Everything Is Fine. Page 10
“You already told me that.”
“Let me finish,” he says. “Your mom is going to the hospital and I have been doing well at this new job.”
He stops talking. I am pulling on the string.
“I have been doing well and they want me to cover some big events, but there’s going to be a lot of travel.”
The string pops.
“So your mom is going to the hospital and you are going to stay with your aunt in Kansas.”
PIGS
On Oprah, you can buy a pig or a goat or a sheep.
But you don’t get to keep it.
They give it to starving people in Africa.
You can even buy half a pig.
I want half a pig.
I’m going to ask Mom if I can buy half a pig to give to starving people in Africa.
Or I might ask Norma.
Or Dixie.
Dixie would want to help too.
I won’t ask Dad. I’ll never ask Dad anything ever again.
ME AND DIXIE AND HALF A PIG: oil on canvas
KANSAS
My dad thinks I’m going to live in Kansas and my mom is going to a treatment center.
I find the football pads.
I find some cleats.
I find some old jerseys.
They are all in a box and I pull them out of the closet while doing yoga breaths.
Dad is in the kitchen on his cell when he sees me with the box and he says, “Hang on a minute” into the phone and then says to me, “What’re you doing, Maz?”
“Nothing.”
He looks at me.
“Can we talk?”
I start pulling the box across the tile.
“Maz?”
I pull it to the carport door and then I turn and look at him.
“Maz? This isn’t permanent.”
Not permanent. Lie.
I close my eyes and do three karate chops at him. Hard. Fast. And then I go out the door.
FOOTBALL PADS
I go behind the Spyder and put on the pads and one of the jerseys and the cleats.
Then I go and sit in the Dean Machine.
I could get in trouble but I don’t care.
Dad is watching from the window, I’m sure.
Probably everyone is watching.
I hope that Colby is watching.
I am in the Dean Machine for six minutes when Norma comes out.
“What’s going on?” Norma is standing by the side of the boat.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
She has purple lipstick on but I don’t care.
“I like your football clothes.”
“It’s a uniform.”
“Oh.”
“I’m going to be an LB on the team.”
“An LB?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s an LB?”
“A linebacker.”
“Huh. I’ve never heard anyone call a linebacker an LB.”
I do a yoga breath. “You probably don’t know anything about football.”
I won’t look at her but I can feel her trying to be friends again.
“Nope, I don’t.”
“I do.”
She is quiet.
I pretend like I am turning the wheel of the boat. Colby says it’s easy to drive. Easy to drive the Dean Machine and probably easy to drive the Spyder.
“Mazzy,” she says all quiet, “Mazzy . . . I’m going to try to explain one more time. After that it’s up to you.”
I wish I had the key to the Dean Machine.
“I have bad health and I’ve been trying to get better.”
“So,” I say.
“So, I eat too much.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” I am being mean. She clears her throat and is about to say something when I say, “It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say again. And it’s true.
“Okay.” She wipes some sweat from her neck. “So, can we be friends again?”
“Not right now.” She doesn’t know that we can never be friends because I’m leaving.
“Okay. Later?”
“Maybe.”
That’s when a door slams and it’s Colby.
BELLY BUTTONS
When ladies get pregnant, their belly buttons stick out. Even if they were innies before, they go out after a while.
And the skin looks like elephants.
Mom and me, we’d look at her belly button and I’d try to poke it back in.
“Maz, it won’t go back until the baby’s here.”
“Oh,” I said. “Can I color it?”
“Okay,” she said.
I got the markers and I made a ladybug on her belly button.
PLAN
“What are you doing in the Dean Machine?” Colby is wearing his swimsuit again.
“I’m sitting in it.”
Norma is still standing there and Colby is climbing onto the boat. “Move over,” he says.
I move to the passenger seat.
“You can only come on here if I say.”
“Okay.”
Norma still stands and Colby doesn’t even look at her or say anything to her. Then he says, “Where’d you get those pads?”
“The team.”
“What team?”
“The football team.”
“What football team?”
“The Florida Gators.”
“That’s a real jersey from the Gators?”
“Yeah. It’s my dad’s,” I say, and Colby bites his lip.
“Oh,” he says.
We keep sitting there and Norma keeps standing there until she finally turns around and goes back to her house.
I want to say, “Bye Norma,” but I don’t.
“She’s weird,” Colby says.
“Yeah,” I say. “But I like her.”
Then he says, “I saw your dad.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s home?”
“Yeah.”
Colby flips a switch on the boat.
“Are you glad?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
Then I say, “Colby? Do you like these pads and jersey and stuff?”
