Saint Anything (16 page)

“He’s kind of a mad scientist,” Layla said. I looked at her, and she nodded at the desk. “Or maybe not mad. Just curious. He likes to see how things work.”

“Where did he get all the radios?’

“Yard sales,” she replied, plumping her pillow. “Thrift stores. The same places my mom gets all the stuff she collects. Get dragged along enough and you’ll find something you’re into. It’s inevitable. With Mac, it’s Frankenstuff.”

“Frankenwhat?”

“That’s my word for it,” she explained. “He calls it improving on design. Like you can take anything and make it work better. You just have to figure out what it needs and add it on. See that clock?”

I looked where she was pointing, on the bedside table by my elbow. There sat a clock radio that, at first glance, I’d assumed was totally normal. Now that I looked more closely, though, I saw it had been retrofitted with a large circular lens that pointed straight upward, as well as a small keypad attached to the back. “Yeah,” I said slowly.

“It was great, except it always reset itself, and he wanted to have it reflect the time on the ceiling. He had another one that did
that
, but never brightly enough to see. So he combined them, added a custom time-setting apparatus—”

“A what?”

“His words,” she explained. “Anyway, that’s the final result. Time always right and bright as hell overhead. I told you—he’s a freak.”

I looked back at the clock, taking in the careful, neat attachment of the keypad, how the projection lens looked like it belonged there. “He’s good at it, though.”

“I know. He should totally be an engineer or build airplanes or something,” she replied. “Too bad he has a pizza future instead.”

I blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Seaside.” She adjusted the blanket, pulling it a bit to the right. “As far as my dad’s concerned, Mac will take it over, just like Dad did from my grandpa. Don’t need college to toss dough.”

“So he won’t go?”

“Doubt it.” She looked over at the desk again, all those broken pieces. “It stinks, right? That’s why I’m always telling him
I
should take over the business. I’m the logical choice, you know? Rosie will hopefully have her skating thing, and I’ll be
thrilled
when school is over. But Mac’s different. He’s always been the smart one.”

I thought of Mac, always with a textbook beside him at lunch, or while he—yes—tossed dough at Seaside. It seemed crazy to me that someone curious and driven enough to vastly improve on basic alarm clock design wouldn’t have a chance to go to college and learn how to do it on a bigger, better scale. From the start, I’d known the Chathams were different from my family. But the proof just kept coming.

Outside in the living room, it was quiet: most of the guests had left. Layla’s mom had gone to her room even earlier, about the same time Rosie and her Mariposa friends disappeared. Now I could only hear one person playing a banjo, the sound distant and plaintive.

“So, speaking of brothers . . . I read that article you sent,” she said suddenly. “About that kid. I showed it to Mac, too.”

I looked down at my hands, then said, “I was worried, sending it to you.”

“You were?”

I nodded. “I thought you guys might judge.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Everyone else did.”

“Sydney.” She said this in a way that made it clear I should look at her, so I did. “We’re not like everyone else. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

I smiled. “I’m getting an idea.”

“If it were me,” she said, shifting on the sleeping bag, “I’d want to talk to that kid. Apologize.”

“I do,” I said, surprised she’d nailed it so quickly. “But it feels selfish. Like what good could it possibly do for him? My ‘I’m sorry’ won’t bring back his legs.”

“If it were a movie,” Layla mulled, looking up at the ceiling, “you guys would become best friends, bond over some shared hobby, like, say, competitive eating, and you’d help him learn to walk again. Cue the happy ending.”

I just looked at her. “Competitive eating?”

“I only just started thinking about this movie!” she said, and I laughed. “Cut me some slack.”

We sat there for a second, the banjo outside still playing. I said, “It’s not a movie, though. And there is no happy ending. Just . . . an ending, I guess.”

Layla tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I hate when that happens,” she said softly. “Don’t you?”

Before I could answer, there was a light rapping noise on the door, and then Mac stuck his head in. “Mom’s calling for you,” he told Layla.

She immediately got to her feet. “Everything okay?”

