I lean back, resting my head against the back of the sitting thing. I could easily sleep, right here, for hours. Is it really only the middle of the day? The light outside, hazy and foggy, indicates that it is. And so does the gnaw in my belly. It’s a little paunchy now, my belly. So much has changed about me lately, it’s no wonder I don’t recognize myself.
Finally I stand, and when I do, my left side starts to tingle. My mind runs over the possibilities. Pins and needles? Heart … explosion? Dead leg? I shrug off the thought. No use panicking myself. I have a brain-disease. What are the chances of that white, jagged stuff striking twice?
I sit back down, tired, but a horrible feeling nags at me—a feeling that I should be somewhere else. Then again, I live in a home for old people. Where could I possibly need to be?
I close my eyes and go to sleep.
“Anna.”
When I open my eyes, Dad is standing over me. On autopilot, I rub my eyes and stretch. Funny what my brain will do for me. It will stretch without any request, but when I desperately want it to conjure up information, nothing. “What?”
“Lunch.” His voice sounds irritated, which is strange. He must be really hungry.
“Oh. Good. I’m starving.” As I stand, a pile of clothes slides off my legs, and I realize I’m wearing only a white sheet-thing. A towel, that’s what it is. “I’d better get dressed. You go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”
A flash of pink comes to his cheeks, then just as quickly, it blanches away. He looks unexpectedly, impossibly sad. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll wait.”
*
On the table next to my sleeping-bench, I have quite the collection of things. Flower-leaves. Rocks. Movies I’ll never watch. A book that Dad left here last time he visited—I might tuck it away before he comes back, a keepsake. Maybe I’ll write it in my notebook to tell Jack. Stole Dad’s book. What’s he going to do? I have the brain-disease.
A drip of something rolls down my forehead. It’s stifling in here. Boiling hot. I hoist myself off the sleeping-bench. There must be a cool-machine around here somewhere! Or a whirly-spinner that blows air around. Or a wet cloth or something I can put on my head. I walk over to the hole in the wall and put my face to it, but there’s no wind. No relief.
“Anna?” says a man’s voice. “What are you doing?”
I spin around. “Jack!” It feels like forever since I’ve seen him. “Thank the Lord. Where is the cool-machine? Is it summer?”
Jack watches me for a disturbingly long time. “Yes,” he says. “It’s summer.”
He cuts across the room to the hole in the wall and slides it open. I laugh. Silly me. It was closed! Then he unbuttons my woolly overshirt and takes it off. Pulls something else over my head. “There you go. That should cool you down.”
Jack is wearing a shirt, short leg-pants, and shoes that hardly cover his feet. With my things off, already I start to feel cooler. “Ah,” I say, “that’s better.”
A little boy steps out from behind Jack and grins, all coy and cheeky.
“Hello, young man!” It’s hard not to smile at his little elfin face. He reminds me of someone—a cartoon character—Richie Rich or Dennis the Menace or something. Just the sight of him makes me feel happy. “What’s your name?”
The little boy looks at Jack, and Jack nods. “It’s … Ethan,” he says.
“That’s a cool name,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Ethan.”
The little boy’s smile disappears. Jack is still smiling, but he’s always had a terrible poker face. When we were little, if one of us had to lie to Mom and Dad, I always told him to wait in the bedroom. For that reason, Mom always demanded Jack be the one to tell the version of how the vase got broken, or whatever scuffle we found ourselves in. Now, although his tone is patient and friendly, his face is stiff.
I don’t feel so happy anymore.
“I think you should go now,” I say, turning my back on them. I focus on the hole in the wall, the open hole. The air that drifts in and out is warm and dry. Because it’s summer.
“But we just got here—”
“I’m tired,” I say. “I want to sleep.”
I wait a moment. But when I look over my shoulder, they’re still there, limp, like those dolls on sticks who need someone to pull their strings. What are they called? I scrunch up my face, trying to bring up the word. It’s on the edge of my tongue.
I spin around. “What the fuck are those little dolls called?”
The words sound ugly, and the little boy flinches. There are tears on my face, and I feel like I might be sick. I expect the little boy to flee from the room but instead he forges toward me, closer and closer, until I’m the one who flinches. When he’s an inch away, he tugs me down and wraps his little arms around my neck. “It was nice to meet you, Anna,” he says. He’s a hard, wiry little boy, and he smells like sunshine and dirt. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Ethan,” I say without thinking. And in a second or two, I’m happy again.
38