You exhale.
“My mom was upset. She wanted to know why I wasn’t in bed. She said Sam was in an oxygen tent. Then she started crying and it was like her legs gave out; she was kneeling on the floor, crying and saying, ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’ My dad had to pick her up under the arms and put her to bed.”
I check the clock. Time’s up, somehow. I squirm around on the couch. You don’t move. I inch to the edge of the couch. You still don’t move.
“That must have been very upsetting,”you say.
I stand up. “Yeah. For my mom. She told someone on the phone Sam almost died. It was after that, she stopped driving and stuff.”
I put my hand on the doorknob. “That’s it,” I say.
I don’t wait for you. I open the door and say, “See you tomorrow.”
That night when I go to take my shower, Becca’s standing at the sink wearing her puppy bathrobe and slippers. Until a while ago, I thought Becca was about my age. Then the other day in Group, when she told us they tried to force-feed her when she was in the hospital, she said they couldn’t do it because she was legally an adult. “No one can tell me what to do,” she said. “I’m eighteen years old.”
She’s holding a toothbrush and scowling at her reflection. Then, as if she’s just remembered she was in the middle of something, she starts brushing her teeth so hard it looks like it must hurt.
I head toward a sink at the other end, aware of the distinct smell of throw-up as I pass one of the stalls. Becca is spraying herself with perfume. Rochelle is oblivious.
I position myself so I can see Becca in the mirror. She catches me looking at her; we lock eyes for an instant. She looks embarrassed and proud at the same time. I grab my towel, pretend I forgot something in my room, and decide to come back later.
“I don’t have anything to say today,” I say as I sit down on your couch.
“No?”
“No. Not really.”
“Let me ask you something, then,” you say.
You don’t wait to see if it’s OK with me.
“The time Sam got sick, when you were putting together the hockey set—is there anything else you want to tell me about it?”
I study a stain on the carpet and try to decide if it’s shaped like a woman with a big nose or an amoeba “It was raining,” I say finally.
“Anything else?”
I don’t take my eyes off the stain. “Nope.”
“Well then, will you fill me in on one part I don’t understand?” You keep going. “Your parents were out, as I recall. Is that right?”
I don’t move a muscle.
“How did you let them know Sam was sick? Do you remember?”
I remember exactly.
I took the steps up from the basement two at a time, then ran out the front door, across the lawn, into the street. I glanced back at our house with all my mom’s Christmas crafts in the windows, then tried to put on a burst of speed. I stumbled, pitched forward, and found myself kneeling by the curb. I don’t remember getting up, I just remember running, watching my feet beneath me, first one, then the other, hitting the pavement as if they weren’t connected to me, as if they were just appearing and disappearing to give me something to look at while I ran.
I ran past the entrance to our development, out onto the main road. I must have gone past the Roy Rogers, the Dairy Queen, and the video rental place, although I don’t remember going past them. I just watched my feet appear, disappear, then reappear until somehow I was standing in front of Bud’s Tavern. I shoved the door open and stepped inside, but I couldn’t see a thing in the sudden dark. The place smelled like overcooked hot dogs and damp sweaters; I thought for a minute I was going to be sick.
There was a man at the bar. “Daddy!” I said. It came out sounding babyish and a little scared. The man turned around and gave me a bored look; he wasn’t my father. Another man came out of the restroom, whistling. “Daddy!” This time it sounded babyish and a little mad. And this time it was my father.
He looked like he couldn’t quite place me. “Callie?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Sam,” I said, panting. “He’s sick.”
“You want a soda?”he said, then turned to face the bar; his back looked enormous. When he turned around, he had a beer in his hand. He took a swallow and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up, then down.
“He’s sick!”
He looked at me blankly.
“Daddy!” I stamped my foot. “I already called mom at the nursing home,” I said quietly. “She’s on her way home.”
He seemed to wake up then. “Why didn’t you say so?” He took out his wallet, put a few bills on the counter, and grabbed his coat.
Once we got in the car, I realized I was cold. Cold and wet. “Could you put on the heat?” I said.
He didn’t say anything, just flipped the heater on. It blew out cold air at first and I had to hug my arms to my side to keep from getting even colder. When the car started to warm up, he turned the heater off, unzipped his coat, and tugged on his collar.
All the things I’d passed on my way there—the fast-food places, the video rental store—went by the window in slow motion. How could it take so much longer to drive home than it had to run there? But it must have just seemed slow, because we still got there before my mom did.
I remember exactly, but I don’t tell you. I just sit there and stare at the stain on the carpet until finally you sigh and say that’s all the time we have for today.
Something wakes me up in the middle of the night: the quiet. I sit up, listen for the squeaking of Ruby’s shoes, for the sound of someone crying into a pillow, for the far-off laugh track from the attendants’ TV. But for once it’s absolutely silent in here. The room is filled with a milky white glow; I sit up and see then that it’s snowing. I listen to the snowflakes hitting the window, making a faint scratching sound. Then I lie down, roll over, try to go back to sleep. In the distance, car tires spin, then stop.
I remember a talk show about people who had trouble falling asleep; some expert told them to get up and read or have a glass of milk instead of trying to sleep. Still, I try to sleep. I play the inhale-exhale game. It doesn’t work. Finally I get up, feel around for my slippers, and decide to see if Ruby’s at the desk knitting or something.
Outside each dorm room, near the floor, are a pair of childproof night-lights; I think about telling Ruby that this makes the hallway look like an airport landing strip. She’ll like that. We’ll talk. After that, I’ll be able to sleep.
Down at the end of the hall, Rochelle is at her post, on the lookout for late-night barfers and illegal laxative users. As I pass Becca’s room, something in the dim glow of the night-light catches my eye. It’s Ruby, sitting on the edge of Becca’s bed. I decide to wait for her so I can tell her about the landing strip.
Ruby glances up, gives me a half-worried, half-annoyed look; I shrink back against the wall, then tiptoe back to my room and count the snowflakes until, somehow, it’s morning and Sydney’s making her bed.
The cafeteria is more insane than usual. Maybe it’s the snow, maybe it’s the pancakes; the clatter and the laughing and the talking are worse than ever. I’m in line, waiting for my breakfast, when Debbie cuts in front of me. She’s apparently back for seconds; an empty, syrup-streaked plate is in her hand.
“What’s taking so long?” she yells over the counter to a kitchen worker in a hair net.
The woman smiles nervously; Debbie hands her plate across the counter.
“I need more,” she says.
By the time I get my juice and sit down, Debbie’s almost finished. Tara’s sitting across from her, watching, practically terrified, as Debbie eats one mouthful of pancake after another. Amanda regards Debbie with something like awe.