Piece of Mind

by Michelle Adelman

  “Are you okay?” Nate said. I had forgotten to shut the door. “What are you doing?”

  It was the same tone Dad had used that time I told him I saw Mom peeking through the window one Sunday morning: mildly alarmed. He wasn’t ready to hear the truth. He never was, so I told him it wasn’t really her. It was just a squirrel that looked like her for a second.

  “I’m fine,” I said, but Nate didn’t leave. “Did you want something else?”

  He picked up an old copy of The Fantastic Four sitting on my dresser. It was between four mugs, a broken birdcall clock, and a melted pack of Trident.

  “You can keep it if you want,” I said. “The comic? Actually, it’s probably yours anyway. You used to love that one.”

  “I did,” he said.

  He began thumbing through it before raising his gaze just enough to meet my eyes.

  “You remember that?” he said.

  “You were obsessed. I made Dad drive us to every store on your birthday—what was that, six or seven? So we could buy up all the different issues. And I tried to make the emblem on the cake out of that gel frosting, which ended up smudging and looking blobby, but at least the colors were right.”

  He finished going through it, and then nodded like somehow he’d found the answer in what he’d skimmed.

  “I loved that cake,” he said.

  I watched him take in the space, the clutter, the mess. He looked tired finally, as though he could sleep right there, his head sandwiched between two piles of magazines. It made sense; he had been running nonstop since he’d been home, but it was the first time I’d seen him reveal any weakness.

  “That was really cool of you,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, birthdays are a big deal when you’re little,” I said. “Mom always said that.”

  “She did,” he said.

  “Every birthday.”

  “By the way,” he said. He picked up a jar of Nutella, examined it, and then put it back. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “I wasn’t expecting company. Did you want a spoon?”

  “It’s so gross it almost seems intentional,” he said.

  “Thanks?” I said.

  He didn’t say anything for a minute, but he didn’t leave either.

  “Nate?”

  He exhaled, deeply.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe you should come with me.”

  “To live?”

  “We’re not sure the insurance would cover that other place anyway. And the thing is, obviously we wouldn’t force you to go somewhere you don’t want to go.”

  “But I don’t want to force you to live with me,” I said.

  I tried to make eye contact, but he was absorbed in the comic. It didn’t seem like he was reading so much as staring.

  “Right?” I said. “I mean, what do you think?”

  “What do I think.” He repeated the question like it was an epiphany, closing the book and sliding his fingers across the cover. “I think it’s fucked up that Dad left us without a will.”

  “Maybe that was for a reason. Like he wanted us to talk, so we could figure it out for ourselves.”

  Dad always stuck me on the phone when Nate called, and made us eat at the same time when he visited, and compelled us to see the same movies and exhibits even if we couldn’t agree because he believed if you forced the situation enough, it would begin to develop naturally. But what happened if you pushed too hard?

  “The Dynamic Duo,” Nate said. “He always wanted that.”

  “I’m surprised you remember him saying that,” I said. “That was only when you were young, when I held your hand.”

  Nate searched for a second for a place to sit, but there was only the bed, so he leaned against the dresser.

  “I’ll do what you want,” I said. “It’s okay if that home is what you want.”

  He looked at me then. “What do you want?”

  “What do you mean? In general? I don’t know. It’s good for me to be around normal people, I think. People with goals and dreams. People like you.”

  “Everyone has those,” he said. “Don’t they? Don’t you?”

  “Well, it’s not like I want to be a doctor or a CEO or something. I know that’s not possible.”

  “Obviously,” he said, focusing his attention on my sketchbook on the floor. “But didn’t you ever think about what you’d like to be when you grew up? A famous artist?”

  “Not really. Maybe once. When I was in fifth grade, and my teacher said I was really good and might even have a future. I dreamt about having a gallery show. But not since then. Not since I studied art with people who were really good at art. Then it just became a hobby.”

  “But don’t you ever fantasize about the future?”

  “I don’t really think ahead. I mean, not like I see myself dead. I just always see myself this way—in this house. Maybe that’s why I still feel like Dad’s coming back, like he never left.”

  “But he did leave.” He skimmed the comic again. “So what do you want now?”

  I noticed Harry was hiding under the bed, and then I thought of Nugget and how it might feel to have him follow me around, to have an animal sense when I really needed him, more a companion than a pet, a playful youngster over a temperamental old man.

  “A dog?” I said.

  “Forget it,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “A normal life, I guess.”

  “What do you mean, normal? You have to be more specific.”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Nate. What do you want?”

  He took a deep breath and then seemed to take inventory of the room again.

  “What I want,” he said. “What I really want is to stop wasting time. What I want is to stop worrying about what’s going to happen so we can get going. What I want is for us to get the hell out of here as soon as possible because this place is probably covered in mold, and I’m guessing each minute we stay here is a minute stolen from our life expectancy.”

  “Now you sound like Dad,” I said.

  “Start packing,” he said, tossing an old T-shirt at me.

  It landed on my head.

  “You were supposed to catch that,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Nate said. “Your reflexes should be better than that.”

