Shivering Mind

Chapter 19

tatue. âÂÂOr salute?âÂÂ

 âÂÂWhy couldnâÂÂt we have stayed put?â She sighs.

 Samantha knows the obvious answer to that, so all I say is, âÂÂCheer up, kid. College next year.âÂÂ

 Gracie, SamâÂÂs mom, is out on the porch of Clairemont Cottage, planting some brassy orange flowers in big stone urns. She jolts to her knees when we turn the corner, trowel in hand, then, seeing itâÂÂs me with Sam, beams, waves, settles back down on her heels again. For reasons known only to her and God, Grace persists in thinking Jase is the delinquent and IâÂÂm the upstanding citizen.

 Samantha studies me for a sec, then says, âÂÂOne more thing. The most important. On this date? Just be, you know, smart and funny and sweet. Like you are.âÂÂ

 âÂÂPretty sure thatâÂÂs not actually me.âÂÂ

 âÂÂIt is.â She flips her hair out of its braid, sliding her fingers through to shake it out. âÂÂIf sheâÂÂs going on a date with you, she probably thinks so too. Do I know her?âÂÂ

 âÂÂNot really.âÂÂ

 âÂÂMax, câÂÂmon.âÂÂ

 âÂÂItâÂÂs not a big deal. ItâÂÂs just aâÂÂâÂÂI have no idea what it isâÂÂâÂÂthing.âÂÂ

 Not buying it. All over her face.

 But Samantha smiles, tugs her bag off my shoulder, puts her hand in its place. âÂÂTwo more things, actuallyâÂÂbut theyâÂÂre crucial. DonâÂÂt wear that stupid Axe stuff clueless guys think is sexy. It reeks of desperation.âÂÂ

 I fake-scribble on an imaginary pad. âÂÂNoted.âÂÂ

 âÂÂAnd donâÂÂt let her break your heart, okay?âÂÂ

 âÂÂSammy-Sam, I think thatâÂÂs already a given.âÂÂ

 Matilda

 âÂÂI get to ride on the feet!â George squeals.

 âÂÂBro. You canâÂÂt ride on the wheelchair feet. IâÂÂd lose my job,â Brad says, maneuvering Dad out of the hospital room, skillful and grounded in his transporter role. WeâÂÂre a parade to help move Dad to the rehab part of Maplewood. JoelâÂÂs got the duffel full of the clothes we brought so Dad would feel semi-normal. MomâÂÂs arms are bundled full of his books. AndyâÂÂs carrying a stack of artwork the little guys made, carefully detached from the Scotch tape on the wall. Duff has the Xbox and the video games. Harry, the old deck of cards, the pick-up sticks, the dominoes, the old-fashioned games we rediscovered to make Maxe pass.

 I have all the paperwork, most of which my parents donâÂÂt know about.

 It would be Brad they sent to do the transfer, of all the âÂÂporters in all of Maplewood Memorial. HeâÂÂs ignoring me. IâÂÂm ignoring him. This is fun. At least heâÂÂs been decent to the kids, even though George keeps giving him sidelong glances, no doubt worried the tears will start again.

 I check my watchâÂÂplenty of Maxe to do what I need to do, get home, and get ready to go out with Max, as long as this all goes quickly.

 Two and a half hours laterâÂÂtwice as long as it was supposed to takeâÂÂDadâÂÂs in his room, everything (more or less) sorted out.

 Mom leaves with the kids, Joel heads to cop class, I linger. Sticking the pictures up on the wall, stacking the games in piles, making the bare room a little like home. Dad shut his eyes the instant they all left, âÂÂjust for a moment.â But he immediately dropped off to sleep.

 I sit down on the side of the bed. Really, I want to lie down too, put my head on his shoulder. I was up late last night studying, and George had a wake-up-screaming nightmare, something about a supervolcano under Yellowstone Park. After I convinced him it was absolutely nothing to worry about and he finally fell asleep in my lap and I carried him back to bed, I googled it.

