by Sigrid Nunez
“Let’s face it,” his mother said with her look of a punished child. “I just wasn’t thinking. But with the move and all ...”
Cole looked away from her. He was not going to feel sorry for her this time. He knew what had really been distracting her. And now what would happen when his father got well again? Would she stay or go?
It was fine with him if she didn’t want the TV on, but it wasn’t fine with him that she also didn’t want him to listen to his iPod. If he was listening to his iPod or playing a video game or, when he was able to connect, browsing online, it was—to her—as if he wasn’t really there. He wasn’t with her the way she needed him to be. For her to be happy they had to be doing the same thing.
Meaning, if she was reading he had to be reading, too.
Why two people reading or watching TV together was okay, but one person reading and the other one listening to music was not okay—even she couldn’t explain it.
Besides, he didn’t want to read and she knew that. He wasn’t into reading, and, boy, did she know that.
It was a major family drama, how Cole’s life was going to be ruined because he didn’t like to read. In fact, he’d never read a whole book all the way through, not even when he was supposed to for school. He would read only as much as he had to in order to do the assignment. Depending on the book, he might skim all the pages or he’d read a chapter or two from the beginning, middle, and end. Sometimes he’d just Google or SparkNote the book. He’d never once got into trouble for not reading a whole book—proof that reading every page could not be all that important.
He wasn’t making any kind of statement. He was truly bored by most of the reading assigned at school—and he wasn’t the only one. Besides, he thought his parents were wrong. The kind of reading they did was something almost no one did anymore. Lots of successful people didn’t read books and the smartest kids at school weren’t necessarily the biggest readers, either. Things had changed, and Cole knew you didn’t have to feel bad anymore for not reading novels or poetry. Even his parents didn’t read poetry. And no, he didn’t feel proud that his parents had tried writing novels themselves (his mother had finished hers but couldn’t get it published; his father had quit before finishing his but was planning to get back to it that summer); he felt embarrassed.
Whenever he tried to read a book recommended by one of his parents, it could keep his attention for only so long. He’d put it down one day and then never pick it up again. And just because so many other kids thought Harry Potter was dope didn’t mean he had to think so, too.
All those hours Cole spent on the Internet apparently didn’t count. That wasn’t reading, that was viewing, his father said.
To his parents, Cole’s failing—weakness, whatever—was so bizarre, so unlikely (“It’s in your genes!”), that they’d had him tested.
But: “I’m afraid there’s no excuse, m’ boy,” said his father. Cole didn’t have dyslexia or any other learning disability. He was just intellectually lazy.
And: “If you don’t start reading more—if you don’t develop a love of literature while you’re young—you’ll probably always be an underachiever.” Which was what everyone seemed to agree he was now.
But there was one kind of literature he already had a love for, and that was comic books. He’d always loved comics, a love his father shared—it was his father who’d given him his first Marvel comics. But unlike his father Cole also liked sketching and doodling. He’d always wanted to create his own comic book, and once he’d even tried.
They didn’t know it, but it was his parents who’d given him the idea. It began with his mother talking about how many women these days—even very young women—had thinning hair.
“At first I thought I was imagining it, but Shireen” (her friend who also happened to be a dermatologist) “confirmed it. There’s an epidemic of hair loss among women of all ages. No one knows exactly why, but it must be something in the environment—they think maybe plastics.”
Another time, his mother had brought up something else she’d noticed.
“When I started middle school, I remember there were just one or two really busty girls, and it was such a big deal. Now it’s the flat-chested girl who’s the exception. And look at Krystal” (the ten-year-old next door). “She’s got more cleavage than I do.”
In this case, too, the cause was thought to be contaminants in plastics.
Cole hadn’t noticed women losing their hair until his mother had said something. As for early breasting, he had noticed a lot—you couldn’t help noticing Krystal—but he hadn’t realized this was something new. Some of the girls in his class were so big he had trouble believing they weren’t in pain. And how could you not feel bad for them? Never to be able to sleep on your stomach—because of growths on your chest? It wasn’t exactly vomitous—after all, ginormous breasts were a big part of what made a lot of apocalyptic girls apocalyptic—but it was close.
His father said, “When it’s warm out and the girls come to class half naked, it looks like something out of a men’s mag. I know it wasn’t that good when I was in school.” He roared with laughter when Cole’s mother said, “I guess that’s how women will look in the future: humongous boobs and no hair.”
And instantly they sprang to mind: a race of supergirls . . . bald, blimp-breasted, disc-eyed . . . with long muscular legs that they could turn into laser swords . . . supernaturally smart, although, because of some genetic defect, unable to read the alphabet . . . The Dyslexichicks, who communicated not with words but through a kind of music, like birds . . . engaged in never-ending battle with the evil Stubs, a race of short, bushy-haired bookworms (Cole envisioned something like troll dolls) who wished to rid the world of all music, even the music of birds . . .
His parents had stood by him, but still it was awful.
All he’d wanted was to show his friend Kendall, who could draw almost anything himself.
“What ya got there, boys?”
