All These Lives

by Wylie, Sarah

  Dad mumbles something, an apology or a grunt or maybe he’s totally silent and that’s just his stomach growling, because I have a feeling he’s not getting any dinner tonight, inedible or not.

  “Do you not see what it’s like to be sick? Or, worse, to watch someone you love be sick? Where have you been, Eric?” she yells. “Am I crazy? Have I been the only one that’s seeing it? Maybe it’s because I’ve been here all this time, while you hid behind your work or even jumped at the chance to grocery shop just so you didn’t have to see this.”

  This time I hear what Dad’s saying. “That is not true, and you know it.”

  I feel bad for him. It’s not true.

  He wants to run away as much as I do, but he hasn’t, yet. He tries to help—grocery shopping and even, God forbid, being stuck in a car with me, taking me to auditions or to school. Unfortunately for him, nothing he does comes close to wiping up your daughter’s vomit or seeing her writhe in pain or going to appointment after appointment where they just want to keep trying stuff and refuse to meet your eye and tell you that it’s not working.

  It’s not enough.

  “What do you want me to do?” Dad is asking her.

  “At this point,” she says, “I don’t care what you do. I can’t even look at you.”

  Vigorous washing. Clanking of glass against glass. Metal against glass. Floor against glass.

  “SHIT … Just leave it, Eric!” Scraping of glass. Fingers against glass. “I swear to God, Eric, if you get sick, I will leave you. I’m not going to sit here and watch you die, too. I won’t. Not when you couldn’t do the one thing I asked you to.”

  Watch you die too.

  She mutters angry words under her breath, words too obscene, words that don’t fit in her new evangelical Christian mouth.

  The one thing she asked him to do was quit smoking.

  And she said “too.”

  “And by the way, I don’t know what you want to do with your coat, but right now it’s out on the back porch.”

  I hear Dad’s footsteps as he walks across the kitchen and out onto the back porch. I slip out and through the front door, then walk around the house to the porch, where Dad stands dejected, looking at the sleeve of his coat.

  He jumps as I approach. “Hey, kiddo. What are you doing out here? It’s cold out and you’re not wearing a coat.”

  Light snowflakes float to the ground, a few getting caught in Dad’s hair, giving him the speckled look I imagine he’ll have in another few years. Or months, if our family stays this bipolar.

  “Why didn’t you tell her it wasn’t you?” I ask, staring at the burned edge of his coat.

  He shrugs. “She asked if I was smoking and I wasn’t going to lie to her. You weren’t smoking, were you?”

  I shake my head. “It got burned when we were making fires, with Jack and stuff.”

  He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I should never have started up again. No matter how … no matter how bad things got.” “Hopeless” is what he wanted to say. “Fucked up” would do, too.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  He shakes his head and forces a smile. “I’ll tell you what. When you’re rich and famous, the official Whitaden spokesperson, you buy me a brand-new coat. To make up for this.”

  I give him a small smile as he puts the coat around my shoulders.

  “Remember the little people when you’re a big star.”

  “Dad.” I roll my eyes. “In, like, a year I’m going to destroy all footage of that commercial. And nobody will ever miss it.”

  My father laughs. “Maybe,” he says. “But your mother doesn’t need to know that.”

  29

  Despite my parents (Mom) being a little chilly toward each other (Dad), and obsessing sort of compulsively (Mom) over certain others (Jena), this week is a good one.

  Monday, it turns out, is the day our assignments are due, and while Lauren appears frazzled and totally disheveled—apparently, she was up all night finishing hers—she is happy to see me. And despite things being a tad awkward at first, Jack is, too.

  Mr. Halbrook says we can hand in our assignments any time before the end of the day, so the three of us stay in during lunch and “touch up” the assignment. Mostly, Lauren sleeps with her head on the desk and Jack reads aloud all the work he’s spent four weeks doing.

  I tell him how terribly impressed I am.

  He flushes, but seems pretty happy about it.

