Tell Me Something Real (11 page)

He meets my eyes and I see the layers of emotion—hope and acceptance and resolve.

“I don't want my mom to die.”

He pulls me close. “Me neither, but I'm trying to tell you that at some point she'll get some peace. You won't, because it isn't your body, but she will.” He kisses my forehead.

I look up at him. “When did you get better?”

“A couple of months later. I finished chemo and then my tests came back. I couldn't believe it. Chemo was actually worth it. My mom used that to tell me that I need to finish Laetrile.”

“How do you feel now? Not your health but what you said, as a person? You're not who you used to be.”

He shakes his head. “That guy died during chemo.”

“But you can skate again. You can read. I know it's not the same, but you'll be able to surf and maybe even play water polo. You're getting better every day.”

“I'm not talking about sports and books. I know what it's like to be okay with dying. I lost a lot when I got sick. There's no way I'm going back to high school. I haven't told my mom, but I'm going to get my GED and then decide what I want to do after that. As soon as I turn eighteen, I'm going to make the decisions. I love her. She's an amazing mom. But now that I'm going to have a post-chemo life, I want to be the one who decides what I'm going to do next. My whole life was blown apart and I'm going to put the pieces back together. I'm not going to do it alone or anything, but I need to be the one who puts everything back.” He taps his chest with his finger. “No one can do that for me. No one can tell me who I am going to be now that I'm better. I don't know what's going to happen—just that every decision matters.”

“Which is why everything needs to be real.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you're as real as it gets.”

He shifts his attention to the skateboard. “Get back on.”

Caleb pulls me toward him and adjusts my feet so they are between his, his left foot on the rear of the board and the right in front. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me so close that I feel his heart beat into my shoulder
blade. “Just stand and lean next to me. Don't move your feet unless I tell you to.”

He pumps his leg against the sidewalk, and we cruise, hopping over the grooves in the concrete, the board's even rhythm slow compared to the rapid beating in my chest. I don't want to think about the future, just the present, this moment. I concentrate on the movement, on his touch. He moves the board in a figure-eight pattern, slow loops up and down the street over and over again with me leaning against the length of his body. His hands inch down my waist, stopping right below my bellybutton, right at the top of my jeans. We ride until Barb bellows for us to come inside and eat dinner.

Marie and I judge the straightness of the lines as Dad and Adrienne hang enormous sheets of paper—Dad's sketches of the university arts and letters hall. His jackass of a boss tortured him for weeks, scrapping design after design. Columns versus skylights. Even a futuristic glass dome. Beneath each sketch, Adrienne tapes signs written in elegant script:

Neoclassical Columns per Richard the Dickwad

Glass Castle per Richard the Livestock Fornicator

Golden Rotunda per Richard the Asswipe

Eleven designs in all. Dad stands before the most recent and final one, just approved that day. It resembles his very first—a stately building, beautiful in a cathedral way, making the very act of learning sacred. Classes in epistemology and Shakespearean drama and the French Revolution. A wing
devoted to music, a refuge of small practice rooms housing pianos and music stands.

This is it. After two months working on the building, he's done. He just has to finish out the week. Two more days before he starts his leave of absence.

Giddy, he points to one of Adrienne's labels. “That's not neoclassical.” He taps another sketch. “This one is.”

I can't remember the last time I've seen him smile like this, with such relief, unburdened. Pérez Prado, King of Mambo, plays on the turntable. Dad moves his hips like Desi Arnaz on
I Love Lucy
. A testament to his stories about courting Mom with his superior dancing skills. I think of the many photo albums filled with snapshots from trips to tropical places with spicy food and passionate music. Mom in one of her many party dresses. Dad grinning in every photo. Then came our slim baby books. They haven't been abroad since Adrienne was born.

“We should play a game,” Adrienne says. “Like pin the tail on the donkey. Here.” She hands Dad a sign, stiff with layers of scotch tape. “Close your eyes and spin around three times.”

Mom emerges from her room, groggy from painkillers, which she consumes more than food since that horrible day at the clinic almost two weeks ago. Still, she dressed for the party in a sundress, turquoise, at least a size too big. More like two. A spaghetti strap slips off her shoulder, and I pull her shawl from the back of her favorite chair. I need to cover her, hide the sight of her bones, so visible under
her translucent skin. She doesn't look like the woman in the vacation photos or in the snapshot from Sea World. More like a walking skeleton. She forces a smile. She put on lipstick for the celebration.

Marie bounds to Mom, arms open, eager for a hug. Small Marie, who now looks more substantial than Mom. “No!” I say too sharply. Marie isn't accustomed to being strong, to having enough physical force that she might squash Mom like a bug. I watch Marie's eyes widen and her smile vanish.

“I haven't seen Mom all day,” she says with tears in her voice.

Mom's eyes, narrow with disapproval, land on me. “I'm perfectly capable of hugging your sister,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was worried you'd get hurt.”

I can't read Mom's expression—the strangest combination of hard and soft. She opens her mouth and closes it again, clearly searching for words. For some reason, a shiver runs through me and my hands feel clammy. I haven't seen her like this for months. She doesn't look away. She wants something from me, I'm certain, but I can't figure out what. I've developed a talent for predicting her moods before she voices them: tired, nauseous, overwhelmed, in pain.

