Caleb and Kit

by Beth Vrabel

  “Are you serious?” I asked, eyeing the enormous yellow tablet. It had to be an inch long. “Are you sure you got the pill for scrawny twelve-year-olds and not big-butt rhinos?”

  Mom crossed her arms. “You heard what Dr. Edwards said yesterday. It’s an absolute miracle that you haven’t been hospitalized more than you have—a lot of CF kids are admitted for two weeks every three months, routinely, just to stay strong. You’re lucky all you have to do is down a rhino pill.”

  The liver pill was new—something Dr. Edwards added to my “regiment,” as he called it, the day before. It’s supposed to help bile work better. I didn’t pay a lot of attention after Dr. Edwards said I didn’t have to worry about it. I swallowed the pill, feeling it go sideways in my throat. I downed half the glass of water until the pill scratched its way to my gut. I choked down all the words I wanted to scream at Mom, too. Lucky? Was she serious?

  “Do you need ten minutes?” she asked quietly, staring hard at my face.

  I knew what she was asking. Whenever I whined about CF—like when I treaded water in the swim team’s Guppy division while Brad and everyone else my age moved to Dolphin—Mom gave me ten minutes. Set a timer and everything. Ten minutes to feel sorry for myself, to complain and cry and let my mind sink to dark places. When the timer went off, I had to stop, even if I was still crying, and, as she put it, “move onward and upward.”

  I shook my head. “I’m good. Maybe I’ll get so good at swallowing all these meds I can start a competitive eating club,” I joked. “Move on to hot dogs or something.”

  Mom grinned and rubbed my head. As annoying as it was to have her constantly nagging and prodding, it was worse to see her sad for me. “Get dressed, and head down for breakfast. I’m dropping you off early at camp. I need to open the office this morning.”

  And just like that, I was back to being annoyed. I plopped onto the bed, wishing I actually was a tree. No one forced trees to go to summer camp with babies. “Mom! It’s summer. Can’t I sleep a little more? I’ll walk to the park after breakfast!”

  To my shock, she paused, thinking. Then her face set, her lips pressing together until they were white. “Not today. I need to talk to you about something and I only have time in the car.”

  “Oookay,” I drawled, trying to figure out what was going on. I flipped through the appointment yesterday in my mind—did Dr. Edwards give her information he didn’t give me? Were my numbers lower than they should be? I thought he seemed happy my lung function was about the same as a few months before. I pulled on another electric-colored camp T-shirt (blue, this time) and shorts, thinking hard. No, there wasn’t a moment Mom wasn’t with me. He couldn’t have told her anything serious. So this wasn’t about me or CF. What was it? It couldn’t be anything about Patrick; he never caused her white-lip face. The only things that did were bad news about my CF and…

  “Your father…,” Mom started, almost as soon as I buckled my seat belt a few minutes later.

  “Is a total butthead,” I finished.

  Mom’s mouth twitched for just a second. “That is not what I was going to say.”

  “But it is what you were thinking.”

  Mom turned her face to the street, but I could tell she was fighting a smile. “Are you going to add mind reading to your competitive eating plans?”

  “Maybe.” I laughed. “What is it, Mom? What did he do now?”

  Dad left us about two years earlier. It wasn’t a big deal. Life without him hadn’t changed much except for the whole when’s-Dad-coming-home question didn’t have to be asked at every single dinner. Dad had checked out years ago, to be honest. He used to come home, all jazzed with new CF research he had found or he’d be spouting off what was working for someone he had met on a CF message board. But he hadn’t done that for years. And before he left, there were lots of times when he didn’t even come home. He worked in insurance, and that, for some reason, meant crazy long nights. At least, that’s what I thought until I spotted a suitcase in the trunk one morning. He didn’t come home that night or the next. The divorce was finalized a year ago. He lives with his girlfriend, Kristie, in a condo somewhere in Central Asia. Actually, it’s about two miles from our house, but it was the same difference.

  Aside from a few super awkward dinners each month—where Patrick droned on and on about his incredible accomplishments, and Kristie prattled on and on about how amazing Dad was, and Dad and I actively ignored each other—we never saw him. Which was fine by me.