 There is one.

 Looking at my fatherâÂÂs face, worry lines smoothed out, faint smile, his big hands brown against the white hospital sheet, air siphons out of my lungs for an instant. Black spots collect at the corners of my vision.

 Deep breath.

 Deep breath.

 The spots scatter and fade.

 On to the next thing, because what else can I do?

 I brought a change of clothes for tonight along with me, just in case.

 I mean, IâÂÂm not dressing up. Not for Max, for GodâÂÂs sake. But, IâÂÂve been wearing this black V-neck and skirt all day long, and Harry squeezed his juice box too hard andâÂÂ

 Anyway.

 I shower in the bathroom off DadâÂÂs new room, crowded in by the walker, the quad cane, and the commode chair. Tiny hospital-issue soap and body wash and shampoo, because I forgot to bring my own. Hospital towels are rough and tiny, it takes two to dry off, and still my dark blue sundress clings in a few wet patches. No blow dryer, so my hair will dry curly. So be it. When I look in the mirror, I recognize myself again.

 ThereâÂÂs a sharp sound from the other room, like air through teeth.

 Sweat stands out on his forehead, and his face is chalky white.

 âÂÂDad?âÂÂ

 âÂÂAl,â Dad says gently, âÂÂcome back a little later, okay?âÂÂ

 âÂÂNot happening. What do you need?âÂÂ

 My hand is poised over the call button. He sets his on top of it. âÂÂTheyâÂÂll only dope me up. Not what I want.âÂÂ

 Dad shifts in the bed with a crackle of plastic hospital mattress pad. He sucks his breath in hard, again blows it out. My own breath snags.

 âÂÂScale of one to ten,â I say, groping to find the professional in me.

 âÂÂIâÂÂm not your patient, tiger,â Dad says. âÂÂLuckily for both of us.âÂÂ

 Without warning, my eyes fill. I donâÂÂt cry. I never cry.

 Which Dad knows. His hand shoots out, squeezes my shoulder. âÂÂYou know I didnâÂÂt mean it like that. You know that.â Now heâÂÂs batting at the box of tissues at the side of his bed, which is slightly out of reach, and something about that, my dad, who can do anything, who can fix everythingâÂÂ

 âÂÂYou look gorgeous, Matilda,â Dad says. âÂÂHot date?âÂÂ

 âÂÂJust a thing,â I say, my face going hot.

 He studies me, saying nothing, waiting for information to come to him. Mom and Dad have that one down to an art. r />

 âÂÂHowâÂÂs Max these days?âÂÂ

 These two questions are not connected. HeâÂÂs making conversation. Distracting me from calling the nurse and another debate about pain medication. âÂÂHow Mom and Dad Metâ is a family fairy taleâÂÂMomâÂÂs told us the story so often, we can all fill in words when she pauses. But thereâÂÂs a part she leaves out when weâÂÂre younger . . . that charming, perceptive Jack Garrett had a dark side back then. He was, as he tells it, âÂÂmad at the whole live worldâ because his mother had died the year before, and his little sister and brother, my aunt Caroline and my uncle Jason, had stayed behind in Virginia with their grandparents, while his father had taken my father, alone, since he was sixteen and old enough to bring in a paycheck, up to Connecticut. Dad had a drinking problem, which got worse until his twenties, when he realized he could go that route, or have a life with Mom, and turned his around.

 I have never seen my father drink alcohol. He doesnâÂÂt even have soda, although heâÂÂll be the first to tell you that entire coffee plantations are supported by his caffeine habit.

 It could go that way for Max. Or it could go the other way.

 âÂÂOh . . . you know. The usual.âÂÂ

 Dad laughs. âÂÂThat kid has no âÂÂusual.âÂÂâÂÂ

 Out in the hallway again, I rub my neck, close my eyes, flip back my hair. IâÂÂm looking forward to MaxâÂÂMax!âÂÂlike a steaming hot bath after a long, cold day.

