In the kitchen I take my time filling up the glasses—from the tap, obviously—and letting the cold air from the freezer blast my face. From the living room I can hear the low murmur of conversation, but I can’t make out who is speaking or what is being said. Maybe Mrs. Scharff decided to reprise her list of Brian’s allergies.
I know I have to go back into the living room eventually, but my feet just won’t move toward the hallway. When I finally force them into action, they feel like they’ve been transformed into lead; still, they carry me far too quickly toward the living room. I keep seeing an endless series of bland days, days the color of pale yellow and white pills, days that have the same bitter aftertaste as medicine. Mornings and evenings filled with a quietly whirring humidifier, with Brian’s steady wheezing breath, with the drip, drip, drip from a leaking faucet.
There’s no stopping it. The hallway doesn’t last forever, and I step into the living room just in time to hear Brian say, “She’s not as pretty as in the pictures.”
Brian and his mom have their backs to me, but Carol’s mouth falls open when she sees me standing there, and both of the Scharffs whip around to face me. At least they have the grace to look embarrassed. He drops his eyes quickly, and she flushes.
I’ve never felt so ashamed or exposed. This is worse, even, than standing in the translucent hospital gown at the evaluations, under the glare of the fluorescent lights. My hands are trembling so badly the water jumps over the lip of the glasses.
“Here’s your water.” I don’t know where I find the strength to come around the sofa and place the glasses down on the coffee table. “Not too much ice.”
“Lena—” My aunt starts to say something, but I interrupt her.
“I’m sorry.” Miraculously, I even manage a smile. I can only hold it for a fraction of a second, though. My jaw is trembling too, and I know that at any moment I might cry. “I’m not feeling very well. I think I might step outside for a bit.”
I don’t wait to be given permission. I turn around and rush the front door. As I push out into the sun I hear Carol apologizing for me.
“The procedure is still several weeks away,” she’s saying. “So you’ll have to forgive her for being so sensitive. I’m sure it will all work out. . . .”
The tears come hot and fast as soon as I’m outside. The world begins to melt, colors and shapes bleeding together. The day is perfectly still. The sun has just inched past the middle of the sky, a flat white disk, like a circle of heated metal. A red balloon is caught in a tree. It must have been there for a while. It is going limp, bobbing listlessly, half-deflated, at the end of its string.
I don’t know how I’ll face Brian when I have to go back inside. I don’t know how I’ll face him ever. A thousand awful things race through my mind, insults I’d like to hurl at him. At least I don’t look like a tapeworm, or, Has it ever occurred to you that you’re allergic to life?
But I know I won’t—can’t—say any of those things. Besides, the problem isn’t really that he wheezes, or is allergic to everything. The problem isn’t even that he doesn’t think I’m pretty.
The problem is that he isn’t Alex.
Behind me the door squeaks open. Brian says, “Lena?”
I mash my palms against my cheeks quickly, wiping away the tears. The absolute last thing in the world I want is for Brian to know that his stupid comment has upset me. “I’m fine,” I call back, without turning, since I’m sure I look like a mess. “I’ll come inside in a second.”
He must be stupid or stubborn, because he doesn’t leave me alone. Instead he closes the door behind him and comes down off the front stoop. I hear him wheezing a few feet behind me.
“Your mom said it was okay if I came out with you,” he says.
“She’s not my mom,” I correct him quickly. I don’t know why it seems so important to say. I used to like it when people confused Carol for my mom. It meant they didn’t know the real story. Then again, I used to like a lot of things that seem ridiculous now.
“Oh, right.” Brian must know something about my real mom. It’s on the record he would have seen. “Sorry. I forgot.”
Of course you did, I think, but don’t say anything. At least the fact that he’s hovering over me has made me too angry to be sad anymore. The tears have stopped. I cross my arms and wait for him to take the hint—or get tired of staring at my back—and go inside. But the steady wheezing continues.
I’ve known him less than half an hour, and already I could kill him. Finally I get tired of standing there in silence, so I turn around and brush past him quickly.