“No,” he says, and he is doing something under the steering wheel.
“Oh,” I say. “But do you want them?”
He looks at me. “What do you mean?”
“I could give them to you. And the cleats and the jersey. My dad said I could do whatever I wanted with them.”
“Why?”
“Why did my dad say that or why would I give them to you?”
“The give them to me part.”
I take a deep breath. This has to sound good. “I’ll give them to you if you do something for me.”
“What?”
I look back at the house. No Dad. Norma is inside.
Then I say very quietly, “Steal the Spyder.”
“What?”
“Steal the Spyder.”
COLBY AND MAZZY IN DEAN MACHINE: crayon on paper
PLANS
Oprah says: you gotta plan.
And on Survivor you make plans.
No one knew until I talked to Colby that I had a plan.
DINNER
Dad takes me to dinner that night.
Dad calls Bill to come over and watch Mom while we are gone.
Mom is home alone all the time. He doesn’t need to call Bill.
Brick oven pizza.
He tries to talk to me. “So, what’s your summer been like? We never got to really talk on the phone.”
I pull a pepperoni off and put it in my lemonade.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t you go to the lake with the Deans a few times?”
I look at him. How does he know that?
“N
o.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Mazzy, I know you did. I talked to Ellen.”
Mrs. Dean.
“She said she took you to yoga and shopping and you had a great time.”
“We didn’t.”
“You didn’t what?”
“We didn’t have a great time. I hated it and Mom was mad that Mrs. Dean made me go.”
Dad sighs. He sighs like he is some authority on my life or yoga and shopping with Mrs. Dean.
I decide to give him one chance. One more chance.
“Dad,” I say, “can’t you just let Mom stay home?”
He picks up his Coke. “I can’t, Maz,” he says, and takes a long drink. “Your mother is sick.”
“Well, can I at least come with you to Connecticut? I don’t want to go to Kansas. Please, Dad.”
Another long drink, and then he shakes his head and says, “Not now. Soon. When I get settled.”
“Fine,” I say, and I don’t say one more word the rest of the dinner.
He asked for it.
WHEN WE GET HOME
Dad goes into his office and I stand there.
Finally I yell, “I’m sleeping in Mom’s room.”
Dad says from his office, “Not a good idea, Mazzy. I’m staying with your mom.”
I yell it again. “I’m sleeping in Mom’s room.”
Dad comes out of his office and says, “Honey, I’m going to sit up with your mother. I haven’t seen her for weeks.”
“That’s not my fault. I want to sleep in her room.”
I walk out of the room, down the hall, and lock myself in her room.
I put my face to the door for ten seconds.
Nobody comes so I get started.
CLOTHES
I pick out her painting jeans, a white button-down, and blue earrings. The ones she wore to my elementary school graduation.
I find her old Tevas so she would be comfortable and I lay them all out on her bed.
I don’t even try to talk to her.
Then I pull out her suitcase and throw stuff in. Her umbrella, her windbreaker, her walking shoes, her maps, her wallet — especially her wallet with credit cards.
After I have everything in and ready, I try to get her in the jeans.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t reply.
I sit her up and try to pull her nightgown up. She turns away and lies back down.
“Mom? I’m trying to help you.”
She goes into a ball.
“Mom. They are taking you away so we have to leave tonight. I know you can hear me. If you want to go, and I know you want to go, look at me.”
She doesn’t.
“Just look at me once and I’ll know you want to go.”
She doesn’t.
But she is probably just tired.
It takes me over an hour to get her dressed.
Usually she’d be limp and I could change her. This time she is stiff.
I even put her Tevas on her so we’d be all ready, and then I pull the covers over her just in case.
It is 10:13 and I haven’t heard anything from Dad.
At 10:54 Dad knocks on the door.
I am lying on the bed watching the clock — I don’t answer the door.
He knocks again. “Mazzy, can I come in?”
I pull the sheet up to Mom’s chin and say, “No.”
“Mazzy, let me in.”
I hide the suitcases — hers and mine — and open the door.
“Baby,” he says, “I want you to sleep in your own room. You need a good night’s sleep.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Come on, Mazzy. You need to sleep in your own bed and let your mom get some rest.”
He looks over my shoulder at her. Even how she is, her face white and sunken, even like that she is still beautiful. His eyes start to fill up. If he loves her so much, why is he making her go to a facility?
“Mom is used to me in here. I always sleep here,” I say. It isn’t all the way true but sometimes.
“She’s sick, Maz. And this is her last night at home.”
I lean against the door. “If I don’t sleep in here, then you can’t sleep in here, either.”
