Broken (19 page)

I finally fall asleep. My dreams are filled with Tony and our kiss, the little blond boy—who keeps crying even as he skips around poking his face between me and Tony and inserting himself into every dream sequence—and Cari’s freak-out. Only in my dreams, it’s me writhing around on the ground clawing and punching at nothing while everyone else stands around and watches, judging me, making comments on my technique and ineptness.

Just your typical night terrors.

I wake up gasping, trying to block out the dreams and the nasty taste they left in my psyche when I realize a noise I thought I’d dreamed was real.

Someone is on the stairs.

Of course it’s Mom. It has to be Mom. But for some reason the sound of those footsteps hijacks my brain and I’m terrified.

In an instant, my vision fills with a dream I’d forgotten—the nightmare that’s been haunting me these past few days, the crazy cartoon clowns trying to kill me.

I muffle my breathing with my hands and work to calm down. I can hear a person moving around in the kitchen.

Mom never, ever gets up in the middle of the night. She’s the heaviest sleeper I’ve ever met. She can even sleep through a code blue or hospital alarms bleeping all through the night.

Something’s wrong. My entire body feels it; I can smell the wrongness in the sweat pouring off of me.

I slide out of bed. Creep barefoot out my door and into the dining room. From here I can see into the kitchen while hiding in the shadows behind the china cabinet.

The kitchen light is on. It
is
Mom. She’s dressed in her nightgown and bathrobe, smoking a cigarette! Did she get up in the middle of the night just to sneak a cigarette?

I feel vindicated. I’ve asked her about smoking many times, but she’s always denied it. Made excuses for why she’d smell of tobacco, blamed my dad’s occasional pipe, or said she was standing in a crowded elevator with patients who’d been out smoking. And then she’d lecture me mercilessly on the evils of tobacco.

My mom, the smoker. My mom actually has a bad habit. She’s not perfect after all.

I’m practically cheering as I watch, savoring the moment and thinking about when I’ll take advantage of my newfound knowledge. I realize I should get a picture of this.

I tiptoe back into my room and grab my phone. When I get back to the dining room, Mom has left the kitchen. The door to the garage is just swinging shut and the lights are still on. She must usually smoke out there; otherwise, the house would reek of it.

Getting in position to catch her as she comes back in—and hoping she’ll still have the cigarette in sight—I align myself in the tiny corner between the doorjamb and the china cabinet. Perfect.

She comes back inside so fast it surprises me, but I keep my finger on the camera button and just keep clicking. She’s carrying a plastic sports bottle—one of the bright orange ones from school with the wildcat logo emblazoned across it. This one has a big black “K” scrawled on it. She sets the bottle down and starts rummaging through the junk drawer at the end of the counter.

As she works, she’s humming and smoking and smiling. Her face looks so dreamy and faraway that I wonder if maybe the worry about my surgery has driven her to sleepwalking.

She pulls a small mallet from the drawer and carefully sets it beside the sports bottle. Next, she takes a box of plastic sandwich bags from the pantry and adds it to her pile. She goes to the cabinet up over the stove—the one where she keeps the cooking sherry—and takes a large stock bottle of my vitamins.

What
is
she
doing?
I snap a few more pictures, mainly hoping that they’ll show something I’m missing with my own two eyes.

Then she puts everything into a trash bag and disappears back out the door to the garage. She returns empty-handed.

She finishes the cigarette with a satisfied sigh of pleasure, snuffs it out and tosses it down the garbage disposal, and smiles. She doesn’t look anything like my mom—or Nurse Killian. Now I’m certain she’s sleepwalking.

They say never wake a sleepwalker. What should I do?

She twirls around in a circle, her robe flying out like a ball gown, and hums a little louder. Her eyes are half-shut now and I wonder if she’s going to fall back asleep right there on the kitchen floor. Should I guide her back up to bed?

She solves the problem for me. Dreamily, that strange smile still on her face, she glides through the kitchen, turns off the light, and starts up the stairs. I follow, keeping out of sight, but I want to make sure she gets back to bed all right.

I watch her climb the stairs, one hand dancing along the banister. I hold my breath, listening hard, and hear the door to her room shut. Safe and sound.

Wow. If Mom’s been that worried about me, worried enough that she’s sleepwalking, it explains a lot. No wonder she seems so tired and comes home and goes to bed right away without even talking with me. No wonder she’s so stressed out about my trying school.

If the surgery goes well on Monday, maybe that will help.

But will it be enough? What if one night she sleepwalks her way right off the stairs and breaks her neck?

I spend the rest of the night curled up at the top of the stairs just in case Mom gets up again. She doesn’t. In fact, I hear her snoring most of the night. When her alarm goes off, I climb back down to my own bed.

I’m exhausted but who cares? Not like I have any place to go. I can sleep the entire day if I want. Just as soon as I see Mom safely off to work.

