Everything Is Fine. (12 page)

I didn’t want to go if I was going to be late. I could feel the heat rising in my throat.

“Mom, I don’t want to go,” I said.

But she wasn’t listening. She was yelling to get everything ready, to get Olivia wiped up, and she was putting on her makeup
and she was almost ready, she said, and I was still standing by the door waiting and waiting and waiting.

Then it was 9:49 and I said, “I’ll just stay home.”

Mom poked her head in the hall. “You are not staying home.” Olivia was sitting on the floor.

Finally she came out of her room with bags and some books and her art portfolio and hurry hurry we’re late, get your sister
and let’s go. The phone rang. Her cell rang. Olivia started crying. Hurry Hurry. This is costing us a fortune, Mazzy, and
we’re late.

I picked up Olivia.

I picked up my bag.

Mom was on the phone and she motioned to go out to the car.

Outside.

I went outside.

Me and Olivia were outside.

I opened the Range Rover door and a burst of hot air hit my face.

Too hot.

I put Olivia down on the grass. She crawled around. I put my bag on the ground.

I wanted to cry.

I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to walk in late. Mom was still inside. I felt sweat start on my forehead. I looked over
at Colby’s. Everything was still. The whole neighborhood was still on a Saturday morning at 9:52. Why wasn’t Mom out here?
Why did it never work? Mom was too busy to take me. Dad was too busy. I didn’t want to go. I got in the car. It was so hot.
It was so hot and the sweat was trickling down my back.

Finally she came out.

10:01.

Finally she got in the car.

10:02.

She was still on her cell phone.

She smiled at me.

I ignored her.

She turned on the car.

10:03.

The sweat made it down to my butt.

She backed up fast.

She backed up so fast.

Too fast.

So fast.

She backed up.

And

we heard it.

A bump.

Mom said, “What was that?”

I said, “I don’t know.”

Mom looked back at me, and her face went white. “Why isn’t Olivia in her seat?”

I looked over.

Olivia was not in her seat.

Olivia was not in her seat.

Olivia was not in her seat.

Olivia died at 10:04 on Saturday, August 4th.

I still have the gymnastics flyer.

After I say “It was my fault,” Mom puts her head back on her knees and sobs.

I just look at the tile on the wall.

Black tiles brown tiles white tiles. Black brown white black brown white black brown white.

Mom doesn’t say anything black brown white black brown white.

She just sobs and shakes and sobs and shakes and black brown white black brown.

“Mazzy,” she finally whispers.

Black brown white black brown white. “Mazzy.” Her voice in a tunnel.

Black brown white black brown white. “Mazzy, look at me.”

Black brown white — “Mazzy” — she is grabbing my arms.

“Mazzy, it wasn’t your fault.”

Brown.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Black.

“Did you hear me?”

Brown.

“Did you hear me, baby girl?”

White.

“Did you hear me?” A hand on my arm.

Black.

“Mazzy.”

Brown.

Arms around me. My mom’s arms the first time in a year.

White.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Black.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

White.

I put my head on her shoulder.

Dad collected articles after it happened.

Articles about other incidents. “It’s not that uncommon,” he’d say. Like that would make it better.

He’d put them on the fridge. “It happens all the time. Five kids were killed in Iowa. Separate incidents. All involving backing
up.”

Then Mom stopped coming into the kitchen.

And he stopped bringing them home.

Mom and I sit in the tub for a long time.

So long that she starts shaking because she doesn’t have any clothes on and the blanket I brought is thin.

“Hang on,” I say.

I get her robe and three more quilts and pillows and a bag of chips.

I also bring a new sorbet and two spoons and the noni just in case.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Getting this stuff.”

“I can see that,” she says, and then we are sitting in blankets and the sleeping bag and eating sorbet in the big jetted tub.

At first we just sit there.

But then I start telling her stuff. Normal stuff. Stuff she usually ignores. I say, “I think Colby shaves.”

She smiles, so I keep talking.

“I think it’s weird,” I say. “He always has these pieces of toilet paper on his face that are bloody and he also says he’s
only attracted to vampires.”

She laughs and says, “What?”

“He’s only attracted to vampires.”

“Oh,” she says, “he likes you.”

“He does? How do you know?”

“Because that’s what boys say when they like girls.”

“Oh,” I say.

Mom drinks some of the noni and she doesn’t even look like it’s gross.

We sit and sit and then she says something. She says, “I’m not going to teach art lessons anymore.”

She says it quiet and I’m not sure if I heard her right.

“I’m going to do something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe just do art.”

“And not teach?”

“Not for a while.”

“I think that’s okay.”

“You do?” She looks at me.

“Uh huh.”

Then I say, “I got out your paintings.”

Mom is scraping her sorbet bowl and she doesn’t look mad, so I say,

“I got out your paintings and I’ve been doing stuff in your studio.”

I pause. She licks her spoon.

“Are you mad?”

“Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“No reason,” I say.

Then I take a bite of my sorbet.

Then I tell her this:

“I want an Oprah bra.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate my boobs and Oprah has this bra training that helps you pick out the right bra for your body and I want a
bra that pushes my boobs together.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re so small.”