Instead of answering, he opened the door wide and she slipped through, quickly turning down the hallway. In the living room, I could see Mr. Chatham was standing now, holding his banjo by the neck. His face was flushed, and when he saw me, I could tell for a second he had no idea who I was.

“You want some water?” Mac asked him, and he started, pulling his gaze from me.

“I can get it,” Mr. Chatham told him. He put the banjo down slowly, then took a step back from the couch. Mac glanced at me, then eased the door shut.

It felt like I sat there a long time by myself. But that alarm clock beside me only marked two full minutes before Layla returned. “Just the woozies. Nothing to worry about.”

“The woozies?”

She nodded, resuming her cross-legged position. “My mom’s on a lot of meds. It takes, like, all of us to keep track of them and how often she takes them. Sometimes when she gets overtired or has too big a night, they make her dizzy and she wakes up confused. Sometimes she calls Rosie. But tonight it was me.”

She’d left the door open behind her; the living room was empty, the coffee table cluttered with beer cans and food wrappers. “How long has she been sick?”

“Since I was in sixth grade.” She laced her fingers together, examining her nails. “It wasn’t so bad at first. She was still walking the same, bossy as ever, hitting every yard sale every Saturday morning. But it’s a progressive disease. This last year has been really hard, and it’s only going to get worse.”

“There’s not a cure?”

“Nope.” She let her hands drop. “Drugs can do a lot, but eventually it will just break her body down to the point where she can’t function. Hopefully not for a while, though.”

I’d only known this family a short time, and it was a testament to the power of Mrs. Chatham’s personality that I couldn’t imagine them without her. Like my mom, she was that center of the wheel, with everyone connected drawing strength from her. She needed a saint of her own.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” she replied, with the sad solidness of tone that came with the acceptance of an unpleasant fact. Even if it was just one word, you knew a million thoughts followed that were not said aloud. “Me too.”

The house was quieting now. Layla went down to her room to change into pajamas and brush her teeth, pointing me to the small bathroom where I could do the same. When I came out, there was no one around but Mac, at the coffee table with an open garbage bag, cleaning up.

“You need help?” I asked him.

“You don’t have to,” he replied.

I picked up some crumpled napkins and a couple of half-full plastic cups from a nearby end table anyway, sliding them into the bag. “Quite a party.”

“It’ll reek in the morning if I leave it like this,” he replied, tossing in a handful of bottle caps. “Plus it’ll feel like I slept in the recycling bin.”

“Sticky.”

“And stinky.” He picked up a heap of blanket, exposing one of the dogs, who snapped at him. Unfazed, he scooped it up and put it on the floor, and it slunk under the couch, glaring at us.

“Sorry about taking over your room,” I said to him.

“Not your fault.” He grabbed a stack of wet napkins, making a face. “Rosie’s always had a bit of an entitlement complex. Funny,
she
never ends up on the couch.”

“I told Layla I can sleep out here,” I told him. “I really don’t mind.”

“The dogs would eat you alive,” he replied.

“What?”

He smiled at the look on my face. He had a nice smile. Seeing it, I felt like I’d won a prize, because he was so sparing with them. “I’m speaking metaphorically. Although their gas does feel deadly at times.”

“Who’s got gas?” Layla asked, returning from the bathroom.

“The dogs,” I told her.

“Oh, God, no kidding.” She shuddered. “Don’t ever think of letting them under your covers. You’ll dream you’re suffocating. True story. You need another garbage bag?”

Mac nodded, and she padded off to the kitchen to get one. He and I kept cleaning in companionable silence until she returned, and then we all finished the job together. By the time Mac took the other sleeping bag and pillow out to the couch and we turned out the light, it was after one a.m.

Layla insisted I sleep in the bed, even though I told her I was fine on the floor. I knew she was just being a good host. Still, knowing that this was where Mac slept was both weird and thrilling. God, I was such a nerd.

Once the lights were out, she fidgeted around, getting comfortable. “I’m a thrasher,” she’d explained to me at my house before beginning these same adjustments. “But once I’m out, I am
out
. If you need me for anything, kick me. Hard. Okay?”

