It took nine months after that to get him well. I became watchful of the signs: the weight loss, the hiding after meals, cutting his food into tiny pieces, low energy during the day. If Slipstream so much as yawned in class, I got nervous. He was five years younger. Mistress Anne always said the older kids should look out for the younger ones.
Slipstream was reading a book in the garden when I decided to confront him about his secret. I’d been fifteen and he ten. I sat down and took away his book.
“Hey!” He scowled at me. “I was reading that.”
I sat on the book. “You can read it after we talk.”
“Well, I won’t read it now since your butt’s been on it.”
“I know how to help you.”
“Help me with what?” He stared at me, unblinking.
“Your condition.”
He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his too thin arms around them. “You don’t have anything on me to tell Mistress Anne.”
I grabbed his sleeve. “It’s not like that. I’m worried about you.” I let him go when he didn’t look at me. “Anyway, like I said, I think I can help.”
“I’m listening.”
I told him about the races. About the cars Ace and I fixed up in the garage. How Mistress Anne let us watch movies about drag racing and gave us car restoration manuals to read. She even brought us to the junkyard to pick out scrap cars. Slipstream didn’t believe me at first, but when I brought him to the garage, amazement filled his eyes. As soon as he picked up a wrench, I knew he was a goner.
To have him relapse is a huge blow. I’m instrumental to his recovery. I take the curving staircase two at a time and follow the long corridor until I reach the door at the end. It’s been eight years since I introduced him to racing, and yet I find myself striding with two-ton feet toward the infirmary.
I pass between the two rows of beds. Ten in all. My anger builds inside my chest as I proceed to the back of the room, where another door leads to a hallway with five private rooms for any of the children who need to be quarantined. I don’t have to ask where he is. Mistress Anne and the in-house doctor always put him in the same one—the second room to the right. At his door, I hear the steady beeping of the heart monitor. The smell of antiseptic stings my nose. I hate it.
Sliding the door aside, I enter an all-too-familiar scene. Slipstream is stretched out on the bed with the covers up to his waist. The one-size-fits-all hospital gown drowns his bony frame. At his side, two IV bags hang from a stand: one clear and one milky. They keep him alive. My gut twists. Two small bags. The difference between life and death.
With unsure steps, I make it to the visitor’s chair at the clear side of the bed. From the pale purple light that peeks into the space between the drawn curtains, dusk is settling around us. The instinct to scream at him wars with the need to comfort him. He looks so frail.
“Slip….” I take his blue-veined hand into mine like fragile glass. “I’m here.”
His eyes flutter open, but instead of focusing on me, he stares up at the ceiling. A tear escapes one eye corner down the thin skin of his temple to land on the pillow. “I was dreaming of the day you showed me the garage,” he says, his voice scratchy. “Do you remember that?”
Comfort wins. I press his hand to my cheek. My own tears flow. I say nothing as he continues. His smile doesn’t quite reach his glazed eyes.
“Seeing those cars, hearing them run for the first time. I never felt more alive than in that moment. It’s like the more an engine revved the stronger my heartbeat became. And when I finally got my own car, I had something to live for.”
“Then why, Slip? Why did you let yourself relapse?” I ask into his palm.
A deep and ragged breath, one those closest to death seem to know how to do, escapes him. “I figured the lighter I am, the thinner I become, the faster my baby will run. I want her to be free. To not be burdened by carrying around my weight.”
Newfound anger clutches at my heart and refuses to let go. “You stupid, stupid boy. That car can carry ten of you and not slow down for one second.” Fresh tears blur my vision. This time I refuse to let them fall, so I look up and blink fast several times.
“I know, RC. I know.” His sob comes out cracked from a thoroughly abused throat.
I lock my weakening knees when I stand. I let go of his hand in favor of gripping the rail of his bed. “You won’t be driving at the IC this year,” I say.
He touches his chin to his chest in a weak imitation of a nod. And just like that my anger dissipates. I know how much participating in the Impulse Cup means to Slipstream. He talked my ear off about it. How excited he was. Because of his relapse, I doubt Mistress Anne will let him drive let alone leave Open Arms.
Not knowing what else to do, I lean down until my lips touches his ear. “If you promise to gain some weight, I’ll race you after the IC. Your choice of battle.”
“You’re on,” he exhales. A crack-toothed smile sends him off to slumber.
I run my fingers through his brittle green hair. Strands break off. I withdraw and let the wisps fall to the floor. I leave
