Free Tell Me Something Real by Calla Devlin

time becomes arbitrary and meaningless. We practice together in the sunlight and roast marshmallows in the dark. It feels the same with Caleb. I have to check the clock and the calendar to remember the time and date. Hours blend into days. I don’t need anything but the piano—not that I’ve been practicing enough—and him, and he’s easier to touch. He helps me focus on the moment, not the future. He helps me forget that the conservatories are just a dream. With Barb managing the house, I’m more aware than ever how much work is needed to take care of Mom. Leaving is out of the question, no matter how much I long to concentrate on music.
    Caleb is more than a distraction. When he holds my hand, he reminds me that I have fingerprints and nerves have endings. A gesture, a touch, can be as important as words.
    This morning I look at the calendar: Thursday. When Barb gets ready to drive Mom to the clinic for another infusion, we all pretend the rigorous treatment isn’t linked to her declining health. They plan to stay the night, returning before breakfast to beat rush hour and border traffic. The rest of us stay home, and they promise to call to say good night. Adrienne leaves with Zach, and Dad drives Marie to camp. My only duty is to tuck her cleats into her backpack.
    I watch as Dad backs the car out of the garage, marveling at how just weeks ago, such a day was inconceivable. We’d be at the clinic for the rest of the week. The kitchenwould’ve had the sharp smell of a full trash can. The refrigerator empty. Dad would be scrambling to leave work, pick up a pizza, and come home before eight.
    Stacks of newspapers cover my neglected piano. Despite my promise to Mrs. Albright, I’ve barely played, stealing time when I can. My fingers long for the keys, but Caleb is sleeping and I can’t risk waking him. When I pace through the house, all I find is a clean kitchen and a refrigerator teeming with leftovers. I have nothing to do. I pass Caleb’s room—my room—to get a book. When I press my ear against his closed door, I don’t hear a thing. I wait there for a minute, wishing I had bionic superpower ears that would allow me to listen to his heart as he sleeps.
    A towering oak tree shades the front porch. In our pre-leukemia life, Jasmine and I often stretched out on a blanket there and tackled homework. I can’t remember the girl I was back then, much less the stuff I used to care about—now completely irrelevant. I don’t want to think about Jasmine and what it will be like when school starts. I haul out a kitchen chair so I won’t have to sit on a lonely blanket, a reminder of how things used to be. My feet rest on the railing and I open another Agatha Christie novel. I need the comfort of knowing the mystery will be solved, the criminal caught, and peace restored.
    Three chapters later, Caleb pads out barefoot and sleepy-eyed. He looks good except for the bruises on his arms, Laetrile track marks.
    â€œYou okay?”
    He yawns and nods. “Hungry. I see you’re reading more fluff.”
    I shake off the criticism. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a little judgmental?”
    â€œYou’re the first.”
    â€œYou’re a snob,” I say as I close my book. “Agatha Christie is an international best seller. Have you even read her?”
    He shakes his head. “I’d rather spend my time talking to you about anything other than Agatha Christie.” He stretches, raising his arms above his head and touching the top of the door frame. His T-shirt rises, showing off an exposed inch of his belly. I almost reach out to touch him. Instead, I stand. “Come on. Your mom made a bunch of food.”
    He laughs. “I’d kill for a burger and fries.” He drops his arms from the door and turns the knob back and forth in a restless way, like he wants to move his body for the simple sake of moving. He has