Althea and Oliver (16 page)

He tries to remember if Nicky had a ritual for tucking him in at night when he was small. Did he have a favorite bedtime story? Was there a song he made her sing? Mostly his childhood memories involve Althea and their two-way radios, her high lilting voice whispering, “Over and out, Ollie.” He always countered with the more reassuring, “Back on the air tomorrow, Al.” Sometimes he's amazed at things they knew when they were kids that have since been forgotten—Morse code, Esperanto, the ingredients for a good stink bomb. With what has all this useful knowledge been replaced? Precalculus? Althea probably retained the stink bomb recipe; Christ, by now she's probably obtained a copy of
The Anarchist Cookbook
, which she's using to lay siege to all her perceived enemies, whomever she blames for the unfortunate turn her life has taken—Coby, Cape Fear Academy, maybe even her own father.

“You're all set,” the nurse says.

• • •

In the morning, Oliver is still getting dressed—he refuses to sit around in sweats or pajamas all day; it makes it harder to pretend he isn't sick and in the hospital—when there's a quick rapping at the door. At first he doesn't respond. He's become accustomed to hospital etiquette, where a knock isn't a request for permission to enter but rather a heads-up that the door is about to open. After a moment, the knock comes again, louder.

“Yeah?” he says, hastily zipping up his jeans.

The willowy blonde walks in. “Hey there. Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“You got a few minutes? The doctor would like to see you.”

Oliver looks around, confused by the intimation he might have conflicting plans. “I think I'm free.”

“Great. Follow me, handsome.”

She called me handsome.

She leads him back to the office where he and Nicky had their consultation with the doctor. He's there, filling out paperwork, stethoscope slung jauntily around the collar of his white lab coat, his thick black hair finger-styled to perfection. Oliver takes a seat in the slippery leather chair on the other side of the desk, perching cautiously on the edge. The nurse leaves, gently closing the door behind her. Oliver pretends she is leaving reluctantly. The doctor looks up, pushing his papers aside.

“How are you doing, Oliver? You settling in all right? Making yourself comfortable?”

“I haven't redecorated my room or anything, but yeah, I'm comfortable.”

“You know, if you need anything, you can just tell Stella. We do our best to be accommodating.”

“Stella?” Oliver nods toward the door. “Was that Stella?”

“Yes. She's very good.”

Oliver doesn't like the familiar tone Dr. Curls uses here, as if he knows all sorts of things at which Stella is very good. “I'll do that.”

“Great. It must be something, finally being around other people who have this condition. Maybe makes you feel less alone, less isolated?”

“All due respect, sir, but being in the hospital instead of high school is pretty isolating.”

The doctor laughs. “Now, Oliver, I know you're from the South, and I appreciate your manners, but you don't need to call me ‘sir.' Manuel will be just fine.”

In their sockets, Oliver's eyes roll of their own volition. “Sure thing.”

“I understand that being in the hospital can be an alienating experience, but at least these boys are your peers.”

Hardly,
Oliver thinks.

“And they can appreciate what you've been through in a way no one else ever will.”

“I have no doubt.”

“You've been extremely cooperative over the last week, and we appreciate that. But as we explained, it's very uncertain that we'll be able to provide you with any real medical assistance. There's so much about KLS that we don't know, and part of this study's purpose is to learn more. If we can translate some of that new information into an experimental treatment, great. But there's no guarantee we'll be able to send you back home in any different condition than you came to us. You need to manage your expectations.”

Oliver shifts uncomfortably in his chair, already irritated with this conversation. “I'm aware of that, Manuel.”

“There are symptoms of KLS that have nothing to do with the sleep episodes. You must be aware of that, aren't you?”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Depression, of course. Anger and hopelessness. Have you ever felt anything like that?”

Oliver laughs bitterly. “Hopelessness? Is that what that is?”

Manuel looks at him sympathetically. “Yes. That's what that is. We're hoping that the chance to meet some other boys with KLS, spend some time with people who can really understand you, might help you feel better. Maybe feel a little normal for a while. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Oliver, you've been keeping yourself somewhat isolated so far. There's nothing wrong with that; I know this isn't a resort, it's a hospital. Socializing isn't what you came here for, and it's not at the forefront of your mind. But I want to ask you to consider opening up a little. You don't have to spill your guts to a bunch of strangers, of course. But think about sharing more of yourself than you have been. I'm pretty sure you'd be surprised how cathartic it can be.”

