Caleb and Kit

by Beth Vrabel

  “How are you, Caleb?”

  “Fine,” I said. I liked Kristie. She seemed nice and all. I just didn’t like knowing her, if that made sense. I sometimes thought the feeling was mutual.

  Kristie dropped her arms and gestured toward the kitchen. “We’ll eat in about ten minutes if you’d like to wash up.”

  “It’s only four thirty,” I pointed out.

  “Kristie likes to have all of her meals by five,” Dad said from the doorway.

  “It’s important for digestion,” she added brightly, patting her rock-hard, flat stomach.

  Patrick trailed behind Dad. “Oh, Patrick!” Kristie exclaimed. “What a wonderful surprise!”

  “Knew you wouldn’t mind, darling,” Dad said, and kissed Kristie’s cheek while I tried not to puke into my mouth. “Should I throw another chicken breast on the grill?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I made extra for lunches tomorrow, so we’ll have plenty.”

  “You think of everything. What I love about you.” As the smoochfest started anew, I escaped into the kitchen. I dumped my backpack next to the sink and rooted around for my evening meds. I swallowed all the other pills in one gulp but put the Creon bottle next to my place setting. How many Creon I took depended on the meal—heavy meals meant more tablets. Most dinners required about six to eight tablets.

  Kristie quickly put out another placemat and dishes for Patrick as we sat down. Kristie brought out a giant bowl of salad, and Dad placed a platter of grilled chicken in the middle of the table. I chewed my lip, looking from the salad—one of those fancy ones with lots of lettuce that look like weeds—to the lean meat. “Shall we?” Dad said when no one moved.

  “This is it?” I asked.

  “Caleb!” Dad snapped. Kristie’s smile wobbled.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Could you be any ruder?” Dad crossed his arms. “Kristie worked hard on this meal. Be grateful!”

  “It’s just…”

  Patrick cleared his throat. “Maybe if you have some salad dressing—ranch or blue cheese…”

  Kristie, with two bright red spots on her cheeks, pushed forward a bowl of sliced lemons. “Your father and I usually squeeze lemon juice over our food.”

  “It’s delicious,” Dad said, and patted Kristie’s hand. “Since I’ve moved in here, I’ve lost fifteen pounds.”

  “Imagine how much I’d lose,” I muttered.

  “Caleb.” Dad groaned. “I’ll take you out for ice cream on the way home, okay?”

  Patrick stood. “Or do you have butter or peanut butter? Maybe Caleb could have a sandwich, too?”

  Dad pulled on Patrick’s arm. “Let’s not hijack Kristie’s dinner. She’s sticking to a strict diet and cleaned out our pantry to stay true to it. We don’t have sugar or fats in the house.” Dad took a bite of chicken. “Like I said, I’ll take you boys out for ice cream later. No big deal.”

  I shook out two tablets and helped myself to some chicken.

  “It’s incredible being engaged to a nutritionist,” Dad said, his voice all casual and bright again. “I’ve learned so much about proper food consumption.”

  “You’re a nutritionist?” Patrick asked. “I’ve been taking lessons from a nutritionist who works with Dr. Edwards, Caleb’s doc.”

  I worked on not rolling my eyes.

  Kristie patted her cheeks like she was cooling them off. “Well, I’m not technically a nutritionist, I suppose. Not licensed or anything. But nutrition consultant is what they’re calling all the Poolside Body Works providers now.” Kristie sells workout DVDs, supplements, and diet plans. It’s why she’s always in workout clothes, I guess, and why the convertible license plate is PULSID GRL.

  Patrick cut into his chicken. “It’s just most nutritionists study cystic fibrosis, from what I understand. Nutritionists know how important it is for people with cystic fibrosis to have a high-fat diet, that just to avoid starvation they need to eat twice the amount of food as the rest of us. And with Caleb spending the days at camp, being active, plus needing to actually grow, his demands are—”

  “That’s enough,” Dad quietly warned.

  “I didn’t realize…,” Kristie mumbled. “I mean, this is a healthy meal.”

  I grunted but didn’t say anything.

