“Gene’s moms are letting him have this party thing,” I say carefully. “Actually, it’s not even a party—he’s just having some friends over, and then I’m sleeping at Abigail’s after.” She looks at me skeptically, then closes the book and places it on the counter: Caring for a Sick Spouse. When she turns toward the mop, I discreetly push the book to the far end of the counter, where pieces of mail collect and swallow each other. “She and Hilary are gonna pick me up any minute,” I add. “Besides, I can’t miss out on the stuff that senior year’s all about, or I’ll be put on trial for pathetic teendom. You don’t want to feel responsible for murdering my fun, do you?”
“I don’t know.” My mom frowns, plunging the mop into the bucket and entirely ignoring my joke. “Will there be drinking?”
“Drinking what?” my dad asks, wheeling into the kitchen. Then his head snaps toward the window. “Why is that neighbor up in our tree?” He points to the long barren branches. “Look, Cham.”
I look out the window at the beech tree, and then I look at my mom. Before, she used to fly to the window when he said stuff like this. Then she would say, in that tone that crisscrossed scared with exasperated, There’s no one there. Now she says, not even looking up from the wet marks on the floor, “Huh, that’s strange. I hope he doesn’t fall.”
I’m not at that point yet.
“He really shouldn’t be in our yard,” my dad continues, shaking his head with disapproval and wheeling toward the table. “If he falls, he might sue us.”
“Derek is a good neighbor,” my mom says as my phone goes off in my pocket. “He wouldn’t do that.”
A We’re here! Let’s gooooo!
Coming! C
“Please, can I go?” I whine.
“Fine.” My mom sighs, then takes her ringing phone out. “It’s your sister,” she says to my dad.
“You guys are the best!” I call as I head out the door. When I look back, my mom has the phone to her ear and she’s pushing my dad to the dinner table. He’s still pointing to the tree, and I feel a pang in my stomach. It’s probably just hunger.
I’m halfway out the door when I realize I don’t have my good-luck charm. As a kid I had a lucky rabbit’s foot. The mature version is the packaged little outfit for the penis, also called a condom.
“Back so soon?” my dad asks as I charge through the kitchen.
“Just need my… toothbrush,” I say, bounding up the stairs. All the lights are on in my room because I’m bad at things like the environment. I pull my senior year time capsule out from under my bed and pocket the unopened condom. Yes, it could get hot tonight, thanks for asking, condom wrapper. I put the cardboard box back, smoothing one of the corners of its glow-in-the-dark stars. I’m closing the door to my room when I hear my mom doing laundry.
“What do you mean, you signed us up?” she’s saying. “Hang on, I’m putting you on speaker. No, no one’s around.” I dart back behind the door and peer toward the bathroom, where her back is to me. She sets her phone down on the washing machine, and it bounces around like it’s having a conniption.
The person on the other end is definitely not using “gentle tones” when she says, “It’s ridiculous that he hasn’t been to a doctor in the four years since he got the diagnosis. You have to get him some real help, not just the aides who come in and get him washed up. There are things that can be done for this disease if he’d just accept he has it.”
“Bridget,” my mom says, squirting one of my dad’s shirts with bleach where the memory of a spaghetti dinner is hanging on for dear life. “You remember his motorcycle accident.… It’s not uncommon to see injuries with cognition later in—”
“He has Parkinson’s!” Aunt Bridget shouts. My mom stops moving. The phone rattles against the machine. A diseased lump of No and Please moves up my throat and stops behind my tonsils, the same place that vibrates when you start to scream. Help. “He needs family and community and support, which is why I signed us all up for the Brain Degeneration Walk in April. I know he won’t want to go, but since his cognition is impaired, it’s up to you—”
“It’s not up to me,” my mom says stiffly, taking the phone to her ear and sitting cross-legged on the pile of dirty clothes she hasn’t dealt with yet. “Nurse’s code says respect human dignity, that the primary commitment is to the patient.” I can’t hear what my aunt is saying anymore. I hear the spin cycle instead. “No, it isn’t,” my mom argues. “Well, I’m sorry you can’t get your donation back, but—”
Now the sound of tears, or a dripping faucet: my mom, the leaky sink, all of us part of a house that needs repairs.
“Fuck!” she suddenly shouts, startling me so thoroughly that I crouch down more. “Fuck!” she yells again. Then her cell phone hits the tile floor. Smack. I don’t know what to do. Fortunately, my organs function very well on their own: Throat swallows spit, heart keeps pounding. A few seconds later my phone vibrates, lighting up the darkness in my room.
A You coming?
H We’ve been out here so looooong
sry yes! C
I make sure my mom’s back is turned, and then I sprint on my tiptoes for the stairs. It’s not an easy feat, being fast and quiet, but I manage stupendously. I’m just another animal that has to survive somehow.
Dear Universe,
Do you ever feel like you live in two universes? I guess that doesn’t really apply to you, but it’s okay. I’m talking to me anyway. One universe is the sick stuff, and the other universe is school and parties and boys and best friends. I’m getting whiplash from traveling so quickly between them. Maybe I need a body double. Or something to bring them together, but not worlds colliding. Please, God, not that. It ends up being that I’m one-third in one universe, and one-third in the other, and one-third here with you. It’s just a little unfair, you know? I didn’t ask to be part of two universes, but given the options, can you guess which one I’d choose to set up camp in?
“Oh my god, look at Jared’s tight little ass,” Abigail squeals as we pull up to Gene’s house and park behind the cars lined up along the road. To our right, Jared is mooning the basement window, beer in hand and pants down by his knees.
“Looking good,” Abigail calls. Then we all sink into the seats and laugh.
“Ready for this?” Hilary asks.
“Really freaking ready,” I say.
After we give our car keys to Gene’s parents, we head for the basement, “Come on!” Abigail says, linking her arm in mine and leading me down the stairs. There’s an energy in the room, where a lot of people are already seeming a little drunk. It’s a silly We’re gonna get loose tonight type of energy that feels contagious, like malaria or insecurity. I can’t wait to catch it.
The recently finished basement smells like new wood and a clean carpet. There’s a dartboard and a foosball table and a TV in the corner with a wraparound couch. Gene and Doug are dragging a folding table to the center of the room and putting the alcohol underneath it. Gene comes over when he sees me.