“Baby, they’ll get bigger.”

“When?”

“I don’t know but they’ll get there.”

“How big?”

“Pretty big. Look at how big mine are.”

She shows me and they are bigger than I thought they’d be.

“They’ll get like those?”

“Probably.”

“But you don’t know when.”

“Nope.”

“So I can’t get the bra?”

She blows out some air and says, “How long have I been asleep?”

“A long time,” I say.

“We’ll get you the bra.”

Then she tells me this:

“I like the noni juice.”

I don’t say anything because that makes me think of Norma.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, Norma’s sick and she didn’t tell me.” And then I tell her what happened.

“Huh,” says Mom.

“What?” I say.

“I’d like to talk to Norma,” she says.

“Me too,” I say.

Then I tell her this:

“And her dad is dead.”

“Whose dad?”

“Norma’s.”

“Oh,” Mom says.

“But she still talks to him.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Do you ever talk to Olivia?”

Mom closes her eyes.

Then she tells me this:

“I might tell Dad that I want another baby.”

“Really?”

“Maybe two or three.”

“Really?”

“What do you think he’ll say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know.”

“I know,” she says.

And then we sit.

“Would you have another operation?”

“I don’t know. No.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“Yeah.”

“You do?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Okay,” she says.

Mom falls asleep first and I watch her chest go in and out and in and out.

I fall asleep second and I think about my chest going in and out.

She’s back.

If we got on
Oprah
we could tell our story.

Me and Mom.

There is a face, Dad’s, and he is staring at us.

“What’s going on?”

I wipe my eyes and try to focus.

“What are you two doing in here?”

Mom is still asleep.

“Get out of there, Mazzy. What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you in the bathtub?”

“What?”

“Why are you two sleeping in the bathtub? Why are there signs on the doors outside? There’s a huge stain on the carpet and
the house is a mess. The room is a mess.”

Dad’s face is red and his hair doesn’t look how it usually does.

“Dad, it’s fine. Everything is fine.” And it really is. Mom is back and she isn’t going to teach and they are going to have
more babies. And I am going to be a big sister. Everything is fine.

But he doesn’t say, “Oh good. Everything is okay.” Instead he says, “Roxie.”

Mom doesn’t move. I look at her. She looks so peaceful.

“Roxie,” he says again. Nothing.

He doesn’t move to touch her or anything. He just gets louder.

“ROXIE.”

His voice makes me feel sick. I want to say, “Leave her alone. She’s okay. Leave her alone.”

But Dad’s face is red and he is clenched and I don’t dare say anything.

Instead I shake Mom’s shoulder.

Mom’s eyes slowly start to open. “Mom,” I whisper. “Mom, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

She looks dazed.

“What’s going on, Roxie?” he says.

She looks at him.

He says it louder. “What the hell is going on?”

I want to hit him. I want to hit him so hard. Everything is okay, Dad. Stop it.

Everything is okay.

I look at Mom.

And then I see it happen.

I see it happen. Her eyes start to thicken and her breathing gets deeper and then Mom goes back to bed.

When you have diabetes you have problems with your blood sugar.

You can get it when you’re little or when you’re old or fat.

You can die from it.

You can get your toes cut off from it.

You can go blind from it.

Norma comes over while I’m in the sprinklers.

Dad is inside trying to “fix things.”

Norma says, “How are you?”

I say nothing.

“Mazzy, I can tell you’re upset at me, but can we talk about it?”

I pull a dandelion up and smell it. Good.

Norma stands there and I sit there and her slippers are getting wet.

Big fluffy pink slippers that are brown all around the bottom and now soaking wet.

“Your slippers,” I say.

She looks down. “Yep,” she says.

And then we are both looking at them.

“Your dad home?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That good or bad?”

“I don’t know,” I say, and pick another dandelion.

“Oh.”

“So I don’t need your help anymore.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“Nope.”

She pulls a foot out of the sopping slipper and scratches her bulby leg with her toe.

“I still need your help with the weeds, though.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

And then she walks away but she leaves one of her pink sopping slippers right there in the sprinkler.

I don’t say anything.

I might cut it up.

N
ORMA’S SLIPPER
: chalk on cement

Sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes, I want to grab Olivia and shake her.

I want to say, LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO MOM. LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO DAD. LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO ME.

LOOK.

LOOK.

LOOK.

I want her to have never been born.

And then, when I think that, when I want that, I sit in the sprinklers and I am a bad person.

When I come inside I hear Dad say, “She doesn’t want that.”

I hold the door so it won’t close loud and it doesn’t even click.

He is on the phone.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I could quit and take care of her. It’s my fault things got this bad.”

Who is he talking to?

Dad swears and my throat tightens. “Yes, I realize she needs professional help.” Professional help.

He is going to put her somewhere.

I tiptoe the other way, into Mom’s bedroom.

She has to be better. She has to be like last night.

The lights are out and it’s so dark. Too dark.

I flip them on and there she is.

Back in bed.

With her blue nightgown and her glue face and her eyes closed.

She almost looks dead.

“Mom,” I whisper.

Nothing.