  “Enough!” Dad said again. Now his face was red, too. “This is my home. This is my fiancée. This is what we have for dinner. Enough.”

  Patrick’s eyes slid to mine and back to his plate. She didn’t realize? She was marrying my dad and she never thought to even google cystic fibrosis? And Dad, he never thought to mention it or at least offer a Hey, put some shredded cheese on the table tonight?

  “Eat,” Dad said to us. “Just eat, and let’s move on.”

  I forced my hands out from where I sat on them and cut into the chicken. It’s not like I was hungry, anyway.

  “Excuse me,” Patrick said quietly. He pushed back his seat and went to his own backpack. He unzipped it and pulled out a can, but instead of soda it was a nutrient milkshake. He put it beside my plate. “Dr. Edwards had a bunch of these samples in the office today. He wanted me to bring one home for you.”

  I checked the can—high in fat and calories, plus chocolate flavored. “Thanks,” I said. But honestly? I was kind of annoyed. Patrick, saving the day again.

  I guess Dad was feeling the same way because now I could hear his teeth grinding as I popped the tab.

  “If you like shakes, Caleb,” Kristie said, “Poolside Body Works is starting a new body shake campaign in the fall. It works in two ways—a machine that literally shakes the fat right off your body in the form of a compression vest, plus low-cal, nutrient-dense shakes! How convenient, right?” Kristie smiled as she talked, carefully scooping up shreds of lettuce.

  “Yeah, super convenient,” I said, thinking about how my vest was oh-so-convenient. “I know I love mine.”

  Dad ignored me, but Kristie said, “Oh, you have a vest? Is it a good ab workout?”

  “No, the constant coughing gives me a six-pack, though.”

  Patrick laughed then covered his mouth with a napkin. Dad shook his head, eyes narrowed. Kristie just looked confused.

  “It’s to help treat CF,” I said slowly. “It shakes my chest, loosening all the phlegm—” Kristie’s face reared back and her mouth twisted like I had offered her a boogie sandwich.

  “STOP!” Dad bellowed. “Kristie has a delicate stomach. I’ve tried explaining CF to her in the past, but it makes her nauseous, so let’s just stick to other topics. Is that so hard?”

  I stared at my plate. I used to think Dad was as smart about CF as Dr. Edwards. He used to be the one to take me to all my appointments and tell me about all the new treatments that were being developed. In fact, that’s what Mom and Dad used to fight about most—late at night when they thought I couldn’t hear. One time, about a year before Dad left, Mom yelled that he had to face reality and stop raising my hopes. He shouted back that if he didn’t have hope what did he have? “Caleb!” Mom had screeched.

  “That’s not enough,” Dad had said. Or maybe he didn’t. It was late. All I know is that Dad doesn’t research anymore.

  And now this. Proof that Dad had never even mentioned my treatments to Kristie. Did he talk about me at all? I peeked around the apartment. Tons of pictures of Kristie and Dad—playing tennis, going sailing, dressed up for some fancy party. Patrick’s senior picture (him in a suit) hung on the fridge. There was a framed picture of Kristie’s cat, Snickers, who died a couple years before we knew her.

  I swallowed a few more pills and downed my shake.

  “The salad is really good,” Patrick told Kristie.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  We all quietly ate—or, in my case, drank—our meals. It wasn’t until Patrick kicked me under the table that I realized something was up between Kristie and Dad. It was like two mimes arguing. Kristie kept tilting her head toward us and mouthing Do it! Dad kept slashing his hand through
the air and mouthing Later!

  “There something you’d like to tell us?” Patrick asked.

  Kristie’s eyebrows popped up and she gestured at us. Dad sighed, plastered a giant smile like it was a Band-Aid across his face, and said, “Kristie and I have decided to start a family.”

  Kristie squealed and clapped her hands. “Isn’t that amazing?” She turned to me and Patrick, her smile wobbling again just a bit when she saw we weren’t reacting in kind. “You boys are so adorable”—Patrick winced—“I can just imagine a baby with your dad’s green eyes and my dark hair!” She squealed again.

  “Congratulations,” Patrick said.

