comes to mind are phrases from sixth-grade French. “Bonjour, Therese. Ca va?” says Guy, a boy wearing a black beret. “Ca va bien, merci. Et tu, Guy?” Therese responds.
I decide to take a sip of water and then just say hi. Hi. It’s just two little letters. I ought to be able to get that much out. I reach for my glass. My sleeve creeps up and we both see the white bandage sticking out. The water in my glass jumps as I pull my hand away and tuck it safely in my lap.
“Oh,” is all she says.
I peek out at her from under my bangs.
“You really don’t understand, do you?” Her voice is gentle, the way it was in the bathroom the day she asked if I wanted her to leave me alone.
I shake my head.
“We all do things.”
“Where would you like to start?” you say that afternoon.
I notice that you’re wearing your delicate little fabric shoes again today.
“Callie? Why don’t you tell me about things before you came here?”
“Don’t you—” My voice deserts me. “Don’t you know?”
You tap your pen against something in your lap; I see then that you didn’t throw my file away after all.
“No,” you say. “I don’t. All this tells me is what other people have to say about you.”
I squint at the folder, wondering who these other people are and what they have to say.
You open the folder, then close it. “That you’re fifteen, a runner—”
“Was.”
“Pardon me?”
“I was.” I cough. “A runner.”
You pick up your pen.
“Are you going to write everything down?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.” You hold your pen in midair. “Will it bother you if I take notes?”
I shrug.
“If it bothers you, I won’t.”
For some reason, I think of how Mr. Malcolm, my algebra teacher, used to hand out test paper with lots of blank space and tell us we wouldn’t get credit for right answers unless we showed our work. I imagine you working on me as an algebra problem, reducing me to fractions, crossing out common denominators, until there’s nothing left on the page but a line that says x = whatever it is that is wrong with me. You fix it. I get to go home.
“Would you rather I didn’t take notes?”
“It’s OK.” You bend over your notepad a little; I study the part in your hair, which is perfectly straight and tidy You straighten up. “So, where do you want to start?”
I shrug.
You wait.
“I don’t care,” I say.
You cross your legs, not taking your eyes off me. The minute hand on the clock twitches forward once, then once more.
“My little brother, Sam,” I say finally. “He’s the one who usually gets all the attention from doctors and stuff.”
Instantly, this sounds wrong.
“I don’t mind,” I say. “He’s sick.”
“What’s the matter with Sam?”
“Asthma.”
You don’t say anything.
“Really bad asthma.”
You don’t move.
“He’s in the hospital all the time.”
You still don’t move.
“That’s why he’s so skinny and why we have to keep everything clean. But he’s OK for a brother.” I know I’m supposed to say more, but I’m exhausted, out of words. “That’s all, I guess.”
You fold your hands in your lap. “What’s that like for you?”
“What?”
“Having a brother who needs so much attention.”
“I’m used to it.”
You open your mouth to say something, but I cut you off.
“My mom’s the one who has a hard time.”
“Your mom?”
“She worries a lot.”
“What does she worry about?”
I try to get comfortable on the couch. This is tiring, all this talking.
“Callie,” you say. “What does your mother worry about?”
“Everything.”
You look like you want to ask something else, so I go on.
“She doesn’t drive anymore. She’s terrified of trucks. My dad has to take us everywhere.”
“I see.”
I wonder if you do see, see us sitting in the car, strapped in our seats, the windows rolled up tight, even if it’s a nice day, especially if it’s a nice day, so no pollen or spores or dust mites or pollution or anything can get into our car, our quiet, antiseptic car.
“Can you tell me about that?”
“About what?”
“About the times Sam was in the hospital.”
I blink. Were we talking about the times Sam was in the hospital? Or did you say something and I missed it? I pinch the edge of my bandage, tugging ever so slightly A single, sterile white thread comes unraveled.
“Like what? What do you want me to tell you?”
“Well, what do you do when your parents are with Sam?”
I roll the thin piece of thread into a tiny, tiny ball.
“I don’t know. Clean.”
You don’t say anything. The ball is microscopic now.
“I dust. Wash things. Vacuum. We have to vacuum a lot.”
You still don’t say anything. The ball is so tiny I lose it.
“Clean the lint filters. We have special filters on all the air vents because of Sam. One time I organized all my mom’s coupons. That’s it. Boring stuff.”
There’s a long silence. I feel around for the ball, listen to the hum of the UFO, check the clock.
“Sometimes if they have to stay over, I watch TV.”
“What do you watch?”
“Um. I don’t know. The Food Channel.…Rescue 911.”
“Why do you like those shows?”
“I don’t know.”
The minute hand lurches forward again while you wait for me to come up with a better answer.
“Rescue 911…” you say. “Is there something in particular you like about that show?”
I shrug. “No.” Then, “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I guess it’s because… I guess usually when people get saved it’s because some little kid is the one that notices that something’s wrong. Or the dog. Or a neighbor.”
You write something in your notebook.
“There’s always a happy ending; after the person gets rescued, everything turns out OK.”
I listen to the traffic, far away, on the highway and I study a crack in your ceiling. Like the crack in the ceiling