  We still have the rest of lunchtime so we just sit there and make idle conversation—sort of like when we went ice-fishing on Saturday, but without the awkward relatives. Or the me-stomping-on-his-heart thing.

  Maybe Jack and I will be friends. Or.

  He tells me my family is different than he always imagined it would be, which I assume is a backhanded compliment, while I assure him that his family is exactly what I thought it would be like. If I’d ever given any real thought to the matter.

  His father has been in a wheelchair for the past eighteen months, after getting into a car accident that resulted in a serious spinal cord injury. His mother works two jobs—she works at the museum downtown during the day and teaches art classes at the community college in the evenings. Jack helps out in the museum sometimes.

  “So what you told me about your dad,” I say, then swallow because I’m about to give advice and it tastes thick and sticky and hot in my throat. “You should probably tell him that. You said you don’t like when people pretend everything is okay, so take your own advice.” I feel a bit better now that I’ve said it, but it still tastes like drinking hot water when you’re super thirsty. Wrong and gross and I shouldn’t be giving advice. I should just refer him to Harry-with-an-i.

  “You’re right,” Jack says. “I have to work up the courage first, though. That’s another thing I’m not so good at.” He grins wryly at the last sentence.

  Something I haven’t thought about in weeks pops into my mind. “I have a question for you.”

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “That night at the party. Were you the one that drove me home?”

  “Um,” Jack stares down at the desk. “Yeah. I didn’t think you should … I mean, I wasn’t sure you’d get home all right if I didn’t.”

  “You saved me. I guess that makes you my hero.” For the full effect of making Jack Penner uncomfortable, and making him wish I’d get struck down by lightning or polio or something, I should turn to him and bat my eyelashes, grinning mischievously. But, today, I guess I’m doing things halfheartedly.

  Surprisingly, Jack laughs. “You’re the only one strong enough to save yourself.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, I think you like getting into trouble. Like, a lot of trouble.”

  I frown and stare at him, letting him know he treads in volatile waters.

  “You won’t stop until you’re ready. And you’re sort of the only one who can determine that and pull yourself out.”

  Neither of us says anything for a second, as Lauren stirs at her desk, turning her head and falling asleep again.

  “So can I write my name on our paper?” I ask Jack.

  “Well, I already printed it. See, it has both of our names.”

  “I see that. And very good job. With, like, the fonts and the border and all that.” I take the stapled pile of papers from his hand. “I just want my role in this assignment to be clear from page one.”

  One of Jack’s eyebrows skitters up. “Okay, sure.”

  “Crap. My parents took away my school supplies.” I hold out my hand. “Can I borrow a red pen? And blue and black, too, please.”

  “Your parents what?” Jack hands me the requested items, which I quite frankly consider pocketing and running away with. Red, blue, and black. The official rainbow of school pens. This far into the school year, nobody has all three colors anymore, and I don’t even have one. Would he really ask me to give them back?

  “Took away my schoo
l supplies: you know, stationery, writing materials. They did food and accommodation a few weeks ago. The school supplies were the only way they could really get me below the belt after my behavior.”

  He stares at me, a look of disbelief plastered on his face. I don’t think he really believes me and I am tempted to applaud. Bravo, Jack. You might almost know me.

  “Don’t worry. What I did was really awful. I deserved it.” I start to write my name in bubble letters on our cover page. Halbrook does not appreciate color; he likes varying mixtures of black and white, the different shades of gray in history. But I will make him a believer yet. Besides, Jack probably did such a great job on this assignment, it won’t even matter.

  “Next they’ll probably take away all my clothes.” I throw a wink in Jack’s direction.

  He laughs and the ever-faithful flush appears again. “As long as they don’t take you away. You’re … er, funny.”

  I smile up at him. “Thanks, Jack,” I say. “You’re funny, too.”

  * * *

  When I arrive home on the bus, Jena is drinking a hot cup of something that smells like seaweed, a new concoction Mom made for her.

  Mom has been working off a lot of energy since she’s busy not speaking to Dad and not laughing at any of his (admittedly) lame jokes at dinner and just generally not acknowledging his existence.