“Will do,” I’d said. In contrast, I was lying very still, my hands crossed over my chest. I tried to picture Mac in this same place each night, looking at this same ceiling, where his hybrid alarm clock was projecting the current time very brightly onto the ceiling above us: 1:22 a.m.

“God, I
hate
that thing,” Layla said. By her voice, I was guessing she was already drifting off. “The last thing I want to be reminded of every single time I wake up is how much longer I have to sleep.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, though,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but I take care of my mom in the mornings.” She yawned outright. “So I’m always up at six, when she is.”

“Oh. Right.”

A silence. Then she said, in a flat monotone, “One twenty-three a.m. Get to sleep, you loser. You’re already going to feel terrible tomorrow.”

I laughed, and she moved around a bit more, then told me good night. Moments afterward—but really, three minutes, at 1:26—I heard her breathing go deep and steady.

I, however, felt very awake. So at one forty-five, when someone started talking out in the living room, I heard it right away.

It was a girl’s voice first. I could tell by the tone, although I wasn’t able to make out what she was saying. Then, after a pause, a lower timbre. I rolled over, looking down at Layla, who was sound asleep, knees pulled to her chest.

At 1:50, things had gone quiet, and I was suddenly aware that I really, truly had to pee. It was always weird to navigate someone else’s house, especially at such a late hour. By 1:59, I knew I didn’t have a choice. I slid out of bed, stepping carefully over Layla, and walked to the door, turning the knob as quietly as possible.

The first thing I saw was Lucy, Rosie’s Mariposa friend, sitting on the couch. She was in a tank top and pajama shorts, her hair loose over her shoulders. Mac was beside her, his eyes on the TV, which was showing an infomercial I’d actually seen before, for a product that cut fruit into fun and jazzy shapes. By the intense, focused way he was watching it, though, you would have thought it was breaking news.

They both turned toward me as I stepped out into the hallway. Mac said, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just, um . . .” I nodded to the bathroom, then started toward it, feeling hopelessly awkward. As I shut the door behind me, I heard Lucy say something, then laugh. There was no way of knowing if it had anything to do with me, but still, I felt my face flush.

I did my business, washed my hands, and ran a hand through my hair, which, considering I’d not yet slept, was sporting a serious case of bedhead. Then I opened the door as loudly as I could, announcing myself. I wanted them to know I was coming.

The infomercial was still on—
“BUT THERE’S MORE!”
—and Mac continued to give it his full attention. Lucy, however, had moved closer to him, and was now resting her head on his shoulder. This time, she didn’t look at me.

“Good night,” I said to Mac, then pushed the bedroom door open. I was just about to slip inside when he spoke.

“Is that bothering you?”

I turned around. “What?”

“The clock,” he said, nodding toward the room. “It’s kind of bright. I can turn it off, if you want.”

Lucy shifted, pressing herself against him. On the TV, a woman was entirely too excited about the prospect of making star-shaped watermelon pieces. I looked at Mac, who was holding my gaze in such a way that I knew, somehow, I should say yes.

“Actually,” I told him, “I was kind of wondering how to—”

Before I could even finish, he was on his feet, startling Lucy, who now did turn, clearly irritated. I stepped back as Mac came into the bedroom. Then, with her still watching me, I slowly shut the door.

It felt very dark, and I stood still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. Mac, however, walked right over to sit on the bed, pulling the clock toward him. As he hit a button, turning off the projected time, he said, “Thanks. For the save.”

“She’s pretty . . .” I trailed off, not sure what adjective I was going for. “Intense.”

“That’s one word for it.” He put the clock back down, then got to his feet. “You have everything you need?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

He nodded, stepping carefully over Layla, who was now snoring slightly. As he put his hand on the knob, I heard myself say, “You can stay, if you want. Until she goes to bed. It is your room, after all. I’m fine on the floor.”

I realized, too late, how this might sound: now I was the girl making the strong move. When Mac turned, though, he looked relieved. “I’ll take the floor.”

As he grabbed a blanket from the closet and spread it out on the carpet, I got back into the bed, pulling up the covers. With Layla smack in the middle of the room, there was no real space other than parallel to where I was. Still, he left as big a gap as he could, even though it meant basically resting his head against the desk.