fractured.
I should go to him. Put my arms around him. Tell him I love him. But I don’t know if that’s true anymore. “What’s wrong with you?” Colder than I meant it to be.
Several silent seconds pass. Finally, he straightens. What isn’t wrong?
He reaches for the mostly empty glass, helps himself to the last swallow.
She’s failing, can’t you see that? And there’s nothing we can do but watch.
“No. I was just reading about this new drug. It’s still experimental, but—” Stop it! Just stop, Marissa. Every fucking time some new treatment comes along, you get your hopes up. I used to let you get mine up too, but not anymore.
192/881
“We have to hope. Every day she’s still here brings us that much closer to a cure.” God, you sound like you’re soliciting donations or something . His voice keeps growing louder. Look, even if that new drug turns out to be a cure, Shelby’s not a good candidate for treatment. You know that as well as I do. If it’s still experimental, they’ll look for kids with the best chances of improvement. They need poster
children, to keep the funding coming.
He gets up, takes his glass into
the kitchen. Through the doorway,
I see him refill it. “That’s not going to make things better.” So why do
I suddenly want one myself? Anger
crawls up my neck like an insect.
A buzzing, stinging wasp. “Did you
fucking hear me? I said—”
A DOOR SLAMS
At the end of the hallway.
Everyone between here and
Reno can hear you, Mom.
Shane stomps into the room.
If the two of you have to fight, can you keep it between you?
He pokes his head into the kitchen.
Seriously, Dad. Mom’s right.
What’s wrong with you?
Christian mumbles something.
Yeah, well, says Shane. Life pretty much sucks and then you d—
He stops himself. Moves closer.
Lowers his voice. What’s the point of arguing? He wants to wallow.
“I don’t understand why he—”
Shane interrupts me. Not so hard 194/881
to figure out. It’s all about guilt.
ABOUT GUILT
It’s
something learned
in childhood—this nibbling
of conscience that begins
with denial—I did
not
push my little brother out
of the swing. No contrary
evidence, you think you’ve
gotten away with it until
an emotion
you don’t quite understand
percolates inside of you—
an acidic brew that churns
until you make the decision
to
confess those bruises on
Junior’s forehead are,
indeed, because you shoved
a little too hard. Choose to
ignore
it, and guilt will inexorably
corrode, chewing flesh and
soul until it bleeds you out.
Andrea
CAMPING WITH MY PARENTS
Was never exactly fun. But at least now they have an RV. When Missy
and I were kids, we had to rough it.
Sleeping bags on the ground,
under the stars. Mom and Dad
rated the scruffy tent so they could have scruffy sex on their scruffy
air mattress. Marissa and I got to
hear it all. Nice. Especially the sort of decrepit howl Dad always did
when he finished the deed. Some
things you never forget, no matter
how hard you try. I’m pretty sure
they don’t still have sex, but maybe I should ask. Harley and Brianna
are supposed to sleep inside the trailer, on the sofa bed. I still get a sleeping bag on the ground, under the stars.
Or maybe the backseat of my car.
Especially if there are bears at Prosser, 197/881
and I’m pretty much thinking there
must be. Which makes me wonder how
many bears prowled close by Marissa and me while Mom and Dad indulged
in a little growl-and-howl nookie.
I
DON’T
MENTION
BEARS
TO
HOLLY
We sit at her neat kitchen table, waiting for Harley to help Brianna pack for our overnight excursion into the not-quite-wilderness. I said yes to Holly’s half-ass coffee, though I promised Dad I’d stop by Starbucks in Truckee before heading north on the highway to Prosser Reservoir. “Harley and I are doing Fourth of July in Sparks. You guys want to join us?” Sounds fun, but we’ve got Aces tickets.
Baseball