Lew glanced back, gave Amra a look. He wanted her to stop talking about it. “Probably a faker,” Lew said. “There’s a possession conference going on downtown next week. The town’ll be full of posers.”
“I don’t think this guy was faking,” I said. That mad grin. That wink. “Afterward he was just crushed. Totally confused.”
“I wonder if he even knows how to draw,” Amra said. The tram dropped us at a far parking lot, and then we shivered in the wind while Lew unlocked the car and loaded my duffel into the tiny trunk.
It was new, a bulbous silver Audi that looked futuristic and fast. I thought of my own car, crumpled like a beer can, and tried not to be jealous. The Audi was too small for Lew anyway. He enveloped the steering wheel, elbows out, like he was steering with his stomach. His seat was pushed all the way back, so I sat behind Amra. Lew flew down 294, swearing at drivers and juking between lanes. I should have been used to Lew’s driving by then, but the speed and erratic turns had me gripping the back of Amra’s seat. I grew up in the suburbs, but every time I came back to Chicago I experienced traffic shock. We were forty minutes from downtown, and there were four crammed lanes on each side of the road, and everyone moving at 70 mph. It was worse than Denver.
“So what have you been doing with yourself?” Lew asked. “You don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t send flowers . . .”
“We missed you at Christmas,” Amra said.
“See, Lew? From Amra, that actually means she missed me at Christmas. From you or Mom that would have meant ‘How could you have let us down like that?’ ”
“Then she said it wrong.”
They’d only been married for a year and a half, but they’d been dating on and off—mostly on—since college. “So when are you guys going to settle down and make Mom some multiracial grandbabies?
The Cyclops has gotta be demanding a little baby action.”
Amra groaned. “Do you have to call her that? And you’re changing the subject.”
“Yeah,” Lew said. “Back to your faults as a son and brother. What have you been up to?”
“Well, that’s a funny story.”
Lew glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Amra turned in her seat to face me, frowning in concern.
“Jeez, guys.” I forced a smile. “Can you at least let me segue into this?”
“What is it?” Amra said.
“It’s not a big deal. I had a car accident in November, went through a guardrail in the snow, and then—”
Lew snorted in surprise. “Were you drunk?”
“Fuck you. The road was icy, and I just hit the curve too fast and lost control. I went through the rail, and then the car started flipping.”
My gut tightened, remembering that jolt. My vision had gone dark as I struck the rail, and I’d felt myself pitching forward, as if I were being sucked into a black well. “I ended up at the bottom of a ravine, upside down, and I couldn’t get my seatbelt undone.” I left out the caved-in roof, the icy water running through the car, my blind panic. “I just hung there until the cops got me out.”
“Weren’t you hurt?” Amra asked.
I shrugged. “My arms were scraped up, and my back was killing me, but that turned out to be just a pulled muscle. They kept me in the hospital for a day, and then they let me go. And afterward . . . well, all in all I was pretty lucky.”
“Lucky?” Lew said. “Why do people say that? You get a tumor, and if it turns out that you can operate on it, people say, gee, that was lucky. No, lucky is not getting cancer. Lucky is not getting cancer, then finding ten bucks in your shoe.”
“Are you done?” Amra said.
“He totaled his car. He’s not that lucky.”
Amra shook her head. “You were about to say something else, Del. What happened after the accident?”
“Yeah, afterward.” I suddenly regretted bringing it up. I’d thought I could practice on Lew and Amra, get ready for the main event with Mom. Amra looked at me expectantly.
“After the accident, I had some, well, complications, and I needed to go to a different kind of hospital.”
Amra frowned in concern. Lew said, “Holy shit, you mean like One-Flew-Over different?”
Amra shushed him. “Are you okay?” The tiny cabin and the high seat between us made the space simultaneously intimate and insulating.
“I’m fine. Everything worked out.”
“Fine, he says. Holy shit. Does Mom know? No, of course not, she would have told me. She would have told me, wouldn’t she? Holy shit.” He swept down on the rear end of a truck, and for the first time in the trip he slowed down rather than change lanes. “So what were you in for? Did you check yourself in, or did they commit you? Does Mom know?”
“I’ll tell her tonight. It’s not a big deal.”
“You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” Amra said.
“But you should feel free to talk about this. It’s not a stigma.”
“Come on, it’s sort of a stigma,” Lew said.
I nodded. “There are a lot of crazy people in there.”
Amra turned back around. “I’m trying to talk seriously. This is important.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said.
Lew laughed. “Every time you say that it gets more convincing.”
He gunned the engine, swung around a station wagon, and swerved back right across two lanes, just in time to catch our exit. I braced myself against the door as we swooped into the hard curve of the off ramp.
“So what was it?” Lew asked. He glanced left and merged onto the street. “Thought you were Napoleon? Seeing pink elephants?”
“More like hearing things.”
“No shit.” I’d shocked him sober.
Amra looked at Lew, back at me. “Is this about the thing that happened when you were little?”
So Lew had told her. Which I should have expected—they were married. Family. “When I was possessed, you mean.”
Amra looked so sad I made myself laugh. “Come on, I barely remember it.”
“You ask me, he was faking,” Lew said. He steered the car onto our block. Familiar trees scrolled past the windows, bare limbs raking a close, steely sky. “Del would always do anything to get Mom’s attention.”
Dinner had been waiting since 1985. The meal was straight out of my childhood—glazed ham, mashed potatoes, the mix of regular and creamed corn I loved, hot rolls. My mother brought it out of the oven—she’d been keeping it warm—two minutes after we walked in. We ate off the same white-and-green Corelle plates we’d always used. We talked easily about trivia: changes to the neighborhood, the two winters I’d managed to miss. Lew and Amra didn’t bring up demons or psych wards. My mother didn’t ask why I hadn’t shown up for Christmas, or why I’d suddenly decided to fly here with barely a day’s notice.
Afterward, Mom tried to shoo us away while she cleaned up. Lew and Amra ran out to buy us ice cream, but I stayed to ferry dishes from the dining room to the kitchen. My mother loaded the dishwasher—it didn’t work if anyone else did it.
She was a high-waisted, big-boned woman, built like a municipal building—solid, tall. Lew got his size from her. Her hair was feathered with gray, but when she smiled or spoke she seemed the same as the day I left for college. But when she wasn’t concentrating—like during the long breath she took between sitting down and picking up her fork—her face sagged and she seemed to age twenty years.
“What did you do to your hand?” she asked.