“Good morning,” she chirps. Despite her extracurricular nighttime activities, she doesn’t seem tired at all. In fact, she seems more cheerful than she’s been in a long time. “I’m calling Dr. Cho first thing. Tonight when your dad gets home, we’ll celebrate.”

“Uh-huh.” I nod as I reach for my pillbox from the middle of the kitchen table. It has my doses divided by morning and night, but I notice she’s placed three vitamins in each slot instead of one.

“Don’t worry, vitamins are water-soluble. You’ll just pee off the extra,” she says when she sees me pick one of the horse pills up and look at it. “I want to make sure your immune system is at fighting strength before the surgery.”

I say nothing. Should I tell her that I feel better without the extra vitamins?

“I know, I know.” She laughs and kisses me on the top of my head. “You hate taking pills. But after Monday, you won’t have to. Life will be different. Trust me.”

Her hug takes me by surprise, a tight bear hug from behind. Mom’s not a big hugger, but it feels good. I feel good, seeing her so happy.

I decide to continue lying about the vitamins, let her think she’s helping. I gather the pills in my hand, hug her back, and go to get a glass of water, making a big show of gulping down my atenolol followed by the vitamins. While her back is turned, I shove the horse pills into my pocket.

What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Right?

After Mom leaves for work, I go back to bed. I feel achy, my stomach not too happy about my breakfast of steel-cut oatmeal that Mom made for me as a special treat. Usually I just grab a can of Ensure.

My sleep is feverish, filled with nightmares again. When I wake, the sun is streaming through the windows, filtered by pink lace curtains to give it an ethereal cast. A sticky sheen of sweat coats me and the bedclothes stink with it. My head is throbbing, I’m light-headed and nauseous. I crawl out of bed and slowly head into the shower.

Maybe I caught something at school. Most viruses need a few days to incubate, so the timing’s right.

It’d be just my luck if Mom was right and going to school kills me.

I take my time in the shower; it hurts even to reach up and wash my hair. I hope Tony doesn’t catch whatever I have. Poor guy, bad enough he wasted his time on me and probably is gonna ruin his biology grade because of me.

My mind keeps thrusting the image of our kiss front and center. I can’t deal with that, not now. Too humiliating.

After drying off and climbing into some comfy old sweats, I get a glass of orange juice, hoping the vitamin C will help me feel better. Mom made a fresh pitcher this morning, bless her, because I’m not sure if I have the strength to open a can and mix it up.

Maybe I should take a few of those vitamins. The extra niacin can hardly make me feel worse than I do already. But my throat’s so achy, I balk at swallowing them. Even the orange juice tastes metallic and I throw it out after a few sips, change to tap water instead.

Then I hear a car in the driveway. A minute later, the garage door is opening and there’s my dad.

“Honey, I’m home!” he calls out in his best Jack Nicholson.

My dad, he’s always smiling. But it’s a goofy smile, and you’re never certain if he’s smiling at something happening here and now or at something inside his head. And he loves to talk.

Mom, she has to talk as part of her job and dealing with the doctors and nurses. She can tell my entire life story, including surgeries, in under ninety seconds.

Not Dad. For Dad, talking is like taking a nice long walk in the woods. He enjoys meandering, taking unexpected paths, enjoying the scenery along the way.

Not at all like the way Jordan and Tony both seem compelled to hide both their words and emotions, as if it’s classified information, might make them somehow weaker if it falls into enemy hands. They use their passivity as a mask: Tony to hide his passion and imagination, Jordan to shield the rest of us from his intensity.

As Dad pulls me into his arms for a welcome-home hug, not even noticing my fever sweat or flushed skin, it occurs to me for the first time ever that maybe my dad’s absent grin is because he really is absent. He really doesn’t know what’s going on—all he knows is the version of our lives playing on the movie projector inside his head.

Who could blame him? Retreating into a world of make-believe instead of living in a world where your daughter is dying and you’ve already lost a son—not to mention a wife consumed with keeping your daughter alive. I get it.

Right now, I’m just happy to see him. Oblivious or not. He’s my dad and he’s here.

My dad grins his way through lunch. I barely finish my can of Ensure. But I do feel better after. He doesn’t notice me skipping the vitamins Mom left behind, so I don’t have to worry about faking or lying to him. For some reason, he’s so much harder to lie to than Mom. Maybe because he’s so trusting. He always expects the best of everyone.

“Your mom called me last night,” he says as he’s finishing his turkey sandwich. “Said we’d be celebrating tonight. Said it was a surprise. I know it’s not my birthday, so care to fill me in?”

I shake my head. Leaving high school and agreeing to my surgery are no cause for celebration to me.

He wipes his mouth and leans back. “You sure? It doesn’t have anything to do with a new arrival, does it?”

Is he talking about the defibrillator they’ll be implanting in my heart? “Huh?”

His eyes go wide for a second and he looks flustered. “Never mind. How’s school?”

Mom obviously didn’t tell him about my quitting. Then I realize. This is my perfect chance to find out about my brother. “Okay. We’re doing this big project on genetics. Mom’s helping. She gave me copies of my medical records.”