What could have happened?
I wonder. But nothing's changed, our routine unwavering, with Mom and Barb spending even more time together, like this morning when they holed up in Mom's room with the door shut. Only then, Barb emerged lantern-jawed, almost scowling, walking down the hall with resolve.

“You shouldn't worry so much. I'm your mother. It's my job to worry. Not yours. And certainly not Barb's.” Then, as an afterthought, “Sweetheart.”

She doesn't sound reassuring.

“Iris!” Dad says. “Think you could manage a sip of something bubbly? Barb and Caleb are picking up sparkling cider and dinner. They'll be back any minute.”

She smiles at him and her face fills with affection, almost normal. “What's that in your glass?” she asks.

Dad takes a sip. “Mediocre champagne. Nothing special. Found it in the pantry. It's perfect.”

“I'll have some of that. Nessie, please pour me some.”

Despite her softer tone, I want her to look at me, fill me with the same warmth she normally bestows, but she doesn't glance my way.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Dad asks.

“Absolutely.” Mom cocks an eyebrow, catching me by surprise. Adrienne does the same thing all the time. Her punctuation. I'd forgotten she'd inherited it from Mom.

Adrienne turns her attention away from the sketches. “Jesus fucking Christ, if she wants some booze, why the hell not?”

Mom clears her throat and tightens the shawl around her body. Marie fills the chair next to her, resting her head on Mom's shoulder, holding hands. “I swear, Adrienne, it's like I never taught you any manners. I didn't intend to be so permissive. I should have done better, but you tired me out.
You pushed me all the time. Now, read those signs to me.”

Adrienne does, losing confidence as she recites each one.
Fuckwit. Shithead. Penisbrain.

Mom shakes her head. “My daddy would have slapped me in the mouth if I cursed like that. Once he gave me a fat lip because he overheard me say the word ‘sex.' It's a good thing he died before you were born. Peter, you'll have to do a better job than me. It falls to you now.”

Marie, startled by Mom's tone, inches away. I want to scoop her into my arms, but I don't dare cross Mom. It's been months since she acted like this, spontaneously cruel, with random moods that disappear as quickly as they come. Worse right before the diagnosis, but better until now.

Adrienne catches my eye, and I see the sting, but also her determination. She's tied her long hair into a high ponytail, making her look girlish and sweet, and as she turns to Mom, it swings in the air.

“You taught me to talk this way,” she says.

“I did no such thing, Adrienne.”

Adrienne smiles, the same smile she uses when she destroys someone at school, a bully or a rival. “If you'd paid more attention, you would have noticed that this is how I talk. You never
really
tried to stop me. This is who I am. I'm not a goddamn Southern belle. It's not like you named me Scarlett O'Hara.”

“Adrienne!” Dad says. “That's enough.”

“No, Peter, that's quite all right. Let's hear our eldest tell
us how her dying mother didn't teach her proper manners. I know I failed you, Adrienne.” Mom's voice loses its authority, its edge. She bends her head and cries, quietly, and if we all hadn't been staring at her, we may not have noticed. She's that quiet, that still. Marie squeezes Mom's hand.

Mom wipes her eyes and looks at me, her face now devoid of expression. She seems tired, only tired, not angry or icy or frustrated. “Take me back to my room, Vanessa. Please.”

“No,” Dad says. He reaches for Adrienne and kisses the top of her head. He does the same to Marie, and then me. “Vanessa, you stay here.”

He helps Mom to her feet, and once she's steady, he looks at each one of us, stopping at Mom. “I want to make something clear. No one failed anyone. We're doing the best we can.”

Mom, her eyes red-rimmed and enormous, looks almost extraterrestrial, with sunken cheeks and gray skin. “Adrienne,” she says. “Come here.”

Adrienne doesn't move. She doesn't say a word.

Mom shakes free of Dad and shuffles toward Adrienne. When she reaches her, Mom raises a hand to Adrienne's face. She never struck us, not once, not even a spanking. Still, I suck in my breath, a chill once again fills my body, and I wait for the sharp sound of a slap. It never comes. Instead, Mom strokes Adrienne's cheek and whispers, “Forgive me.”

She turns and walks down the hallway alone, unassisted, and closes her bedroom door.

We celebrate without Mom, who doesn't leave her room for the rest of the night. Barb fills the vacant space, feeding us all, refilling Dad's glass of champagne. She came home with another bottle. Dad comes alive in Barb's company, gesturing with his hands and standing up as he describes the height of the building. Barb asks questions and keeps him talking. I notice that when he answers, he speaks in the future tense.

Later, after we polish off a bottle of sparkling cider, I volunteer to raid the kitchen for something else to drink. I'm the innocent one pining for soda. Adrienne schemes to sneak the last of the champagne.

I find Dad and Barb at the counter. With the precision of a sushi chef, she slices carrots and celery, fanning them around a bowl of hummus. They don't see me, and their words make me freeze midstep.

“The problem isn't the new doctor, Peter. The problem is Iris. There's no reason for her to react this way. She must've had these tests dozens of times. How else can you know she's terminal?”

Dad bows his head. “You don't understand. Her father was a physician and very strict. He died before I met her, but from what Iris has told me, he was abusive and brutal. She developed a fear of doctors, and it took her some time to find one with a gentle bedside manner. We have an appointment with him next week. I'm sure he can explain what's going on.”