Mr. Gert. Short, bushy-haired, evil Mr. Gert.
“Mind if I have a look-see, too?” Like he was really giving them a choice.
Actually, the whole business had died pretty quickly. In confrontations like this his mother was a champ at getting the opposition to back down—not to mention expert at mimicking Gert’s sibilant voice: “Sssorry, but I know pornography when I sssee it.”
But in private his parents were less blasé. They were completely on his side, of course, and they thought Gert should be sssued. But they admitted that they also found Cole’s drawings disturbing. The sexy girls, okay, that was a normal obsession for a boy his age. But evil bookworms? Here was something they needed to talk about.
They didn’t say anything else about the comic book, and though Kendall had delivered his praise like a blessing—“You got the gift, dude. Use it wisely”—Cole tore up the panels he’d drawn so far. He refused to discuss the subject with his parents, until finally they dropped it. But of course every math class he still had to face Mr. Gert, who treated him like a budding perv.
Proving there really was no pleasure grown-ups couldn’t spoil if they put their minds to it.
But what was wrong with him? With his dad so sick and his mom trying so hard to be brave—couldn’t he at least have some nicer thoughts about them?
In fact, this sounded just like his mother, who not long before had complained: “It’s like you get colder all the time.”
That was him. He was like a glass slowly being filled with ice water.
His mother also accused him of being ashamed of his own emotions.
Back when they were still in Chicago, his class had started doing something called mindfulness training. Fifteen minutes, three times a week. It was supposed to help improve everyone’s ADD. Dimmed lights, chimes, something called elevator breathing. Close your eyes, drain your head, focus on your breath rising and falling. Lame. Cole breathed normally and let his mind wander. Which was how he found himself back in the summer when he was nine and his
parents had gone away for two weeks without him. A friend of theirs had been getting married somewhere in Ireland, and after the wedding they wanted to visit Aunt Addy in Germany. Meanwhile, Cole would go to sleepaway camp, where he’d been wanting to go anyway, having heard from other kids that camp was awesome.
A perfect plan, but they were all anxious about it. After all, they’d never spent more than a night apart before, and Europe was so far away . . . Cole would always remember their good-byes, the three of them on the verge of tears and at the same time laughing and teasing one another for being such big sillies.
And it wasn’t that he’d had a bad time. Camp was awesome. The counselors were much better than teachers at breaking up cliques and keeping bullies in line, and in two weeks he’d gone from being a spastic swimmer to an almost smooth one.
It wasn’t exactly that he was homesick, either. But never having been away from his parents before, he was unprepared for what it would mean to miss them. Even before the end of the first week, he was spending at least part of each day in agony. He kept it secret, of course; he didn’t want to look like a baby, and homesick kids were often teased or avoided.
It was worse at night, when, lying on his cot in the pitch dark with nothing to distract him, his longing bloomed into a kind of insanity. For the first time in his life he had trouble sleeping. He could not shake the fear that something would stop his parents from coming home. Things happened, didn’t they? Planes got hijacked. Buildings caught fire . . .
He dreamed that they had returned and had brought a strange boy with them. An ordinary-looking innocent-seeming little boy who wanted to be Cole’s friend. But in the dark world of the dream, Cole knew without a doubt that the boy’s appearance spelled his own doom. But you asked for a brother, his parents kept saying. Perplexed; annoyed.
And then, at last, their ecstatic reunion, it, too, like something out of a dream—but how could something that makes you so happy also make you feel like you were being beat up?
This was love, but it was also terror, and Cole didn’t know what to make of it.
And now, he did not like to remember that time. Because even though it was about something happy, something good, it had become only painful to remember. And that particular day in school it had been too much to bear. Had it happened in the middle of a lesson, he would have had some major explaining to do. But mindfulness training was known to make some kids emo, and Cole’s excuse, that he absolutely had to get to the bathroom, no time to raise his hand, was accepted without comment.
And it wasn’t the teacher but Cole himself who sternly warned: Don’t you ever let that happen again.
His mother was right. He was ashamed. He was totally ashamed even to have such feelings, let alone have them found out.
Later, when he was in the hospital, a volunteer grief counselor would come to see him. She took him out to the courtyard, where roses the size of melons were in bloom.
“What I’d like you to do for me,” she said, “is to think back to a time when you and your mom and dad were all very happy, and describe that time for me.” The woman’s name was Eden. She was not a comforting sight. She had hooded eyes and deep dark lines running down her cheeks as if she had wept acid. They sat on a bench near a small fountain whose gurgle sounded like birdsong. There was real birdsong, too, and it almost hurt his ears, it was so shrill and excited. The day was cloudy. He had not been outdoors in weeks and he was sharply aware of the light and the air, almost as if he were experiencing them for the first time. Though he was well covered up, he felt naked. The least breeze made him shiver. The smell of the roses was strong, almost sickening, like the perfume of old ladies.
