Free Lay It on My Heart by Angela Pneuman

watching me from across the table, eyebrows raised, mouth tight with expectation. She sighs and places both hands flat on the placemat. She lifts an index finger and we both watch the tendon move around under her skin, rippling the delicate veins.
    â€œHow?” I say.
    You can see how the question from me makes her feel better, the relieved look that comes over her face just after she is asked and before she answers, even if the answer she’s about to give is going to be incomplete or upsetting. “For starters, we’re out of money,” she says. “Let me rephrase that. We were out of money and now we are not only out of money, we owe money. Lots of money.”
    â€œTo who?”
    â€œTo whom. Whom do you think? To the hospital. The first one, not the one he’s in now, praise the Lord, which is more of a rest home than a hospital. Daze worked that out, but let me tell you, money’s not the only kind of debt.”
    She waits for another question, and I cast around for it but my head feels hollow.
    â€œHow are we going to get by, you wonder?” says Phoebe. “Well, your mother has put in her name as a substitute teacher. Which will be a drop in the bucket. What else, you’d like to know? Well, your mother has secured a renter for this house. For the next few months. You and I will be staying down at the river.”
    â€œThe next few months?” I say. “He’ll be gone that long?”
    â€œIt’s hard to tell what’s going to happen,” she says, “but one thing’s for sure. We either rent out the house or lose it. And the Cattersons have three months furlough and they can’t shift around according to your father’s condition.”
    My throat is starting to get tight. I bite down hard, and I keep my eyes on the cover of my book. It’s blue, with three tiny white silhouettes of the main characters, each in their own series of circles, like you’re peering at them through a Slinky or the fat end of a tornado, a vortex, like a black hole, which is maybe what you’re supposed to think, since the book is about traveling through space and time. Space and time act differently near a black hole, stretching out, slowing down the closer you come, right up until you get sucked in and pulverized. This is what feels like is happening to the information Phoebe’s giving me. My ears suck it in, but my brain pulverizes it. I imagine peering all the way through a vortex, with my father on the other end, tiny, and then I realize that I haven’t prayed without ceasing since I saw him in the hospital bed. “What’s wrong with him?” I say finally, keeping my eyes on the book cover.
Inhabit me, O Lord God
.
    Phoebe is moving her finger again, watching the back of her hand. “They’re talking about something gone wrong in his brain. A chemical imbalance.”
    I have only ever thought of chemicals as household products like bug spray or ammonia or windshield-wiper fluid or paint. Or like the bleach that burned my father’s skin. Substances with sharp odors and warnings and childproof caps. I never knew the brain had chemicals with hazards all their own that could poison you, maybe, from the inside out. A crazy-feeling giggle bubbles up in my throat.
    â€œIn the meantime,” Phoebe says, “I told the Cattersons they can move in right away. There’s no reason to draw out this whole ordeal.” She stands, then squats before the cupboard under the sink and hands me two brown grocery bags. “Pack your things.”
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    Upstairs, in the middle of the braided rug, I unfold the two bags that have to hold everything I’m taking, everything I will need for school. For one stunned moment I don’t remember where I keep any of my clothes, even though I’m staring right at my dresser. Even though junior high starts on Monday. Then I am on my feet and packing in a frenzy, stuffing the first bag