The heat register below the window kicks on, exhaling a warm breath of dry, recycled air that instantly sucks the moisture from Oliver's sinuses. “I'm not much of a bonder.”

“I realize that. That's exactly why I'm suggesting you challenge yourself here—”

“I'm here. That's the challenge. For both of us.”

Dr. Curls can't seem to sigh loud enough. “Oliver, we're bringing in a counselor to start holding group therapy sessions with all the patients. I'll expect you to at least attend.”

Oliver shrugs. “If you want. If it'll make you feel better.”

“You don't think it might make
you
feel better?”

“There's only one thing that could do that,” he says.

“I'm sorry to say, I'm surprised by your attitude.”

Oliver thinks of Althea and her bony, beautiful knuckles. “It's not an attitude.”

“Then what is it?” For the first time, the doctor sounds annoyed.

Standing, Oliver makes for the door. “You nailed it. Anger. And hopelessness.”

ALTHEA STAYS IN
the basement.

Pajama-clad, expelled from Cape Fear Academy, she finds the subterranean appealing. Under the old quilt she's had since childhood, the one Alice made her, she watches the same movies over and over, movies about genetically engineered monsters and apocalyptic weather that threatens the whole world. These movies are soothing, especially the moments before the storm breaks or power is restored to the compound, when rescue seems impossible, complete destruction inevitable. Her interest flags when the helicopter lands and the survivors are ushered to safety, or when the newly sworn-in president makes an optimistic statement about the future.
Fuck that shit,
she thinks, going back to the beginning, when all signs of impending chaos were there and everyone but the hero chose to ignore them.

She needs time to figure out what happened that afternoon in the hallway, when she was straddling Coby and doling out punch after punch. Just like something gave in Coby's face beneath her fist, something had given inside her as well, like the pop and flare of a spent lightbulb. Now there's just a tiny filament left, rattling around in the muddy glass. She doesn't mind feeling like a blown fuse. It's what she wanted all this time. She hopes it lasts.

The door opens at the top of the stairs and she pulls the quilt over her head. There's a wooden creak, and then another, and soon she can feel Garth standing over the couch. She smells garlic and noodles and tomato sauce; he's brought dinner. With Althea refusing to leave the basement, cooking duties have reverted to Garth. She chews the collar of her shirt, the cotton spongy against her tongue. A sliver of light invades her cocoon as Garth turns down a corner of the quilt. When she doesn't protest, he peels back a little more, exposing her whole head and shoulders. He holds out a plate.

“Sit up and eat this.”

She takes the plate and twirls a fork listlessly through the spaghetti. Garth sits in the recliner.

“I made some phone calls today to other schools. If you take this semester's finals, and you pass, you can start at Laney after winter break.”

Althea shrugs. Under the sauce, she can see the impressions of his fingers in the meatballs.

“You don't have to like it there. You just have to graduate from high school.”

“Can't you homeschool me?”

“Wouldn't that be fun for us,” he says, widening his eyes with sarcastic enthusiasm.

“Then Laney it is.”

Garth sighs. “You realize UNC is not the sure thing it was before. You're going to have to try harder. Act like you actually care about going to college.”

“What if I don't care about going to college?”

“Then start looking at art schools. Lord knows you've got the time on your hands.”

“You'd send me to art school?”

“We're rich, remember?”

“I thought we were comfortable.”

“I'd be a lot more comfortable if I could get you out of the house. If art school will do it, I'll happily throw some of the family's old lucre at the problem. There's also the matter of what you're going to do between now and the start of next semester.”

She makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the basement.

Garth gets up from the recliner and sits next to Althea on the couch, slipping underneath the blanket with her. “Isn't this cozy? It smells like wet sponges down here.”

“I expect that's the mold.”

“It doesn't bother you?”

“I don't really notice it anymore.”

Althea nibbles a few strands of spaghetti. Piercing a meatball with her fork, she splits it into two pieces, then halves those pieces, then halves them again, until there's nothing left but mush. There was a math theory they learned last year, that you can divide something in half and divide it in half again and go on and on, reducing it to smaller and smaller pieces, but it would never disappear completely. It's one of Zeno's paradoxes.