  “Oh, no need for congratulations yet,” said Dad, his smile a bit more genuine now. “We’ve only just started trying. These things take time. The chance that Kristie is actually pregnant is pretty slim. It took months of trying before Steph—”

  Kristie cleared her throat, and Dad stopped talking like he swallowed his tongue.

  This time, I joined Patrick in the wince. “Too much information, Dad,” I muttered.

  Kristie giggled. “If it had been up to me, we would’ve gotten to this point a lot sooner! Your old stick-in-the-mud Dad insisted on genetic testing to make sure I’m not a carrier before we started trying. The news came back last month. I’m perfectly healthy, and our baby will be, too!”

  All of this was said super brightly, so lightly. Suddenly, I couldn’t see the plate in front of me. Couldn’t hear anything but a whooshing pounding in my ears. My heart was beating too fast. My lungs couldn’t keep up with the air I tried to pull through them. My throat was closing.

  “Are you okay?” Kristie asked.

  “He’s fine,” Dad said. “It’s not a big deal, Caleb. We just wanted to be sure.”

  Yeah, no biggie at all. They were just waiting to have a baby until they could make sure the kid wouldn’t turn out like me.

  “Nice,” Patrick muttered, and threw his fork onto his plate with a rattle.

  “I didn’t mean—” Kristie started with a shaking voice. I didn’t have to look up to know she was crying.

  “No, it’s okay,” Dad told her, comforted her. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  This time, I did look up. Dad stared right back, his face set. “Come on, Caleb. Don’t make a big deal out this. You wouldn’t want a baby to go through what you deal with, would you? What you’re going to deal with? What we’re all going to have to endure?”

  I just sat there, like a tree rooted to the spot. Just sat there, staring stupidly back.

  Patrick stood. He put his napkin on his seat and pushed in the chair. “Thank you for dinner,” he said to Kristie, “but Caleb and I need to be going now.”

  “Don’t be like that,” Dad growled. “You’re hurting Kristie’s feelings.”

  “Maybe I’m not the one who needs some lessons on sensitivity.” This time my gasp had nothing to do with my own panic. Patrick never talked back to Mom or Dad.

  “Come on, Patrick!” Dad stormed, standing now, too. “Taking lessons from your mom, I see. You sound just like her.”

  “Too bad you can’t seem to hear us!” Patrick shouted right back.

  Part of me was fascinated. Perfect Patrick never lost his cool. But mostly I was trying not to totally lose my own control. One, two, three… I counted. But the more they screamed at each other, the harder it was to concentrate. Four, five. Breathe out. One, two, threefour-five! My heart slammed against my ribs. I scratched at my throat. I couldn’t sit there! I couldn’t breathe here!

  “What’s wrong with him now?” asked Dad, distracted by my flailing.

  Patrick’s voice lowered. “He’s having a panic attack.”

  Dad’s arms flew up and flapped down on his legs. “A panic attack? Seriously?” He sat back down and buried his face in his hands. “Kid can’t even cry without it being a medical condition.”

  I jumped up from my seat and realized I didn’t have anywhere to go—I didn’t even have a bedroom here, just Kristie and Dad’s spare room with its double bed and nothing else. Soon, I guessed, it’d be a nursery. I turned and rushed out the front door.

  “Caleb!” Dad shouted. “Get back here!”

  “Leave him alone,” Patrick said as I let the door slam behind me and sunk to the front stoop.

  About ten minutes passed before I realized Patrick was beside me. Maybe he had just come outside or maybe he had been there all along. I didn’t say anything, just nodded when he handed me my backpack and slid his own up his arm. “Ready to go?” he asked. I followed him down the sidewalk. It was still light out. The two-mile walk home took us almost an hour. We didn’t speak the whole way.

  When Patrick unlocked the front door, I tossed my backpack inside and went straight to the bathroom. When I felt normal again, I headed to the front door.

  “Where are you going?” Patrick asked.

  “For a walk.”

  “We just took a really big one,” Patrick pointed out.

  “I’m going for another.”

  “In the woods?”