  “You know I have no coordination,” I said. “I meant about packing.”

  “I’m positive,” he said, checking his back for dirt. “Let’s move.”

  11

  NATE’S JOB WOULD START AS SOON AS HE COULD GET BACK TO the city, which meant as soon as I could gather my things.

  I knew this, and yet I spent hours walking in circles around my room, creating a path by stuffing things along the way into Hefty bags.

  Nate peeked inside one. “Garbage?”

  “It seemed like the best way to pool my things, since I don’t have any luggage.”

  “Great,” he said. “We can make a stop at the dump on the way out.”

  “It’s not garbage.” My voice was rising. “My stuff is in there!”

  “Relax.”

  “No, you relax.”

  He sighed and began to head out, but at the door, he turned around. “No, you know what? Enough relaxing. It’s time for planning. Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to pick up three boxes, and when I get back, you’re going to fill them. But whatever doesn’t fit in those boxes doesn’t come with us, so you’ll have to choose carefully.”

  “Why do you decide how many boxes?”

  “Because it’s my apartment. And it’s hardly big enough for one person, let alone two. There’s zero room for storage.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  I’d forgotten we’d be living somewhere else. Not just my room transplanted into a different home, but a new environment entirely.

  “One box would have been fair, but I’m trying to be generous because you have so much crap in
here. While I’m out, by the way, you should start going through it.”

  “I said okay.”

  “I’m leaving now.”

  “For the boxes,” I said. “I got it,” though I didn’t really, because I had no concept of where to start. I had never had to pack to go anywhere for more than a week. And even then, we always had to stop at the drugstore first because I left my toothpaste or contact-lens solution, or shoes once.

  As I began sorting through the pile that was closest to me, I found an old sketchpad and a box of crayons. I hadn’t seen them in years, so rather than let them go to waste, I sat on the floor, fixed my attention on Harry sleeping against a separate heap of clothes, and filled in pages until Nate returned.

  WHEN HE CAME BACK, it was clear that no progress had been made, but he didn’t initially acknowledge that. He placed the boxes on the ground, reaching his hands out the window to feel for air. His collar was stained with sweat.

  “Let’s start small,” he said. “Do you need that card?”

  It was an old playing card featuring a small kitten curled up to a dog. “We might be able to use it if there was no tear. You think we could fix it?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “Have you thrown away a single thing?”

  “I’m trying,” I said. “You can search the trash.”

  There were some pencil sharpener shavings, two old birthday cards, used tissues.

  “Let’s keep going,” he said, using his shoulder to wipe the sweat from his face. “We don’t have time to mess around.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You don’t have to be so serious, you know. You don’t have to be an asshole about this.”

  He looked at me. “This isn’t personal, Luce.”

  “Well, we’re not going through your stuff.”

  “My stuff is all gone.” His face was red.

  “Fine,” I said. “You can throw away the card. Just do it with respect, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, and he took it into the other room.

  But then he began taking my consent for granted.

  “Those pictures are hard to find,” I said, when he went for the old stack of glossy Wildlife Federation cards I had been saving to learn more about elephant and marine turtle anatomy. And then he threw away my favorite issue of Dog Fancy, which I liked going back to for inspiration in the animals’ expressions.

  “I need those, Nate,” I said. “Those are models for my work.”

  “There’s not enough inspiration in the twenty other issues we saved?”

  “Twenty? More like two.”

  “Two too many.”

  When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I tuned him out and entered into my own private zone—until he accidentally kicked Harry.

  “Nate!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, crouching on his heels to reach for Harry beneath the bed. “I didn’t see him.”

  Harry scratched.

  “Shit!”

  “He’s sorry,” I said. “He’s not used to outsiders. When you don’t know many people, it’s kind of hard to get them to come over.”

  He shook his head at me. “Aren’t you supposed to get him declawed?”

  “Haven’t I done enough to constrict him?”

  He huffed out of my room to find a Band-Aid, and he didn’t bother coming back.

  HOURS LATER, after I overfilled each one of my boxes, I caught him in the bathroom standing before the mirror examining his scalp.

  “What are you doing?” I said. “Checking for lice?”

  “I’m losing it,” he said. “Just like Dad. Might as well shave it now.”

  “You’re crazy. Your hair’s still twice as thick as mine.”

  He ran his hand over the top. “It’s all going downhill from here.”

  “You’re joking, right?” I took in his profile—strong nose, cut jaw, thick eyelashes. This was his prime. “You can’t see what’s there.”

  “Nope,” he said, taking in his reflection for another few seconds. “I can see too much.”

  He rolled up his sleeve and strapped on his music. “I’m going out for a run.”

  “In this heat?”

  “Best time to do it.”

  _________

  NATE RAN FOR a long time.

  After an hour and fifteen minutes, I pictured him lying in a gutter, bloodied and disoriented. In the suburbs, the streets weren’t well lit. He might not have remembered that.