Garth lays a wide, tangled swath of Althea's hair, rife with split ends, across the flat landscape of his palm and shakes his head. “I still don't understand why you had to dye it black.”

Annoyed, she pulls away. “Did you come down here for a reason?”

“For someone who says she doesn't care about getting expelled from high school, you seem to be taking it pretty hard.”

“It's so humiliating. Everyone knowing my business. God, it was so public.” She has to cover her face with her hands just thinking about it, the hallway filled with people watching her pummel Coby. Why couldn't she have at least waited until they were outside in the parking lot?

“Mortification fades. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“After your mother left.”

Althea looks at her father's legs, stuffed into the small space between the sofa and the coffee table. He must have been a great dancer once; she's seen the wedding photos, knows he wore the hell out of a three-piece suit. He must have been a lot of things before he was married, before he was divorced, before he was a single father to a spoiled, petulant teenager.

“Have you talked to her?” Althea asks.

“I thought I'd let you have the pleasure of filling her in on your latest debacle.”

“You seem to be taking it in stride.”

Garth grows serious, always a disturbing turn of events. “You know, after talking to the school and everything, I've noticed that no one seemed particularly surprised that Coby was on the receiving end of your anger. He's not very well liked, is he? Even Oliver doesn't like him, and Oliver likes everyone.”

Not everyone,
Althea thinks.
Not me, not anymore.
“I think Coby's going for that lovable asshole thing. He's got the asshole part down, for sure,” Althea says, trying to keep the mood light, but Garth isn't biting.

“Al, listen. Obviously, I'm upset you got expelled. I'm disturbed that you lost control and hurt someone so badly. It's scary. I'd even guess that you scared yourself. And everyone who was there that day said that you and Coby were just talking and then . . . well. But if something happened, if Coby did something to you, maybe not right then, but if he—”

“Dad, are you asking me if he deserved it?”

Garth leans his head back against the sofa. “I don't know what I'm asking. I guess I'm asking why you did it. I'm clinging, here, to the hope that you at least had a reason. Although the idea that he hurt you in some way—”

Althea snaps to attention. “Oh God, Dad, no, he didn't—it wasn't—no. He's a creep, but not like that.”

“So he didn't deserve it.”

“I didn't say that, either.”

“I don't understand.”

Althea shakes her head. “I'm still working it out myself.”

“Just do me a favor. Call your mother tomorrow,” Garth says.

She squishes part of the meatball between the tines of her fork. “Why?”

“It's a bit much to keep it to ourselves. Just call her.” He pulls a few strands of spaghetti off her plate and dangles them into his mouth, licking the sauce from his fingers. “Did I use too much sugar?”

“Not quite.”

“Do you want something else? Ice cream or popcorn?”

“I don't want anything. I don't think anything's going to help.”

Garth settles in, finding the remote control under his thigh and pointing it at the television. “What is it tonight? Monsters or weather?”

“Dinosaurs.”

“Perfect.”

• • •

In the morning she wakes rolled in her quilt like a burrito. Face pressed into a cushion, she notices for the first time how much the couch smells like a waiting room.

Upstairs, next to the coffeemaker, Garth has left his address book. It's an ancient thing, a miniature three-ring binder filled with tiny gnarled pages, held together by a rubber band. Althea finds the most recent phone number they have for her mother, listed under
A
for
Alice
. A dozen others are crossed out.

At the table with her coffee and the cordless, she punches in the numbers, holding each one down so that it makes a loud, satisfying beep. Then she waits, listening to the static of the long-distance connection, imagining the pigeons perched on the wires that are transmitting this call to New Mexico.

Alice answers on the second ring. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“I guess you have caller ID now,” says Althea.

“You're not pregnant, are you?”

They haven't spoken in six months.

“Why would I call you if I—never mind. I'm not pregnant.” Already restless, she paces the kitchen.

“Are you in trouble?” Alice asks.

This gives Althea pause. Retreating to the basement, she finds her messenger bag, rifles through it for her cigarettes. “Why don't you define ‘trouble' and we'll go from there.”

“Did you get expelled?”

“How did you know that? Have you talked to Dad?” Fishing for her lighter, a pack of matches, anything.

“Of course you got expelled. I knew your father should have sent you to public school. It's practically impossible to get expelled from a public school. You just about have to stab a teacher. You didn't stab a teacher, did you?”