He didn’t want to talk about the happy time, and so he invented something, some story that he then forgot almost immediately. But he would remember later how he’d gone on and on, dragging the fake story out, and how Eden had listened, watching him curiously, not interrupting until he finally stopped talking. Then she made no comment except to thank him for sharing. He had no idea if she knew that he’d lied. But it seemed to him that as she listened her mouth had tensed and something like dislike had crept into her face.
COUGH, COUGH, COUGH, COUGH, COUGH.
It followed you everywhere, like footsteps. But then came worse.
It was as if behind the bedroom door Cole’s father had split into several different people who could be heard at different times chattering, arguing, laughing, and once even singing with one another. Cole listened, his blood running cold.
“Get out, get out, you spider cunt! I’ll kill you, Serena!”
Cole nearly collided with his mother as they both ran out into the hall. There was no color in her face. “Dad doesn’t know what he’s saying.” But he kept saying it, over and over.
Once, he found her slumped on the landing with her legs tucked under her and her hands over her ears. Behind the door his father was calling, “Mom! Mom!”
Fever dream, his mother explained. “He’s back in his childhood.”
Yes. But why did he sound so scared?
Middle of the night. Cole woke to hear his parents talking. To his surprise, the noise (why were they being so loud?) came not from their room down the hall but from downstairs.
So his father’s fever must have broken. He was probably in the kitchen, getting something to eat. He’d be starving, of course; he’d eaten hardly anything this past week. Cole wanted to see him! He wanted to go down and join his parents—but not if they were fighting. Wait—how could they already be fighting? And where did his father get the strength to raise his voice? Had his mother picked now of all times to announce that she was leaving? This, Cole could not believe. The only explanation was that Cole was still asleep; he was dreaming . . .
Morning. He found his mother in the kitchen, alone. She was sitting at the table, her laptop open in front of her. Instead of her bathrobe she was wearing her winter coat. His father wasn’t there. He wasn’t upstairs in bed, either. The door to his room had been wide open when Cole passed on his way down.
Before he could form the question, his mother spoke. “I’m sorry,” was all she said.
Cole’s head started jerking helplessly from side to side, as if someone were taking swings at him. The pounding in his ears was so fierce it felt like a sudden loss of hearing.
“But I heard him last night—”
“Don’t shout,” she whispered. She stood up and embraced him. They staggered together, gripping each other for support, a macabre little waltz. She let go of him then and coaxed him down onto a chair, saying, “Sit, sit, sit.” They were both crying.
She went to the fridge and took out a bottle of water. She took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water and carried it to the table and set it in front of him. Every movement careful and slow, as if even the least gave her pain.
Cole stared at the water as if he had no idea what it was.
She gripped the edge of the table with both hands. “I have to lie down before I pass out.” Her voice was a croak; her eyes looked as if someone had tried to scratch them out. “I’ve been up all night.”
He wanted to help her. He picked up the glass and tried to give it to her but she waved it away.
She didn’t want to climb the stairs. Without taking off her coat she stretched out on the living room couch, resting her heels on one of the arms so that her feet were higher than her head. Cole knelt on the floor beside her. He sucked in his lips to stop them from trembling.
It wasn’t his father he’d heard, she said. His father had been unconscious.
“He needed to get to a hospital, but I knew I’d never get an ambulance to come here.” She had run out into the street and started knocking on doors. Two houses down lived a retired widower—the owner of the chocolate Lab that sometimes roamed the neighborhood—who’d agreed to come back with her.
“I wanted him to help me carry Dad to the car. He tried talking me out of it. He said the hospital wouldn’t be able to do anything. But I
wouldn’t listen. I hung on to his arm, I begged him until he gave in.”
“Why didn’t you wake me, Mom?”
“Oh, sweetie, I don’t know.” She looked at him imploringly. “I wasn’t sure, I didn’t think it would help if you—yes, maybe I should have woken you. Can you understand why I didn’t think so at the time?”
Cole nodded, but inside he was screaming. He remembered waking up to the noise and how he’d decided against going downstairs. Mistake! Mistake!
The man wouldn’t go with her to the hospital, she said. Suddenly she began to sob. “Why did we come here? We never should have come!” She sat up and gazed around the room with a look of terror. “We never should have come!” She was sobbing so hard Cole could barely make out the words.
He said nothing. He felt utterly helpless, under a spell, without the power even to put his arms around her. How would they live? How would they live without his father?
His mother had let herself fall back. She was still sobbing, but quietly, and Cole let her be. Minutes passed—he had no idea how many—and he saw her fall asleep, or pass out. A river of fear ran through him. He didn’t want to be alone.
“Mom!”
Her eyes flew open. For an instant she looked blind.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t stay awake anymore.”
Cole thought again of that old movie, the one where falling asleep meant worse than death. The one whose hero had the same name as his father.
“Let me sleep just a little,” she slurred, eyes closing again.
He was alone.
He got up and drifted back into the kitchen. He took a sip of water from the glass sitting on the table and poured the rest down the sink. How clean the kitchen was, all neat and shiny. The whole house was like that. It was one of his mother’s ways of dealing with stress. If my hands are busy I’m not wringing them, she said. At other times, the house was a mess.