Expiration Date

live like animals?”

And then:

“Shut up shut up SHUT UP. Not another sound!”

And then finally:

“BILLY ALLEN DERACE YOU STOP CRYING OR I’LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT.”

VIII

No More Mickey

I barely had time to process the name before that familiar dizzy feeling washed over me. No, no, not now. Not now! I slammed my fists into the wall, as if slamming my fists would help me stay there just a few seconds longer so I could think…

Billy Allen Derace? That twelve-year-old redheaded kid downstairs was going to grow up and stab my father to death?

Of course he was.

I wasn’t even conscious for two seconds before Meghan was leaning over me, whispering in my ear. Her breath was sweet and warm. I could feel sweat beading on my skin, my cheeks and forehead burning and the veins in my head throbbing.

“Hey genius, it didn’t work.”

The levels of exhaustion in my bones and muscles and head were unreal. Maybe I’d been overdoing the pills. Maybe the loss of sensation in my arm and fingers was just the beginning—a herald of things to come. Maybe Grandpop Henry had taken too many pills and ended up in his coma.

“Yeah.”

I tried to roll over. After a moment or two, I gave up. Much better to stay here on the floor. Let the sweat dry on my skin. Give the throbbing a chance to die down. Take a little more time to recover.

Meghan touched my forehead. I didn’t want her to. My forehead was sweaty, gross, hot.

“Are you saying you didn’t go back this time?”

“No, no…I did.”

“Then what happened?”

I didn’t want to answer any more questions. I didn’t want to think about butterfly effects or proof or my numb arm or Patty Glenhart or Billy Allen Derace or any of it. I just wanted the throbbing and the sweating to stop. I just wanted sleep.

“Mickey Wade, will you please answer me?”

“No. I won’t. You should go.”

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Just please go away. I need to rest.”

Hurt flashed in her eyes, only to be quickly erased and replaced with anger.

“Fine,” she said, and then a few seconds later I heard my apartment door slam. And a little while after that, the Frankford El thundered by, rolling into the station. Somehow I crawled up to the houndstooth couch using only one arm. I curled up best I could, trying not to think about the cushion that was still damp with Vitamin Water, trying not to think about anything.

Except the one thing I couldn’t help thinking about.

Billy Allen Derace.

I slept so long that it was evening again before I woke up. And I was still stupid with exhaustion. At least the throbbing in my head was almost gone, and the sweat had cooled and dried on my skin. On the downside, my right arm was still useless. Numb. Dead.

I fished an old scarf out of a plastic bag in Grandpop’s closet, then used it to make a lame sling for my right arm, just so it wouldn’t be hanging next to my body, flopping around as I moved. I thought about using some of my remaining cash on a proper sling. But beer was a cheaper fix. Maybe tomorrow.

The El rumbled past my windows, came to a grinding stop at the station, bringing commuters home from work. But very few of them would be climbing off the train and walking to their homes in Frankford. They would be walking down the stairs and hoping to catch the 59 or the K at the mini-terminal up Arrott Street, where they’d be transported to safer parts of near Northeast Philly. Or they’d be riding the El down to the end of the line, Bridge and Pratt, just ten blocks away, where they’d take buses to the upper Northeast or suburbs. They wouldn’t linger in Frankford any longer than they had to. Their parents may have stopped to browse some of the shops along the avenue, but those days were gone now.

I ate a plate of apples and had a few spoonfuls of peanut butter for dessert. I finished off four cans of Golden Anniversary and didn’t feel a thing.

My mom had called three times today. The first two messages were the same litany—how’s the job hunt, did you visit your grandfather, we’d really like you to come to dinner soon. The third however, was different.

Mickey, your grandfather’s awake.

Grandpop was staring at me.

His eyes would focus for a moment, then turn away, as if he was too tired to maintain eye contact. Then they’d roll, and he’d move his tongue around his dry mouth like he was preparing to speak. But no words came out. He couldn’t move his arms or legs. The only movements were in his eyes and lungs—gently inflating and pushing up against his ribs, and then deflating a moment later.

“Hi, Grandpop.”

The old man focused on me for a brief moment, and then his eyes rolled elsewhere.

My mom was in the room with us. She’d left work early that afternoon when she received the call from the hospital, and waited here until I showed up. Now it was my turn, she said.

Turn for what, exactly?