“Is it still called stabbing if I used a shiv? Or is that shivving someone? Or shanking? I can't remember. I'll have to look it up.” The only book of matches she can find, at the bottom of her bag with a handful of pennies and crumbs, is empty.

“It's only shanking if you use something you carved from the heel of your shoe. A shiv you can make out of anything.” There's music in the background, playing somewhere in Alice's house, a sincere voice and an electric guitar.

“How do you know that?” Althea asks.

“I know things. I have cable.”

“Are you listening to Bruce Springsteen?” Althea climbs back upstairs. In a kitchen drawer she finds the orange barbecue lighter.

“Thea, seriously. What's going on?”

Taking her cigarettes and coffee out onto the gazebo, Althea lies down on the bench, staring up at the wooden frame her father built himself. “I got expelled.”

“But for what?”

“At the time I thought it was an act of retribution.”

“And now?”

“And now I'm not so sure.”

Althea imagines Alice in her house in Taos, wearing turquoise jewelry she made herself, surrounded by homespun clay pots filled with handpicked flowers. When she married Garth, she loved the idea that he was a professor, picturing a series of teaching positions that would allow them to move every two years, being set up in a different university apartment each time, a constant parade of new people to entertain. Instead, Garth got tenure, bought a house, and Alice kept moving, choosing to pursue what Althea envisions as a life of basket- and blanket-weaving, cruise vacations for singles over forty, a medley of eight-week workshops and book clubs packed with women who incessantly discuss self-actualization and holistic methods for treating perimenopause. Althea finally lights her cigarette, not bothering to cover the phone's mouthpiece.

“You're smoking now, too?” Alice asks.

“I guess things aren't going very well.”

“Someday you're going to end up in therapy, paying someone a lot of money to tell you this is all my fault.”

“I can get someone to tell me that for free.”

“I'm sure your father says it all the time.”

This isn't actually true, but Althea doesn't say so. The opposite of those kids who yearn for their divorced parents to reunite, she's often disappointed by how little enmity Garth shows toward Alice. “How are things with you?”

“Getting ready for the winter. I bought a new pair of snowshoes. Thea, you don't sound okay.” There are breakfast sounds on Alice's end, maybe a pan scraping against the stove, or a fork whisking egg yolks in a dish until they're frothy. “Where's Oliver?”

“He expelled me, too.”

“That won't last,” Alice says quickly.

“I don't know, Mom. He seems pretty for sure about it.” Althea stubs out her cigarette on the heel of her shoe, wondering if it would, in fact, be possible to fashion a shank out of the hard rubber.

“Did things finally, you know, progress? Romantically?”

“No comment.”

“Honey, it was bound to get complicated. He's a teenage boy. Give him a few minutes; he'll get distracted by something shiny and forget whatever you did to make him so mad.”

“How can you tell the difference?” Althea asks. “When someone calls ‘game over,' how are you supposed to know if it's for real or not?”

“If it's only the first time they're saying it, then they don't really mean it. The fourth time, maybe the third, that's when you start taking them seriously.” Alice chews in Althea's ear.

“How many times did you have to tell Dad?”

“Your father did not give chase, Thea. In the end, I only had to tell him once.”

I was only five,
Althea thinks.
Was I supposed to give chase, too?
“You got any boyfriends out there?” she asks, sipping away at her coffee.

“A couple. Garth seeing anyone?”

“A steady procession of nubile undergraduates.” Surveying their backyard, Althea tries to picture Garth in a smoking jacket, holding court for a seraglio of coeds in tight jeans and bikini tops while he secretly wonders when he can return to his study and finish reading his latest mystery novel. “So if Dad had chased after you, you'd still be married?”

“Who the hell knows? Maybe the guy upstairs. Maybe not even him.” Another big sigh. “Look, you know if you wanted to, you could come out here for a while. I've got a spare bedroom. Some extra snowshoes.”

Alice might be a perfectly good mother, if Althea would only give her a chance. But Althea sees dream catchers, unfinished wooden rocking chairs, Native American–themed bedspreads. Some kind of weird healing tea that tastes like the ground; too many paintings of wolves and coyotes. Ten minutes on the phone with Alice is one thing; ten days in her adobe house would be quite another, and if there's an Alice-shaped hole in her life somewhere, it's safely in Althea's blind spot. Still, as often happens during these rare conversations with her mother, Althea feels herself softening unwillingly.