  I nodded. I was just a few feet into the trees when I heard music, angry and fast, pulsing from Patrick’s violin and out of the house.

  Kit wasn’t waiting on Mermaid Rock.

  I kicked off my sneakers, tucked my socks inside, and left them on a rock, then I stepped barefoot across the stream. It only went up to a couple inches above my ankles, but it was cool and perfect after the long walk from my dad’s house.

  On the other side of the stream, I picked my way through the woods to Kit’s house. I kind of smiled to myself at how clear the trail looked now—straight to the hollow tree, through the honeysuckle patch, slight right between the pines—compared to a week ago when I was totally lost.

  At first, I thought maybe Kit wasn’t home. No lights were on in the house. I didn’t hear any sound at all. But as I got closer, I heard a swish-swish coming from the front porch.

  There on the step was Kit, dipping a paintbrush into an old can and spreading a thick layer of rusty red on the wooden porch. She must’ve started by the door since the only thing left to paint, aside from the steps, was a patch of faded green around her body.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Kit didn’t turn around, her hand just paused midswipe. “Tap dancing with chickens.”

  I guess it had been a pretty obvious question. “It, um, looks nice.”

  Kit laughed, still not turning around. Truth was, it did not look nice. The red was dripping and thick in some places, barely there in others. Worst of all, Kit hadn’t done anything about the huge peeling chunks of old paint—just brushed right over them. So even though it was freshly painted, it still looked old.

  She finished her Kit-size empty blot of space by standing on the stoop and swishing over it with the paintbrush. “I found this paint in one of the outbuildings. I couldn’t let it go to waste!” She stepped back, placing her bloody-looking hands on her hips, even though it stained her T-shirt and shorts. She scanned over her work. “It looks like someone slaughtered a cat.”

  “And then twirled its headless body in the air a couple of times,” I added without thinking. But Kit just laughed.

  “Isn’t your mom going to get mad that you did this?” I said.

  “Nah, she won’t care. My mom’s big on independence.” For the first time since I got there, Kit turned around to face me.

  “Kit! What happened?” A bruise spread across her face, from her cheek to jaw bone. It was dusky blue, with red around the edges. When she reached up to touch it with painted-red fingers, I spotted smaller scrapes and bruises down her forearm. “Are you okay?”

  She grinned, rolling her eyes. “It’s nothing. I tried climbing one of the pine trees and a limb snapped. My face smashed into the trunk on the way down. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? It looks—”

  “I said I’m fine,” said Kit, not smiling now. “Can we move on?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I shoved my ha
nds into my pockets.

  “I’d offer you a drink of water or something but we’re sort of painted out of the house,” she said. “Race you to Mermaid Rock?”

  We sat on the rock as the sun dipped lower in the sky. “Think the paint’s dry yet?” she asked.

  “Probably not,” I said, but only because I didn’t want her to leave.

  I had just finished telling her how much I hated camp—how stupid it was. Now I was feeling a little stupid. Kit had said to stop going, as if that were an option. And I knew, without a doubt, that it would be an option for her. I knew she was sick of talking about it.

  My phone buzzed with another text from Patrick. I quickly knocked out a message to him: Be back by dark.

  Kit grabbed my hand as I was about to shove my phone back into my pocket. She put the phone beside us on the rock and flattened my hand, palm side up, on her leg. She leaned forward and squinted at it. I tried to pull my hand away. The tops of my fingers are too thick and flat. But Kit yanked back, holding my hand in place.

  “When I was rooting through Grandmom Ophelia’s old stuff, I didn’t just find paint. I also found a stack of tarot cards. I did more digging, and it turns out that I am a descendent of the great Ophelia Root, seer of the unknown!” She pulled my hand closer to her face, running a finger along its lines. “I can see your future!”

  “Whatever,” I said. I couldn’t tell if this was another of Kit’s stories. Her face was set, the bruised side in shadow, making her pale blue eyes look mysterious. Clouds drifted in front of the setting sun, making her hair look even darker. Firefly glows peppered the air around us. The setting sun cast a beam of orangey light straight onto Kit and across my palm. My arms broke out in chills.