needed to say. I can’t think what to do now.
“Thank you” seems inadequate. Not a whole lot of people would do something so frightening for someone else, a least no one I’ve met.
No one but Mac.
I sit up, cup my hand around his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch from my touch, unlike when other people outside his family touch him. Because I am special to him.
He’s special to me.
“Come here.” I roll him onto his back and lean down, brushing my lips across his warm, stubbled cheek.
He shudders.
So do I.
I lay on my back, my shoulder brushing his. I take his hand in mine again.
“I love you, Trini,” he whispers.
“I know, Mac. I know.”
And I want to love you the same way.
Someday, maybe.
Hopefully soon.
“Rock bottom isn’t the lowest you can fall. Who hasn’t learned there’s always a sliver of space under the stone?”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise
MR. FRANK ALLOWS US to secure Mac’s scooter in one of the motel’s storage rooms, and after grabbing breakfast at the fast-food place across the street—Mac ran over and picked up oatmeal and fruit for me—we hit the road. Mom texts me again after I ignore more of her calls. This time, I reply to let her know I am fine, but still on my way north.
Me: It’s all good. I’m good. Still going though. I need to do this.
Mom: I know, honey, but wish you’d let me come.
Me: No. It’s better this way. If I need you, I’ll call. I promise. Bye.
I mean it. I will call if I need anything. I’m doing better than I have the past few weeks. Kind of at peace. I hate fighting with Mom, but I felt more betrayed by her than anyone, because we’d been through so much together and I deserved her honesty. My whole life has been one gigantic whopper of a lie.
Mmmmmmmm. Whopper. Whoppers.
Nope. Snap out of it, Díáz. You don’t need a Whopper, or Whoppers. The only thing you need is to drive.
I slide into the truck, pulling up the seat almost all the way. Still, I can barely see over the wheel. I roll down the window and fix the inside and outside driver’s mirrors.
Short girl problems.
I laugh at myself, and for a moment I am relieved my sense of humor is still inside me, though it’s been buried deeply for a while now.
I slip on my oversized sunglasses to protect my eyes from the early morning sun. I put the truck in reverse, jerking out of the space and turning onto Route 1. Mac mapped out our route, and decided it best to avoid 95 around Miami. Instead, we cut up Route 1 to the turnpike and pick up 95 near Palm Beach.
I’d filled up the tank when I stopped and bought my binge food yesterday, but the truck is old and not exactly fuel-efficient. Better for local driving when Mom makes deliveries around the island than for long-distance travel. We stop for gas a couple hours into the trip, outside Port St. Lucie.
I need to use the bathroom. I am terrified the interior of the gas station’s attached convenience store will reek of grilled hot dogs, which is the stench of death for me. I pause at the door and take a deep gulp of air. If Mac senses anything is off, he doesn’t say anything. Because he’s been subjected to so much criticism for his odd behaviors, I guess he’s not too quick to judge others when they do something weird.
He holds the door open for me, a gentlemanly, polite gesture. He tries, but sometimes forgets his manners when he’s processing lots of outside information.
I push my hair out of my eyes, offering him a closed-mouth smile though I want to die inside from the temptation awaiting me in the store.
I bolt inside, holding my breath until I get to the ladies’ room. I lock the door and exhale before taking another breath of air, this one ripe with the faint odor of raw sewage, like a septic back-up occurred not too long ago. Still, it’s better for me than the scent of fried chicken. At least this odor makes me want to not eat.
I finish up, washing my hands and using a paper towel to pull open the door. Mac is waiting outside the bathroom, like he needs to escort me out of the building. I hold my breath again, and we walk to the door and out to the truck. He hands me a bottle of water and holds out his cupped palm. “I can drive.”
I shake my head. “No. I want to. Need to.”
He nods sharply, like he understands. I need to be in control. I can go as fast as I want, or as slow.
Or I can go back anytime.
I decide to move ahead. The miles slip by in a blur of pine trees and farmland, and I moo when we pass cattle grazing in an open pasture. The billboards for adult video stores and politicians of every ilk make for entertaining reading.
We’re making excellent time, and the warm sunshine on my face improves my mood with every mile I tick off the 520 miles we started with this morning.
At mile 311.8, nearing Palm Coast, things go horribly wrong.
“No, no, no!” I steer the sputtering truck to the rocky shoulder. The tires spit gravel as we roll to a stop. I slap my hand to the steering wheel, but the action doesn’t stop the steam pouring out from under the hood.
This can’t be happening. It’s like God or the fates or the universe are telling me this trip to Savannah is a terrible idea. I’ve thought the same myself, but still. My will to continue this trip and not eat my way through a tour of fast-food joints and diners throughout north Florida is waning. I need support.
“Hey, Mac!”
He appears oblivious to my distress, ear buds in, swaying back and forth as his fingers play an imaginary guitar on his lap.
I pop him softly on the shoulder and he yanks the ear buds out.
I point to the steam seeping through the cracks around the hood. He glances through the windshield while I hop out of the truck after checking my mirror to make sure no one is coming up too fast on the left.
He follows, pulling off his sunglasses, but staring into the distance. “That’s bad.”
Under my own dark glasses, I roll my eyes. Thanks for the tip, Captain Obvious. I keep this to myself though, because I don’t want him to feel stupid for not being helpful. He may not be the most book-smart person you’ll ever meet, but the guy is not an idiot like some people believe. Nor is he the savant like in Rain Man. He is kind of a prodigy, though. He’s played guitar forever. I remember when the hand-me-down from his dad was almost as big as him.
The good thing is I saw a service station sign not a mile back.
Close enough to walk, and goodness knows I could use the exercise. “We gotta hoof it, pal.”
Mac scrunches up his face, processing my idiom. “Oh.” He scratches his face and flaps his fingers a little before stuffing his hands in
his pockets. “Okay.”
Then he pivots and walks in the direction we came. I climb into the truck through the passenger door and pull a bag from behind the seat. I’m wearing flip-flops, but always keep my sneakers in my backpack, which I happened to bring. Thank goodness.
Because a mile or so in flip-flops might kill me.
At least the sun had ducked behind scattered clouds, and there was no rain in sight. Mac keeps his head down and his ear buds in, avoiding my gaze. We get to the service station, and he leans against the window, wary of going into another unfamiliar public space again today. I nod to acknowledge his trepidation, but he’s not paying attention to me.
An old woman, I’d guess in her early eighties, mans the register at the Gas N Grub.
Her hair is orange, and likely out of a box. The name of the color on the box I once used was Ginger Snaps Back, though my results were much different since my hair is dark compared to the light roots peeping out from her scalp. “Hey honey, what can I do for ya?”
I salivate at the warm, greasy scent of hot dogs and smoked sausage rolling on a metal grill. My stomach rolls a little, but not enough to suppress my emotional reaction to the food. The stress of the truck breaking down, Mac’s aloofness, and all the other stressors from the past few weeks bubble to the surface of my delicate, easily swayed psyche.
I am so weak.
I shake my head. Ginger Snap screws up her face at me, likely thinking I must be crazy. Must use words.
“Yes, ma’am. Can someone from your garage give me a tow? My truck broke down on the interstate about a mile north of the exit, and I hoped someone could take a look.”
“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry, but Johnny’s off today.”
My eyes burn and my lower lip quivers.
Must. Not. Cry.
“Oh. Well, thank you anyway.” Now I have to call Mom because I need her.
Shoulders slumped, I head for the door, defeated by a small car part.
“Sweetie, wait,” the woman calls out. “Let me make a call. Might be able to do something for ya.”
