My mom and I picked up Ben on the way home. It was after eight p.m. He’d been asleep already and he stayed that way in the car. I was glad, because I think my appearance would’ve scared him. We would tell him the next morning when my shirt was in the washing machine and my hair was brushed. But that night, my mom carried him to the apartment and put him to bed with his clothes on.
I had a bowl of cereal for dinner. It was hard to keep it down.
I stayed in my mom’s bed that night. I curled into her side. Her flannel nightgown was soft against my face. She cradled me against her like I was small. It felt safe and warm. It was the only way I could sleep.
chapter twenty-one
All weekend, my mom fields phone calls from my grandma about my dad. She wants to know what to do and whom to call and where to be. She wants to know how we can make sure this time is different.
My mom tells her she shouldn’t bother getting her hopes up. My mom says she’s tried a million times. She says she has washed her hands of it. She doesn’t have time for this. She has bigger problems now. I know that bigger problem is me.
And right now, she is worried about me.
I know this because of the way she watches me move through the apartment. She looks up from the stuff she’s stirring in a saucepan to observe me. On Saturday night, she stops reading to Ben midsentence and eyes me as I cross in front of his bed to pull clean pajamas out of my dresser. I haven’t combed my hair since Thursday morning. It’s long and tangled. She wonders, out loud to Ben, why I’m so quiet. She wants to know if I’ve eaten. Or done my homework. Or brushed my teeth.
She is afraid I’ve taken a step back.
She wants Brenda to come.
She wants Brenda to help.
On Sunday, she finally convinces me I need to make an emergency call to Brenda. She picks up right away. I tell her about my dad.
“I’m so sorry, Morgan.” Brenda’s voice is comforting, like an oversize sweatshirt. There’s a part of me that wishes she were here. I want to sit on the steps with her just long enough to feel the sun on my face. And then I’d go inside and shut the door again.
On the phone, Brenda asks me how I feel. She says I’m talking slower and quieter than I usually do. She wants to know if I notice. I tell her I don’t feel electric. I’m sapped of energy. I’m used to feeling like I can’t stop fidgeting. But this thing with my dad has just made me numb. All I want to do is curl up in pajamas and stare at the wall. It’s different from the way I feel when I need to take my emergency pill.
“Do you want to hurt yourself?” She clears her throat. “I’m sorry I have to ask that, but it’s important for you to tell me if you’re having those kinds of thoughts.”
I tell her no. And that’s the truth. I couldn’t do that to my mom. Or Ben. I feel tired and immobile, but I don’t want to die. “I want to sleep.”
We keep talking. I’m not even sure how to put the way I’m feeling into words.
“It’s okay not to know,” Brenda says. “Maybe you need to figure it out. And we can work on it some more on Tuesday. You can call me before then if you need to talk.”
I thank her and hang up. Maybe I should’ve told her she might as well quit now, because I will probably end up just like my dad.
*
Evan stops by a few times over the weekend. He has probably texted, too. I haven’t turned my phone back on to know for sure. I haven’t even taken it out of the drawer I shoved it in. I ask my mom and Ben to tell Evan to go away.
They don’t say those exact words. They’re nicer than that.
I don’t go near the door when he comes. I stay on the couch. Or in my bed. Or I hover in the hallway. Ben tells him I’m sick. My mom says we’re having some family issues we need to deal with.
“That boy is going to lose his patience with you,” my mom says, shutting the door. “You should talk to him.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
I watch the surfing DVD Evan gave me. I watch it over and over again. I play it on the computer. I wear my headphones. I hear the wind and the laughter of his friends in my ears. I still envy the freedom of Evan sliding down that wave. I still wish I could stand in the sand there. I wish I could cheer. I wish I could be something other than what I am.
chapter twenty-two
Monday morning comes and my grandma calls. She is the only grandma I have ever known. She’s my dad’s mom. My mom’s parents died before I was born. But I’d visit my dad’s parents every July. Grandpa Ben—the grandpa who was so grand, my little brother was named after him—would take me to the county fair to buy me cotton candy as big as my head. When I was in middle school, he rode the flippiest, turniest, spinniest rides with me even though he was way older than anyone else going on them.
When I was sixteen and the ink was barely dry on my driver’s license, my grandpa died suddenly of a heart attack. He’d been working on his beloved Bel Air when it happened. My grandma heard a crash. She ran to the garage and found him on the ground next to a pile of stuff that must have fallen from the tool shelf when he bumped into it as he fell.
People said the kinds of things people say to make everyone feel better when someone dies. They said, “At least he went doing something he loved.”