  However, around six-thirty, I hear them talking in low, rumbling voices as Mom washes the dinner dishes and I clear the table.

  As I enter the kitchen, Mom steps around me and leaves. I corner Dad. “So what, are you two married again?”

  “Don’t be silly. Every marriage has its ups and downs, its flows and ebbs, its—”

  “Dad, please. They taught us antonyms in fourth grade.”

  He nudges my shoulder. “Yes, and we all know how well you listen in school.” He laughs at his own joke, then quickly sobers as we hear Mom coming back down the stairs. “Well?” he asks her.

  “It’s a bad idea. I wasn’t even going to go. And us both going? I don’t feel comfortable with it.”

  Dad looks desperate. “I don’t understand why. Danielle is home and Jena’s been better than ever these past few days … Maybe she would even appreciate a little space.”

  Oh no you did not, Dad.

  “I mean, er, you might appreciate a little space. From life, and the girls.”

  “Thanks, Father.” I push past them and head back to the dining room. They talk for a few more minutes and then I hear Dad say, “Let’s ask them.”

  “Girls?”

  He comes into the dining room, Mom trailing behind, her hand rubbing her temple, reluctant.

  “I’ll live with Dad. Jena can live with Mom, so it’s even. It’s settled.”

  “Danielle!” Mom gasps, hurt and surprised. Jena giggles from her seat.

  “That is not what we wanted to talk to you about. Your mother and I are thinking of going to a Bible study tonight.”

  “A small group meeting. It’s not Bible study.”

  “Right,” Dad nods. “What do you think about an evening by yourselves? Or would you prefer a babysitter?”

  “Or one of us to stay home?” Mom adds.

  “A babysitter,” I say at the same time Jena eagerly says, “An evening by ourselves!”

  Everyone looks at me.

  “Yeah. I really wish Ham from two doors down would watch us.” Ham is a forty-year-old man that always muttered to himself when he came out to get the mail, and never had any visitors. That is, until a few months ago when the police paid him a visit and discovered he was growing some “illegal plant products,” as Dad put it at the time. We haven’t seen him since.

  “Very funny, Dani,” Dad says now. “I really don’t see what the problem is, honey. They say they’ll be fine, and I agree.”

  Mom still looks unsure, but finally sighs. “Fine. We won’t be long, though. An hour and a half. Two hours at most.”

  “Take your sweet, sweet time,” Jena singsongs. She’s already looking at me, the light green of her eyes dancing. This is going to be fun, they say.

  “If you have any problems,” Mom begins, talking for thirteen minutes straight (I count) about contact phone numbers, emergency numbers, what to do if something goes wrong. Then she turns to Jena and bombards her with a million questions: Are you sure you feel all right? Tell me, now that your father isn’t here. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay home?

  Dad’s in the study when I find him. “Bible study, huh? You must have been desperate.”

  He laughs, fixing the collar of his new coat. “No. It’s … your mother has wanted me to go with her for a long time. I just decided it was a good time to check it out.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Right.”

  “Take care of your sister, Dani,” Dad says as we head into the hallway. Mom walks toward us, finally ready to leave.

  “I will. Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad!”

  “See you soon, my precious stones.”

  Jena and I try to act as precious as possible until the front door shuts and they’re on the other side of it. Then we turn to each other with fraternal-identical mischievous looks. “So,” she says, “what do we do first?”

  30

  First, we walk to the convenience store ten minutes away and load up on as much junk food as our detoxed bodies can possibly consume in one night. Next, we walk to the park we used to play at all the time, slurping on hot frothiccinos and eating Twizzlers. The combined taste is a waxy-caffeinated-foamy-colorated mess that is entirely appropriate for this kind of night and for our first exposure to sugar (minus Harry-with-an-i’s M&M’s) since Mom forced this abstinence upon us.

  Jena has a harder time downing it than I do, and abandons her half-full frothiccino in the nearest garbage can upon entry into the park.