 Still, I pull DadâÂÂs chart from the plastic holder outside the door, page through it. Standard entry, expected procedure, the usual blah, blah, blah.

 But then . . .

 Holy.

 Holy Mother of God.

 Chapter Fourteen

 Max

 IâÂÂm doing push-ups as a healthier alternative to a pack of Marlboros, wondering when the hell the magic powers of the nic patch will kick in, when I hear the knock at my doorâÂÂso faint, itâÂÂs not really a knock, more like a scratch or a tap. IâÂÂm at that top-of-the-push-up, arms-shaking point, right before I exhaleâÂÂ

 Collapse.

 Wipe my arm across my sweaty forehead. IâÂÂm wearing Ellery gym shorts and a sweaty black polo. Not exactly poised to receive company. But IâÂÂve still got Maxe to get it together for Matilda.

Whatever it is we’re sampling on this date, the thought of it has me grinning as I open the door.

But when I do, the face I see is so out of context, it takes me a few seconds.

Big blue eyes, small pointed chin, tidy ponytail. One seat to the left of me in English Writers of the Western World. I used to borrow her perfectly sharpened pencils. Never gave ’em back.

“Max?” she says, like I might be Max’s evil twin.

“Hi. Uh . . . Heather.” How I scrounge that name from my subconscious, I have no idea.

“It’s Hester. Can I come in?”

What? I think, at the same Maxe I say, “Sure,” and open the door wider for her. She brushes past me, sits down on the couch, and looks at her shoes. Hester was a Brain and a Good Girl. So we had nothing in common. What’s she doing here? She smooths down her khaki skirt, readjusts her white shirt. Prep wear. Clothing as birth control, my douchey friends and I used to joke. All those fuckin’ buttons. Little gold hoop earrings, neat part in her brown hair. s**t, is she, like, a Jehovah’s Witness or something? I don’t have Maxe for this. But now she’s weaving her fingers together, studying them. “So, Max . . . you left Ellery early this year.”

“Yeah, left, as in got booted.”

I look at the clock on the stove right as it flips from 5:58 to 59. Less than half an hour to meet Matilda, and it takes fifteen minutes to drive. If you don’t run the lights or speed.

Hester lifts her face and looks at me squarely. “Before that, you went to Ward Akins’s pool party.”

I did? Geez, I was so messed up back then, worst of my worst. I can hardly remember those last months of school. Little flashes. Ward Akins? Asskite guy on my tennis team. Pool party? Would I have gone to one of those? Who’m I kidding? I would have gone to anyone’s party.

But also? Who the eff cares what party I did or didn’t go to.

“Uh. Look, can we catch up some other Maxe? Sorry—I mean . . . not to be a d**k, but . . . why are you here?”

“Ward is my godmother’s stepson,” Hester says, like family history answers the question. “Even though he’s an abject loser, I went to this party because . . . Well, never mind.” Her voice, which is husky, throaty, stalls out for a sec. Then she braids her fingers together even more tightly, swallows. “Big house—very modern, glass windows . . . the pool’s indoors, heated. They have a tiki bar . . . Do you remember any of this?”

Not even the tiki bar. “No. Sorry. I got nothing.”

Her face shuffles through a boatload of emotions in, like, seconds—there and gone. Then her features smooth, totally composed. She looks dead on at me, blue eyes crystal clear, focused, narrowing, like she’s aiming a gun. “You don’t have ‘nothing.’ You have a son.”

Chapter Fifteen

Max

I do the most wrong thing I could possibly do.

Laugh.

Looking Hester straight in the eye, I slump down on the couch next to her.

And laugh.

It’s like I can’t stop. I’m holding up one hand, holding the other to my stomach, and she’s staring at me like I’m dog s**t she’s stepped in, except that her eyes are filling with tears.

So I try to get a hold of myself, say something.

And again, straight to the worst thing.