Free Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy by Susan Vaught Page A

around her.
    â€œMom!” My heart thumped as I gripped the blanket on top of her. “I saw—I thought I saw you and Cissy and—”
    Mom giggled and stuck out one of her hands. “I have a piano in my wrist, see?” She sang again, louder than ever, “Sweet land of liiiii-berty, of thee I sing!”
    I fixed my gaze on her arm, and tears ran down my cheeks. Everything inside me hurt, but I tried again anyway. “Mom, I thought I saw you at the fire. Just now. It happened again. Talk to me, Mom, please?”
    â€œLand where my faaaaa-thers died, land of the piiiiiiil-grim’s pride!” Mom didn’t even look at me as she sang, only now it was more like yelling.
    Dad and the nurse came in and tried to talk to Mom, but she babbled about feeding mice and wearing barrettes, then fell asleep before they could get very far.
    â€œSorry,” the nurse told me as I wiped the tears off my face. “We’re still a little early in getting her calmed down. If you come back next week—”
    â€œPiano,” Mom mumbled, then moved her fingers on her arm like she was playing the piano and went back to snoring.
    I felt sick.
    Dad shook his head as the nurse pushed Mom out of the visiting room and back toward the big metal double doors that led into the psychiatric unit. As the nurse punched in a code, Dad ran his fingers through his brown curls. My brain registered that his hair always stayed flat on top, like he had just pulled off his police-uniform hat. He wasn’t wearing his uniform because we were visiting this hospital. He had on jeans and a black button-up shirt, and I could see the round outline of a chewing-tobacco tin in his back pocket.
    The doors to the locked psychiatric unit swung open with a whoosh. I got a strong blast of alcohol mixed with body odor and old poop and something like spinach. The nurse pushed my mother through and the doorsswung shut, trapping Mom in all that disgusting stink, and I wanted to cry all over again. I couldn’t keep crying, though. If I did, Dad would never bring me back here, and I’d have to wait weeks to see Mom again.
    Dad’s big hand rested on my shoulder. “Want to grab a hot dog from Chicago Eats, Footer?”
    I tried to nod, but my neck felt too stiff. I probably did have a brain tumor, and it was gigantic and weighed three hundred pounds, and it would kill me by tomorrow. Since I’d probably be dead before sunrise, I should eat as many hot dogs as I could.
    â€œCheese,” Dad added as we walked out of the little room with pictures of roses and daisies. “And some chili. Maybe onions and kraut. Onions and kraut are vegetables.”
    â€œKraut’s not a real vegetable, is it?” I asked, trying to make myself focus on hot dogs ruined by pickled cabbage, but thinking about brain tumors and mice and barrettes and shotguns.
    *  *  *
    The jelly was gone. When I looked in the pantry, we were out of peanut butter and bread, too. And a bunch of other stuff, like my fruit drinks and the cookies I always took in my lunch.
    Mice in the basement, Mom?
    More like rhinoceros rats.
    Except it wasn’t rats or mice, it was probably me. Jeez. Did I eat that much when I walked in my sleepSunday night? Well, Monday too. Still, it was hard to believe I could take out an entire jar of jelly without throwing up grape for days.
    I burped chili hot dog, then yelled, “Dad, we need to go to the store.”
    â€œWhy?” he asked from the living room.
    â€œBecause we’re out of everything.”
    â€œThere was half a jar of peanut butter and a whole loaf of bread when I made your lunch yesterday.” I heard the creak of his chair as he got up to come see what I was talking about.
    â€œYou must have thrown it away by mistake, then, because it’s gone now.”
    Mom’s mice ate it. Yeah. Great big huge hallucination mice. My lips twitched. Smiling about anything right