“I grabbed it,” she said finally, “the pot of coffee. I snatched it off the burner. And I swung it as hard as I could against his head.”
More sobbing. I remembered my dream, of the diner, of Maya, of exploding pots and an ocean of scalding hot coffee and an avalanche of broken glass. And her song: “Black Coffee.”
“The blood—” she said. “The smell . . . the burning. I thought I might have killed him. Blinded him. Disfigured him for life. I ran out the door, across the parking lot, through a little stretch of woods, to a Howard Johnson motel. I called my bassist. She picked me up. Promised not to tell. But I couldn’t go home. I was convinced he’d track me down, come find me, come kill me. Or call the cops, have them come and arrest me for assault. Put me in jail. But Ani was amazing. Knew just what to do. How to keep me safe. She called everybody over, the whole band—didn’t tell them what had happened, but said we had to go to Providence to do some recording. And there I’ve been, ever since.
“I didn’t choose him over you and Mom,” she said.
I couldn’t say it. But I had to. So I did. “But you did leave. You left us.”
She didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t contemplate diving into one of her patented Maya Ice-You-Out silences. “I did. That wasn’t my intention, but it’s what happened. It was really dumb. And selfish. And the whole time I was there, I kept coming up with rationalizations, ways to explain this that didn’t involve me being a jerk, and I could choose not to see what it was doing to you and Mom. But now I see what a crock of shit all that was.” Without blinking, she said, “Mom talked to Tariq.”
Time stopped. Stars imploded. Whole continents slid into the sea. I remembered the questions I’d been too afraid to ask when she’d said, It’s no good to be alone. I said, “Whaaa,” and it went on and on while my weak hungry heart wobbled. “Why did . . . Mom . . . talk to him?”
“She went to curse him out, actually. For breaking your heart.”
“Oh.”
“She’s a smart lady. As a general rule she knows lots more than she lets on.”
“I know,” I whispered, overwhelmed and dizzy and not from faulty autonomic regulation this time, “but I . . . didn’t she . . . how did she . . .”
“She loves you no matter what. That’s what’s important for you to know.”
So the conversation I was most afraid of having really didn’t need to happen at all. Okay. That was something.
Maya got up off the bed, went to the window. Her spiky brown hair had been freshly dyed black. Her every step was full of the confidence that would help her conquer the world. I had questions. So many questions. But there would be time. We were both broken, but we were both getting better. Which maybe everyone is.
She hummed a melody, lovely and sad, something I recognized from the eight-song solo demo album she’d been working on. My sister had found a way to channel our addictive/obsessive character traits into something positive. To create, instead of destroy. Maybe I could, too. Eventually.
“Here,” she said, and left a Ziploc bag on my bedside table. “Since you stole mine while I was away. I know you like these. So I made some for you. Probably not as good as Mom’s.”
I ate that tuna-fish sandwich slowly, savoring the too-thickly-sliced challah and the excessive mayonnaise and the touch of lime, chewing every bite a couple dozen times, and when it was gone I felt way closer to being Better than after a whole mountain of unflavored unsweetened oatmeal.
RULE #50
Bad things will happen to you and they won’t be your fault. Life is a miserable shit-show for lots of very good people. Lots of very evil people have it easy in life. When bad things happen, it doesn’t help to blame yourself, or wish you’d done something differently, or shake your fists at the sky. Accept that the bad things happened, but do not allow them to continue to hurt you.
Bad things will also happen to you that will be your fault. Part of being Better is being able to tell the difference.
DAY: -28
TOTAL CALORIES, APPROX.: 1950
I wish I could tell you that from the moment I entered the hospital, I was strong enough to stop using my abilities altogether. I wish I was brave enough to turn my back on them. But I wasn’t.
About a month after I arrived, when the lights went out in the hallway and us crazies settled into our lonely beds, I thought to myself, How is Mom doing? Has she stopped drinking? Is Maya helping her?
And once the thought entered my head, it refused to leave.
Find her, it said. Go to her. Help her.
I shut my eyes and tried to smell her. Hear her. Teleport to her bedside. Tap into the unstoppable force I used to be able to control.
All that happened was my jaw locked up. When ten minutes passed, and it hadn’t unlocked, I pressed the button to call the nurse, and she gave me something to help me sleep, and in the morning my jaw was fine.
I thought a lot about my friend Darryl. The one who’d abandoned me. I’d taken it so personally, convinced myself that he’d come to hate me, that something was wrong with me. But that wasn’t true. He’d moved on because of him. Because he wanted different things. Because his life was bigger than video games and comic books; because it was easier to find a new life and friends than to be sad about the life and friends he’d lost.
I’d been furious, back when Maya turned five and went to kindergarten. I’d thrown a fit. I couldn’t understand how she could leave me alone, but of course it had nothing to do with me.
My sickness made everything about me. My sickness and my selfishness. And the fact that I was still a kid who didn’t understand how the world really works.
My powers had come from anger, from hate, from fear, from shame. I had fed them; I let them take me over. And now that I’d turned my back on them, I had nothing.
So, every night I tried again—and failed. And sometimes, but not every time, I wept. Like a man who’d lost both legs or gone blind. What could be more painful than to possess something wonderful and then lose it forever?
RULE #51
Without your problems, you wouldn’t be who you are. You would be someone else. Someone significantly less awesome.
DAY: -57
TOTAL CALORIES, APPROX.: 1800
“Friendly’s?” Maya asked as we got out of the car. We stared up at the fast-food joint like it was supposed to tell us something, but it had nothing to say.
“We used to come here all the time!” Mom said. “Remember?”
“I guess,” I said, and I did—trips to Crossgates Mall for back-to-school shopping, doctor’s appointments, a million meaningless little Albany jaunts when we were kids. “She’s trying to fatten me up,” I said and pointed an accusing finger at her. “I see through your diabolical plot, woman.”