  After two hours, I considered going out to search for him. He could’ve had heat stroke or passed out. He didn’t have a water bottle. But if I left, I didn’t want to risk him coming home to an empty house and worrying about me, and I didn’t want to change out of my pajamas anyway, so I decided if he wasn’t back by the late show, I’d panic, and at that point I could consider involving the police. But I really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Because it was easier to imagine he was out fighting crime, donning black tights and apprehending criminals, or visiting Dad in a secret hideaway he had built to fake his death and escape his debts, or even just running for an unnaturally long time.

  I took out my sketchpad and tried to create a SuperNate. I would’ve done better if he were a dog, but the likeness didn’t matter as much as the concept. If he could run for this long, the Man Who Could See Too Much could pump up his heart enough to protect us against any harm.

  I WAS HALF ASLEEP by the time I realized Nate was home—­sitting on the recliner, drinking a beer he must have found in the basement refrigerator, gazing into the TV. He was sitting in front of one of those fruit bouquets someone had sent, picking at grapes.

  For a moment, I forgot he had been gone. “You’re home?”

  “Yep.”

  He was watching Cartoon Network. Justice League was on.

  “Which one is this?”

  He was distracted. “I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe you should try to sleep?” I said.

  He took a sip. “This is better than trying to sleep.”

  “I thought you could sleep through anything.”

  When he was little, he dozed on lines and in waiting rooms, train stations, and airports. In high school, he slept until noon on weekends, and until dinner on holidays.

  “Not anymore,” he said.

  “You know seals only sleep one and a half minutes at a time? Half a brain at a time. Sheep sleep half-awake too, so they’re ready to run if they need to. Do you need a sleeping pill?”

  “Do you have one?”

  “Maybe.”

  I got up and started rifling through old pillboxes.

  “No, wait, I found some really old Valium once, to counteract the Ritalin I tried for focus. But I guess Dad threw that out,” I said. “I do have some extra speed, because it doesn’t work for me anymore anyway, you know, after I built up a resistance. But you obviously don’t need that, and you’re not looking for antidepressants. . . . Did I take that today? Yes, I did. Friday, right? I emptied out the Friday box. I’m good on pills, by the way. Dad stocked up last week. I have enough for at least two months. That’s weird, huh? Do you think he knew?”

  Nate turned down the TV. He was munching on pineapple and strumming his guitar. He didn’t seem aware that I could hear him.

  “How about Benadryl?” I said. “Dad used Benadryl sometimes.”

  He always kept his medicine in the bathroom, I told him, the bottom drawer I guessed. I could find it for him, but he said no, he would get it.

  After he got up, I waited for him to come out. I waited for the shower to turn off and for the toilet to stop running. I listened to him opening and closing the medicine cabinet, and opening and closing the door under the sink. I waited, but he stayed in there.

  I fell asleep waiting, watching the yellow light creep through the cracks.

  I DIDN’T SEE Nate until much later that night when I got up for some water.

  He was sitting on his bed sifting through papers beneath a tiny reading lamp, the same one he’d used to read his comics. Ther
e were open cans of energy drink on his dresser.

  “You’re working?”

  “Making a budget.”

  I wanted to see what kind of numbers he was studying, but as I moved toward him, I knocked a few papers off the bed.

  “What are you doing awake?” he said, reaching down to get them before I could.

  “I get up a lot. I’m always thirsty. And I guess I miss him.”

  “Who?”

  “Dad.”

  He closed his book.

  “I mean, I know it just happened, and it’s natural to be a little down. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” he said. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

  “No, I’m okay. I was just telling you why I was up, because you asked. Not because I want to bother you with it. I don’t. Unless—are you okay?”

  He took off his glasses to rub his eyes, and I noticed his hand was a little jittery.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “There’s a lot of taurine in those drinks,” I said. “And caffeine. Tons of it.”

  “That’s the idea,” he said.

  “Don’t you have to be careful with that, especially if you’re taking sleeping stuff?”

  “Nah, I’m used to pulling all-nighters.”

  “Well, are you hungry? Sometimes it’s hard for me to sleep when I’m hungry, so I was going to see what was in the pantry, in case you wanted me to check for you.”

  “No,” he said, resuming his work. “I’m good.”

  “Actually, I bet there are still some snacks down there,” I said. “From before. Dad always bought too many. I know there’s still a lot of fruit, with the sympathy cards. And some casseroles. Lasagna maybe. People keep dropping stuff off. It’s nice how they want to help us by feeding us, even if they don’t know us or talk to us. Does it say they should do that in the Torah, you think? Something about feeding mourners to fulfill the obligation? That sounds like a mitzvah. Not that I’m hungry, really. I was just trying to connect, like over ice cream and cookies. That’s what sisters do, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” he said, raising his eyes for a second. “I miss him too.”

  12

  MARTY OFFERED TO DRIVE US TO NATE’S ON THE WAY BACK to the airport. It was essentially on the way anyway, he said, and we had too much stuff to take the train. Plus, we were a sad sight, the three of us. Nate probably looked okay, but he was dragging from fatigue, and I couldn’t handle my garbage bag full of stuff, let alone a shower, and Harry, who was bouncing in his carrier against my leg, confined in a foreign environment. We weren’t built for the train.