  I stared out the window as Mom drove down our street. The woods swallowed the early morning sunlight pouring over them. Man, I wished I were there. Kit’s words echoed in my mind: I do what I want. “What do I have to do?” I asked Mom when the silence between us stretched longer than the woods.

  She took a deep breath and continued like I had never interrupted her. “Your father will pick you up at three o’clock.”

  I made a puffing sound out of my nose.

  “He’ll be here, Caleb. He promised.” We didn’t speak again until she pulled into a parking spot at the park. Ava waved frantically from a picnic table and immediately jumped to her feet, striding toward us. Mom swore under her breath. To me, she said, “I have a stressful project at work. It’s going to be a late night. Dad’s either going to take you home, where Patrick will make you dinner, or he’ll take you back to his place with Kristie.” She always said Kristie’s name with too much emphasis, like she was a cheerleader or something. It was her CF’s-not-so-bad voice, and this time, I was the new parent.

  “Whatever,” I muttered.

  Ava was now beside our door, tapping on Mom’s window. “Ms. Baker!” she shouted through the glass. “Don’t forget Caleb’s Creon pills! I’ve packed candy bars if he needs extra caloric intake today! I spent all night studying and I know everything there is to know about CF now!” She grinned, her smile stretching so far the tendons in her neck popped.

  “Can I have my ten minutes now?”

  Mom’s shoulders peaked and fell with a quick laugh. She gave Ava a thumbs-up and then turned back to me. “I’ll see you tonight, Caleb. I’ll call at eight—and I expect you to be doing your treatment by then.”

  “You’re going to be that late?” I asked. Mom was a dental hygienist. The office closed at six. What kind of projects did dental hygienists have to do that late? “What about my meds and my treatment?”

  “I wrote everything down. It’s on the kitchen counter. Your meds are divvied out and ready to go, and the nebulizer’s loaded.” She ruffled my hair. “You’ll be fine.”

  I stared into her eyes, seeing something there I didn’t like. Makeup. And secrets. “A project, huh?”

  “Mmhmm,” Mom said as she rooted through my backpack, making sure I had tablets, snacks, lunch, and a fully charged phone.

  And just like that, I knew. My mom was going on a date. “Will you be having lots of projects in the future?” I asked.

  Mom smiled and bit her lip. “I hope so,” she said quietly.

  Ava tapped on the window again. “Don’t forget sunscreen!” she chirped. “Antibiotics often cause sun sensitivity!”

  “Bye, sweetheart.” Mom lightly kissed my forehead. Her mouth was sticky. Lip gloss. “Remember, Dad will pick you up at three.”

  I grabbed my backpack from her lap and hoisted it onto my shoulder as I got out of the car. “Have a fun time on your… project.”

  Mom’s cheeks were pink, but not from makeup. “Thanks, Caleb.”

  Ava trailed me to the pavilion. “You’re the first one here, aside from Shelly,” she said. Her nose crinkled a little when she said her cousin’s name. “This is perfect since I wanted to tell you a few things.” I tucked my bag under the picnic table and put my head on my arms, taking a cue from Shelly, who was doing the same thing at a corner table. She even snored a little. Drool trailed across her arm.

  “What time did you guys get here?” I asked.

  Ava shrugged. “I have to be here to set up and cover the earliest p
ossible drop-off at six. So we get here about five thirty.”

  “Wow,” I said under my breath. And I thought falling asleep with my vest was bad.

  “So,” Ava said, “I learned as much as I could last night about cystic fibrosis. Do you need a vest treatment midday?”

  I felt my eyes turn wide as marbles. “No. At school, the nurse would sometimes do percussions but if we do something active—like swimming or the obstacle course—I should be all right.” Usually in the summer, I’d jump on the trampoline in Brad’s backyard after lunch to get my lungs working.

  “Okay.” Ava blinked, as if crossing off something on a mental to-do list. “Let me know if there is anything you need at all—extra rest, an alteration to the obstacle courses, high-caloric snacks, whatever you need.” She patted my arm, looking a lot like a robot. I had a feeling she read one too many online how-to-talk-to-CF-kids articles. “I realize that the high physical and emotional impact of your diagnosis must weigh on you. I am here for you whenever you’d like to talk, whatever you’d like to discuss.” All of this was said deliberately, clearly rehearsed.