He closes his eyes for a long time and then says, “I won’t.”
“You won’t?”
“No.”
“Where are you going to sleep?”
“In the study.”
The study. Three doors down. Beyond my room.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And then tomorrow morning we’ll all go together and you’ll see that the place where your mom will be staying is nice.”
He swallows. “Really nice and she’ll get better.”
He is staring at her.
Dad in the study will make the plan easier.
I take his hand. “Okay, Dad.” I say. “Will you tuck me in?”
He smiles at me like I really want him to tuck me in.
I don’t.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, honey.”
And then we leave but I look back at Mom and send her a mental message: 1:00 a.m.
When Dad comes to tuck me in he tries to talk to me.
He keeps trying to say things.
Over and over and over.
FINE
I don’t go to sleep.
Instead, in my mind I try to work it out better.
It is going to work.
She will be okay. We can do it. She is fine.
ME WAITING: pencil on notebook paper
At 12:45 I get out of bed.
EVERYTHING
At 12:52 I am dressed and ready to go.
I have the keys in my pocket.
12:54 I am in Mom’s room and she is exactly how I left her. In a ball with Tevas on.
“Okay, Mom. Wake up. It’s now.” I shake her.
She doesn’t move. I don’t really expect her to move but I think maybe. Or maybe not.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got help.”
Then I open her window and throw our suitcases into the bushes.
“The suitcases are outside,” I say. Still in a ball. “I’m going to go get everything ready and then I’ll be back.” Balled.
As I climb out the window, I feel a rush of something go through me.
This is going to work — because everything is going to be different from now on.
Everything.
BEACHY HEAD
Colby is sitting in the Spyder.
He is wearing a black hoodie, black jeans, and had black something smeared all over his face.
“What’s that?” I ask as I put the suitcases in the backseat.
“Shhh,” he says. “What’s what?”
“The stuff on your face.” He is gripping the steering wheel.
“Blackout for football.”
“Why’s it on your face?”
“Duh,” he says. And then: “Where’s your mom?”
“She’s coming. But I might need your help.”
“For what?”
“To get her.”
Colby stares at me and I say, “Hang on. I’ll be right back. You probably won’t have to do anything.”
I go back to the window and climb into Mom’s room. She is in the same position.
I pull off the cover. “It’s time to go, Mom.”
She doesn’t move.
“Mom, we’re leaving now.” I pull her to a seated position but she is resisting. “You have to help me, Mom, because we have to go out the window.” She won’t get up.
“Please, Mom. Please get up. You have to help me.”
I try to pull her up but she is almost pulling the other way. She just doesn’t get it. She wouldn’t want to go to the facility. She would want to leave with me.
“Come on, Mom. We’re going in the Spyder. You’ll feel the wind and then we can go to Beachy Head. We’re going to go to Beach
y Head.”
Still resisting.
I sit by her and look at her face. Closed. Smooth. White. “I’ll take care of you, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here and you’ll feel better once we’re in the car.”
Her mouth sort of moves.
“I saw that, Mom. I saw that. Once you feel the wind in the Spyder, you’ll, you’ll feel better. And we can go to the airport and fly to Beachy Head.”
Her mouth moves again and I know she wants to go. I know she does but she just can’t get up by herself.
“Wait, Mom. I’ll get help. Wait right here,” I say, and then I climb through the window to get Colby.
When my mom feels the wind, she will wake up. She’ll be okay. She won’t go to the hospital and I won’t go to Kansas.
HELP
“Come on,” I whisper.
“Where?”
“To get my mom.”
“I thought you just went to get her.”
“I did.”
“Then where is she?”
“I need your help to get her out the window.”
“What? Like carry her? I’m not carrying your mom.”
He is whispering too loud.
“You don’t have to carry her. Just help her.”
“I thought she wanted to go. I thought this was her idea.”
I can tell he is getting nervous, but he can’t back out. I need him.
We argue for ten more minutes until finally I say, “It’s okay. I’ll get her by myself.”
I turn to leave, but he opens the car door and gets out.
“Fine, I’ll help. But this is getting weirder and weirder, and if I get in trouble I won’t talk to you again.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
When we get to her room — Colby and I through the window — she is gone.
The bed is empty.
Yoga breath. Yoga breath.
“Where is she?” Colby asks.
“Shh,” I say. Yoga breath. “Shh. She’s here. She’s just doing something really quick.”
I look on the other side of the bed.
“What are you doing?” he whispers.
I look under the bed.
“You think your mom is under the bed?” Colby says.
Yoga breath.