  This time of day, the park is dark and shadowy, with rustling trees that look like mounds of blackness and light floating up from the ground, the glow of relatively fresh snow against the world above it.

  We head to the swings, which are much too small for us. We look like we crashed a toy park, oversized kids in a world too small to contain us.

  “Want me to push you?” I ask Jena.

  She shakes her head, her too-long legs stretched far from her body. She stands, moving backwards with the swing behind her, then launches herself forward, swinging high, higher, higher, and coming back down.

  High, higher, higher, and home again.

  As she floats beside me, I propel myself up, too, and swing beside her. We’re not exactly in sync and not quite out of sync, either. We’re somewhere in the middle, drifting above this world that isn’t enough for us, ignoring the shaking, the quivering of the metal rail that holds the swing.

  Jena comes to a stop first.

  “Once upon a time,” she says, “there was a bird named Morris.”

  I bring myself to a full stop, too, and dig my feet into the ground, trying to find grass. “Morris was the only bird in his entire flock that couldn’t sing.”

  “Is ‘flock’ right? A flock of birds?” Jena wonders out loud. “Damn, I need to get back to school.”

  We laugh. I take a sip of my now lukewarm drink.

  “He could rap, though. He was the best rapper in his entire flock.”

  “One day,” I continue, “he went before Congress to put forth his case. End discrimination against rapping birds.”

  Jena giggles. “The other birds wouldn’t hear the case. They threw it out.”

  “Um,” I frown, “why would they do that? These are progressive birds. And where am I supposed to take this story now?”

  “I don’t know. I think it went downhill when he was named Morris.” She stands up. “Wanna make snow angels?”

  I stand. “The snow’s not deep enough.”

  “So?” She’s already lying on the ground behind the swings, sliding her legs and arms across the snow.

  “I used to think when you made a snow angel, real angels came down and slept in
the space.”

  “Really?” Jena breathes.

  “True story,” I tell her, lying down on the ground now, a few feet away. I spread my arms and feet, making a hole in the snow for an angel.

  We’re staring up at the sky, saying nothing, when all of a sudden Jena sneezes loudly. Like, thunder-loud.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper, kicking her.

  She laughs. “SORRY.”

  “Stop yelling,” I kick her shin again.

  “I SAID SORRY. AND BACK AWAY FROM THE SOCCER SHINS. THEY ARE MY MOST PRIZED POSSESSION.”

  “Jena, I swear, I will sit on your shins if you don’t stop yelling. And I weigh twice what you weigh.”

  “NO, YOU DON’T. AND RESPECT THE SOCCER SHINS.”

  I sit up, serious-faced, my hands in tight fists just to keep the threat of damage to her SOCCER SHINS alive, but I end up giggling myself and shaking my head.

  “WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?” she yells.

  “Because you are an idiot,” I whisper.

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

  “Everybody in the world can hear you.”

  “STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF. IT’S CREEPY.”

  “Can you really not hear me or are you just pretending?”

  “DANIELLA! SPEAK UP! I’M OLD AND DEAF.”

  “I’ve missed you, Jenavieve,” I whisper too quietly for her to hear.

  She sneezes again. “SERIOUSLY, TALK UP.” Her voice echoes and bounces around us, sound particles crashing into one another and falling back at us.

  “When do you think Mom and Dad will be home?”

  “WHAT’S THAT, DANIELLA?”

  “WHEN DO YOU THINK MOM AND DAD WILL BE HOME? THERE IS SNOW ON YOUR COAT AND YOUR FACE IS RED AND YOU’LL TAKE FOREVER TO REACH NORMAL BODY TEMPERATURE SO MAYBE WE SHOULD GO.”

  Pause.

  “God, there’s no need to yell,” Jena says, sitting up.

  I follow suit and turn to look at her. “We have an hour still before they’re home. So…” My voice trails off. “There’s something under your nose.”

  It’s a small black blip at first, tiny, like a bug or even a piece of dark snow. But, slowly, it’s melting, traveling down, and my head starts to reel as I realize what it is.