  Ava’s scary-big grin pulled back farther. “Anything, Caleb. Whatever you’d like to discuss. I’ve also researched many religions and cross-sectioned their beliefs.”

  I stared at her, momentarily confused. “You, like, want me to talk to you about Heaven and stuff?”

  “If that’s what you’re comfortable discussing.”

  I wasn’t. I wasn’t comfortable talking with her about anything at all. “So you researched a lot about CF and now you’re, like, an expert?”

  “Right.” Ava nodded. “I’m a really great researcher. Always have been. Don’t feel at all like you’re on your own.” She awkwardly patted my hand again. “You’re not. I understand.”

  “Oh, really?” I half laughed to myself. Kit’s face popped into my head. That’s not really right—her words did. Maybe you should do what you want. And in that moment, I wanted to make Ava realize she didn’t understand squat of what it’s like to be me. I looked her straight in her eager little eyes. “I read all about witches,” I said. “So don’t worry.” Her smile wobbled. “I understand, too.” This time I patted her hand.

  Ava’s mouth popped open. I was flooded with guilt. Did I really just say that? And, as if someone pulled the plug, I just as suddenly didn’t care one bit. Maybe you should do what you want. Ava pulled back from the picnic bench, and I lowered my head onto my arms, pretending to fall asleep like Shelly.

  “Anger is common. Bitterness and… meanness… it’s normal.” I knew, just knew, that once again she wore that hideously big smile. Whatever. I felt Ava’s stare on the top of my head but quickly fell into rhythm with Shelly’s breath. Soon Ava sighed heavily and moved on to prep for more campers.

  And I almost did fall asleep, but a low whistle made me pop my head up. In the corner of the pavilion, Shelly tilted her head up in my direction. “Wow, that was cold.” She shuddered. “Didn’t think you had that in you, Winchester.”

  I covered my head again.

  Remember how I felt like someone pulled a plug on that guilt? Well, it clogged right back up a few minutes later. I couldn’t stop seeing Ava’s hurt expression. The guilt building up in my chest forced me to be nice to Ava the rest of the day. I laughed at her stupid jokes (“You guys are starting to sizzle like bacon out there! Time for sunscreen!”), but there was no mistaking the strain behind her returned smiles. Even worse, they were mixed with pity.

  “Caleb,” she said after telling the campers it was snack time. I was pulling a package of Mom’s granola and a container of thick yogurt from my lunch bag. My bottle of pills was next to my spoon. Ava leaned down so her mouth was close to my ear and she lowered her voice. “We have a staff bathroom on the side of the pool house. No one uses it except for me and Dave.” She pointed to the other camp counselor, who was squirting antibacterial gel on campers’ sticky hands. “If you’d like a more private bathroom, I’ll leave the key by my bag in the pavilion.” She walked away before I could thank her.

  Looked like Ava really was an incredible researcher. It was a little embarrassing, but not as much as having to face that bathroom attendant again.

  Here’s a huge shocker to no one: three o’clock came and went and Dad never showed.

  “Can we go yet?” Shelly whined to Ava as she plunked down a few feet from me at the parking lot’s edge.

  “Just as soon as Caleb is picked up,” Ava said in a too-sweet voice. She checked her watch. To me, she added, “Want me to call him?”

  I held up my cell phone. “I already did, three times. He hasn’t picked up or answered my texts.” The texts didn’t even show read, meaning he was totally shutting me out. Like I said, shocker.

  Shelly sighed and flung herself backward on the lawn. “Don’t you live a half mile from here? Can’t you just walk home so we can leave?”

  “Shelly!” Ava gasped. “Caleb, I’m sure your dad’s just running a little behind.”

  A half hour so far. Mom never would be this late. I thought about calling her, but then I remembered the lip gloss and her “project.” I punched out a text to Patrick instead. Dad hasn’t picked me up yet. Have you heard from him? Supposed to be here at 3.

  Almost immediately, my phone rang. “I’m on my way,” my brother said. His voice was gruff. He hung up before I could say thank you.

  “You can go,” I said to Ava. “Patrick’s on his way. Should be here in, like, five minutes. You don’t have to wait for me.”

  “Oh!” Ava’s cheeks pinked a little. “Patrick?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “my brother.”