“She’s the go-to person for stuff like that. Sure that’s not cheating? Seems a bit unfair.”

“Well, that’s why I thought I’d interview you as my primary resource.”

Now he’s frowning. “Well, I’m not sure I know anything helpful.”

“It’s basic stuff. Like does anything run in your side of the family?”

He shrugs and shakes his head. “Nope. Everyone’s healthy as a horse.”

“Any twins?”

Now he’s squirming. Then he blows his breath out. “So you know. Did your mom tell you?”

“No. It was in the medical records. But all it said was that I had a twin. And he died when he was little.” His face goes wavy as I blink hard and fast. I have to swallow twice before I admit, “I don’t even know his name.”

He hides his eyes behind his hand, his thumb and index finger pressing the bridge of his nose. “Ashley. Ash, we called him.”

“Your mother—your biological mother—was a big
Gone
with
the
Wind
fan, but she always thought Scarlet should have ended up with Ashley, not Rhett.” He’s not looking at me as he speaks. Instead, he’s looking past me, out the window behind me. “I need to rake those leaves this weekend.”

I pull him back to the here and now. “What happened?”

His breath makes a sound like a balloon losing air. “After your mother died, both you kids were sick all the time. The doctors said it was normal colds and flus, since you were in daycare and everything. Then your stepmom and I got together and she helped by watching you. You and Ash, you both did so well.” His blink is in slow motion as if he’s using the back of his eyelids as a movie screen. “Then one day Ash turned blue—we had no idea it was a heart condition. The doctors never found anything wrong, they did so many tests. But once, right there in the hospital, you did it too. Next thing they’re talking reflux and aspiration, want to do surgery. I didn’t understand any of it. Thank god your mom was there.”

I wait him out. Beneath the table I’m balling the fabric of my sweatpants into a knot. But I try not to let him see how anxious I am for any information. Don’t want to scare him off.

“I lost count of how many times your mom had to rush one of you to the hospital. It got to the point where she moved a cot into your room so she could watch over you at night. But then one night, she was just so exhausted. She fell asleep and when she woke up…” His Adam’s apple jumps as he swallows. “Ash was gone.”

We’re both silent for a long minute. Then I ask, “What did he look like?”

He’s long past smiling. His face is scrunched up, and for the first time ever, he looks old. “I kept some stuff. Want to see it?”

Without waiting for my answer, he trudges up the steps to their room and I follow.

“Please don’t bring this up with your mom. Even though you kids aren’t her own blood, she loves you so much. Losing him nearly killed her,” he says as he pushes the door open. “Your mom was so upset that she tried—she almost—she accidentally took too many pills. I thought—I was so afraid that I’d be left alone again. I barely found her in time.”

His words come out in a rush, his back turned to me as if that would make it easier for him to deny the truth.

I’m reeling. Not just from my headache and fever. My heart feels like it’s skipping out of control, racing then skidding to a stop before resuming its pace at a slow stumble. Like it’s as confused and overwhelmed by what he’s telling me as I am.

He goes to the closet and gets a large shoebox down from the top shelf. Inside is a small book wrapped in blue silk. Ashley’s baby book. We sit side by side on the bed as he opens it and turns the pages. I watch Ash grow from a scrawny red-faced newborn to a toddler with white hair and a mischievous grin.

My little blond boy. The boy from my dreams really was my best friend, my other half. No wonder my mind wouldn’t let him go so easily.

“You two never let each other out of sight,” Dad says as he turns past photos of our christening then our first Christmas, a Halloween where we’re dressed as peas in a pod, barely able to waddle in the costumes. In every one, we’re not looking at the camera. We’re always looking at each other, sharing a secret smile as if we’re in our own world.

“You were both late talkers—like you didn’t need words. And half the time once you did start talking, it was to say what the other wanted, not yourself. Some days we felt like we had one kid with two bodies.”

Hmmm…so I was a freak even as a baby?

But then he chuckles. “Used to drive your mom crazy. The tricks you two played on her.”

“So we weren’t sick all the time?”

“No. I guess not. Just enough to worry us. Not until after Ash passed and they realized you were sicker than anyone had imagined. Guess we should have paid better attention, but we wanted healthy, happy kids. Sometimes parents see what they need to see.”

He says the last with such sorrow, as if asking for forgiveness. I hug him, hard enough for both myself and Ash. “It’s okay, Dad.”

He hugs me back. Then he turns to the final page, this time a photo of me and Ash getting our hair cut, or trying to—we’re both obviously giggling and squirming too much for the poor hairdressers to do more than stand there holding their scissors and combs and laugh with us. Dad’s smile comes back as he traces the picture with his fingers.

“Guess with you getting older, ready to move out on your own soon, it’s no wonder your mom wants another one around.”

“Another what?” I ask absently.

“Another baby. Didn’t she tell you? We’re adopting.”