post Y in hole 22.’”
“Sounds complicated,”you say.
“Yeah, the box said ‘Adult assembly required.’ But my parents were out. My mom was visiting Gram at the nursing home.”
“So you put it together by yourself?”
“No big deal.” This sounds somehow like bragging, so I tell you the rest. “I got mad at Sam, though. I hardly ever get mad at Sam.”
You tilt your head to the side.
“He put the stickers on crooked.” This sounds stupid, trivial. “The directions say that’s the last thing you’re supposed to do.”
“And that made you angry?”
“Maybe. A little,” I say. Then, “I was mean.”
“How were you mean?” You sound faintly disbelieving, like you can’t imagine me being mean.
“I yelled at him.”
I check for your reaction. You just look calm, as usual.
“He got sick.” I let the words fall in my lap, then look up.
You nod.
“He had to go to the hospital,” I say.
You give me a worried look; I want to make it go away.
“You know what Sam said? He still believed in Santa. He said he was mad at Santa for not putting the hockey game together. I said maybe Santa was too busy. So Sam said, ‘That’s what he has elves for.’” I smile, thinking how funny that was coming from a little kid.
You smile a little, too. I decide to tell you more.
“He put the stickers on when I wasn’t looking. They were all wrinkled. And he put the stickers that were supposed to go on the players’ uniforms on the scoreboard. I told him he was wrecking the whole thing. He hid the rest of the stickers behind his back, and then he started to cry.”
I don’t check for your reaction; I keep my eyes on the rabbit and go on.
“I didn’t pay any attention. I kept working on the hockey game. He kept crying, though. Then he pulled on my sleeve and said he couldn’t breathe. His eyes were really big and he made this scary noise, this wet sound that came from his chest, like he was drowning from the inside.”
I rip the tissue in my lap and decide to skip over the other part.
“They took him to the hospital. It was after midnight when they got home—”
“Excuse me a minute, Callie.” You’re leaning forward in your chair. “Who took him to the hospital?”
“My parents.” I glance at you, then away.
“So they came home?” You look confused.
“Yeah.” I go on, faster “It was after midnight when they got home, 12:12 in the morning. I remember. I decided that if they weren’t home by 12:34 I was going to call the hospital to see if Sam was OK. You know how on a digital clock 12:34 looks like 1-2-3-4? That was going to be the sign that I should call.” I don’t wait to see if you understand. “But they came home, so I didn’t have to.”
You exhale.
“My mom was upset. She wanted to know why I wasn’t in bed. She said Sam was in an oxygen tent. Then she started crying and it was like her legs gave out; she was kneeling on the floor, crying and saying, ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’ My dad had to pick her up under the arms and put her to bed.”
I check the clock. Time’s up, somehow. I squirm around on the couch. You don’t move. I inch to the edge of the couch. You still don’t move.
“That must have been very upsetting,”you say.
I stand up. “Yeah. For my mom. She told someone on the phone Sam almost died. It was after that, she stopped driving and stuff.”
I put my hand on the doorknob. “That’s it,” I say.
I don’t wait for you. I open the door and say, “See you tomorrow.”
That night when I go to take my shower, Becca’s standing at the sink wearing her puppy bathrobe and slippers. Until a while ago, I thought Becca was about my age. Then the other day in Group, when she told us they tried to force-feed her when she was in the hospital, she said they couldn’t do it because she was legally an adult. “No one can tell me what to do,” she said. “I’m eighteen years old.”
She’s holding a toothbrush and scowling at her reflection. Then, as if she’s just remembered she was in the middle of something, she starts brushing her teeth so hard it looks like it must hurt.
I head toward a sink at the other end, aware of the distinct smell of throw-up as I pass one of the stalls. Becca is spraying herself with perfume. Rochelle is oblivious.
I position myself so I can see Becca in the mirror. She catches me looking at her; we lock eyes for an instant. She looks embarrassed and proud at the same time. I grab my towel, pretend I forgot something in my room, and decide to come back later.
“I don’t have anything to say today,” I say as I sit down on your couch.
“No?”
“No. Not really.”
“Let me ask you something, then,” you say.
You don’t wait to see if it’s OK with me.
“The time Sam got sick, when you were putting together the hockey set—is there anything else you want to tell me about it?”
I study a stain on the carpet and try to decide if it’s shaped like a woman with a big nose or an amoeba “It was raining,” I say finally.
“Anything else?”
I don’t take my eyes off the stain. “Nope.”
“Well then, will you fill me in on one part I don’t understand?” You keep going. “Your parents were out, as I recall. Is that right?”
I don’t move a muscle.
“How did you let them know Sam was sick? Do you remember?”
I remember exactly.
I took the steps up from the basement two at a time, then ran out the front door, across the lawn, into the street. I glanced back at our house with all my mom’s Christmas crafts in the windows, then tried to put on a burst of speed. I stumbled, pitched forward, and found myself kneeling by the curb. I don’t remember getting up, I just remember running, watching my feet beneath me, first one, then the other, hitting the pavement as if they weren’t connected to me, as if they were just appearing and disappearing to give me something to look at while I ran.
I ran past the entrance to our development, out onto the main road. I must have gone past the Roy Rogers, the Dairy Queen, and the video rental place, although I don’t remember going past them. I just watched my feet appear, disappear, then reappear until somehow I was standing in front of Bud’s Tavern. I shoved the door open and stepped inside, but I couldn’t see a thing in the sudden dark. The place smelled like overcooked hot dogs and damp sweaters; I thought for a minute I was going to be sick.
There was a man at the bar. “Daddy!” I said. It came out sounding babyish and a little scared. The man turned around and gave me a bored look; he wasn’t my father. Another man came out of the restroom, whistling. “Daddy!” This time it sounded babyish and a little mad. And this time it was my father.
He looked like he couldn’t quite place me. “Callie?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Sam,” I said, panting. “He’s sick.”
“You want a soda?”he said, then turned to face the bar; his back looked enormous. When he turned around, he had a beer in his hand. He took a swallow and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up, then down.
“He’s sick!”
He looked at me blankly.
“Daddy!” I stamped my foot. “I already called mom at the nursing home,” I said quietly. “She’s on her way home.”
He seemed to wake up then. “Why didn’t you say so?” He took out his wallet, put a few bills on the counter,