  “Oh!” she said again. Shelly groaned next to her. Ava smoothed her ponytail with her palms. That smile of hers suddenly didn’t look forced. I smothered my own groan. It gets kind of old to constantly have girls fawning all over a person you know to be extremely boring and annoying. I mean, I guess Patrick is handsome in a brooding, always-right sort of way. He’s got brown hair like me, but his is thicker and swoops over his forehead instead of just flopping to the sides. He also has greenish-brown (Mom calls them hazel) eyes, but they’re tough to see behind the dark, thick eyebrows he’s constantly scrunching together whenever he looks my way, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Like I said, annoying.

  “There he is!” Ava pointed down the sidewalk a minute or two later. Sure enough, there was my brother—as tall and strong as I was short and scrawny—striding purposefully toward us, clearly fuming. I guess I had interrupted violin practice, or maybe track, or chess, or some other amazing talent of his. “He’s just like Heathcliff over the moors,” Ava gushed.

  “What?” Shelly and I said in unison, both of us whipping toward Ava, whose face was outright on fire now.

  “Nothing! Nothing! I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yes, you did,” Shelly said. She crossed her arms.

  “I said, ‘It looks like we can go to the doors.’ You know, the car doors. Like we can go to our car now that Patrick is here. Let’s go.” She threw her giant duffel bag full of camp supplies onto her shoulder and hoisted up a big box of sunscreen, sidewalk chalk, and bubbles.

  “Hey, let me help.” Patrick rushed forward, pulling the box from her arms. I swear, I thought Ava would faint. Under his breath, Patrick added, “Geez, Caleb. Think you could’ve noticed she needed help?”

  “She just stood up! Just now! How was I supposed to—” But I stopped trying to defend myself, cut off by shock as a white convertible with Dad behind the wheel squealed into the parking lot.

  Patrick followed my gaze. He huffed out of his nose. In the same gruff voice, he muttered, “Could he be any more of a cliché?”

  Dad’s face—a looser, tanner version of Patrick’s—split into a grin. “I come for one son and see two!” He patted the side of the car with his hand, not bothering to get out. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I think you’re forty minutes late,” I said.

  Dad waved his hand l
ike my words were gnats. “Nah, I mean the car! Sweet, isn’t it?”

  “Mom’s a payment behind on the station wagon,” Patrick muttered a little louder.

  At least Dad had the decency to flush a little. “This is Kristie’s car. She’s letting me borrow it today.”

  “Why? Is she out of town?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, she’s waiting for us at home.” Dad’s face was now familiar again, locked into a stony why’d-I-ever-have-kids glare. “She’s making dinner.” He shifted the car into park. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Patrick. I’ll tell her to make another plate for you.”

  Patrick quickly shook his head. “No, I came to bail you out, again. Caleb called when you didn’t show.”

  “I’m a couple minutes late!” Dad growled. To me, he said, “If you’re in such a hurry, why are you just sitting there. Get in!”

  Patrick made a weird grabbing gesture toward me with the arm not holding the box of camp supplies. It was like he was going to pull me to him or something. Quickly, he dropped his arm. To Dad, he said, “I can take Caleb home with me. I’m already here.”

  The truth was, I totally would’ve rather gone back to our house. But I knew Mom would freak if she found out Dad had ditched me again. And there was that whole not-wanting-Patrick-to-be-the-hero thing, too. “That’s okay,” I said. I moved around to the other side of the car, waiting for Dad to unlock the door.

  “Patrick, you’re already here. Why don’t you come back with us?” Dad asked. “Please?”

  I sighed and moved into the cramped backseat, my knees up to my chin, feeling like a giant for the first time in my life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kristie hugged me when I walked in the front door. She was about as opposite of Mom as a person could get. Her hair lay in a long dark braid to her waist. Her tall body was lean and muscly; I rarely saw her wearing anything but workout clothes. But the nice kind—you know, that a lot of moms have on all day long—not the ratty sweats and old T-shirts that Mom wore those few times she hopped on the elliptical at night. Not that Mom was fat or anything. She was pretty skinny; she was just soft. A hug from Mom was like being tucked in under a quilt at night. A hug from Kristie was like cuddling concrete.