Break (9 page)

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“You’re brave.”

“I’m
desperate
.” God, people really needed to stop making me sound like some kind of hero.

“Naomi,” I say. “If people think my parents are hitting me, they’ll take Will and Jesse away from them. Will is fucking eight months old. He needs his parents. And how the hell is Jesse supposed to survive on his own?” I cut her off before she can start. “Stop. This isn’t okay. I never should have started this, and you know it.”

She swallows and I see all the muscles in her throat. “So we’ll be more careful,” she says. “We can just do fingers and toes and stuff.”

“Nom, what the hell? What do you get from this?”

“The video—”

“Don’t lie. It’s not the video.”

She smiles and stares down at the window seat. “I don’t want to tell you. It’s stupid.”

I realize the sun’s back.

“Tell me anyway.”

She plays with the upholstery. “You’re going for it, man.” She shrugs. “You’re putting your all into something. It’s . . . um, kind of inspiring?”

“It’s self-torture. Not exactly inspiring. Or even interesting.”

“It’s not self-torture. Don’t belittle it like that.” She shakes her head. “Don’t pretend that’s why you’re doing it. Just because it will make it easier to stop.”

I don’t say anything.

“You want to get stronger. You want to be a better person.”

“Jesus Christ, Naomi, I’m not some sort of martyr. I’m not even a novelty.
Everyone
wants to be a better person.”

“But you’re going for it.” She throws her arms around my neck. It’s like hugging a doll. “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So don’t stop,” she whispers. “Keep inspiring me.”

All best friends are the same because you’ll do anything for them.

She’d do it instead, if I asked. She’d break her neck for me.

“I’ll think about,” I say.

Aw, shit.

NEXT DAY DURING DINNER, NO JESSE. INSTEAD,
just the
squeak squeak squeak
of his arms on the rowing machine.

And Will shrieks.

Dad leads grace then slices into his chicken breast. “Did Jesse eat already?”

“He’s not eating,” I say, and stick a piece of cheese in Will’s mouth. He spits it out.

Squeak squeak squeak.

“What do you mean, he’s not eating?”

“He means he had a smoothie,” Mom says, reaching for a drumstick.

Will bangs his hands in his strained carrots.

I say, “No. I mean he’s not eating. He hasn’t eaten all day. I don’t think he’s eaten since the hospital.”

“Of course he has.”

“I really don’t think so.”

Because I keep offering him food and he keeps blowing me off. Because the blender’s sparkly clean. Because he’s pale as hell.

Dad looks at me. “Why are you wearing that sling?”

“My wrist is sore. Can we talk about Jesse?”

He cuts into his meat. Only my father would use a knife and fork to eat fried chicken. He’s still in his suit. “If he weren’t eating, he’d be having trouble.”

“No, he wouldn’t. He’d probably be healthier. I think that’s the point. The only way he could have an attack would be by, you know, touching Will’s shit you leave lying around.”

“Language, Jonah!”

“Stuff.”

I hear them both exhale.

“So, what’s the problem?” Mom says. “He’s afraid of having another reaction?”

She says it like it’s an irrational fear. Sometimes I really don’t think she gets how terrifying the reactions are.

“I can’t read his mind, Mom. I just know he’s not eating. Maybe because he can barely breathe in this house as it is—”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

I hear them both keep breathing.

Squeak squeak squeak.

Baby screaming.

I take a thigh from the fried chicken bucket.

“Just give him some time,” Dad says.

“How long? An hour? A week?”

Dad straightens his tie. “Come on. He’ll be fine.”

End of discussion. Apparently we’re fine!

Mom and Dad have Bible study and Jesse blows out to some kind of sports practice, so I stay home with the baby. I lie on my bed with my eyes closed, while he crawls along my carpet and cries intermittently. I try very hard not to think. About why the damn baby won’t stop crying. About how skinny Jess can get.

My hand twitches toward the hammer beside me.

Why do I have a hammer?

Because I took it from downstairs.

For Naomi. For me. I exhale.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, Jonah.

If you have a problem with Jesse, deal with Jesse.

Don’t take it out on your toes.

I look at them and wiggle the eight I didn’t break in the first skateboard crash. Might as well walk while I can, I decide, and head downstairs.

Because I just don’t want to think about Jesse right now.

I plop Will in his high chair and open the refrigerator. Just the thought of eating half this crap makes me want to throw up. My jaw’s killing me, so I settle on a milkshake. I’ll make up for the calories Jess isn’t getting.

I scoop chocolate ice cream and milk into the blender, and it takes me like an hour to find the button to make it spin. No one uses this blender but Jesse. I pour my milkshake into a glass and end up with half of it on the floor. And of course we’re out of paper towels. “Stay in the chair,” I tell Will, and he looks like he nods through his tears. It’s the first flash of sweetness I’ve ever gotten from the kid, and I scoop some milkshake into his mouth as a reward. He actually smiles.

He babbles while I tilt some milkshake into a sippy cup for him. He spills all over the tray of his high chair and starts crying again.

All good things end, I guess.

He splashes in the brown puddle. He’s got milkshake all over him. I tweak him on the nose and venture into the garage for a new roll of paper towels.

I hear footsteps in the kitchen—definitely not Will—and when I return, Jess stands by the table, stripping off his layers of hockey clothes.

I say, “What are you doing home?”

“Practice was canceled.”

I turn away from him to hang the paper towels up. His gloves and coat rustle as he pulls them off.

He says, “What the hell has Will got on him?”

“Don’t touch—”

I turn around and there’s Jesse, his hand on Will’s sticky arm.

“Jesse, shit, I told you don’t touch him!” I grab Jesse’s arm and yank him away. There’s milkshake on his hand. Oh shit, shit, shit.

Will takes his yelling up a hundred decibels.

I force Jess to the sink and hold his hand under the water. His whole hand is swollen. God. He’s so bad with milk. This is so bad. This is so bad.

And I could take care of him so much fucking better if I had two hands.

“What is it?” he says. His voice is that forced calm.

“Chocolate milkshake.”

“The hives, man.”

They’re up to his shoulder already. His arm is almost twice the size of the other.

“Ow,” he breathes.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” And he’s even standing in the puddle I spilled. This is unbelievable. I can’t . . . how the hell did I do this?

I’m
such
an idiot.

“What the hell were you doing?” he says. “Why didn’t you clean him up?”

“I didn’t think you were home—”

“Why the hell were you using my blender, anyway?”

God. I take the only clean thing he has in the whole house, and I put milk and chocolate in it.

I should be shot.

Washing isn’t working. His face is swelling. He’s got hives all over his neck and if they’re in his neck, they’re about to be in his throat.

“Sit down.” I push him into the living room and yell to him while I root through the cabinets. “Don’t scratch!”

“What the fuck kind of harm is that going to do now?” He shudders and breathes, and I hear every muscle in his throat. I hear the deep, deep whistle in his chest.

My hand freezes on the bottle of Benadryl. “Can you breathe?”

He doesn’t answer, and that’s all I need.

When your little brother’s about to die, for a second it doesn’t matter that it’s your fault and you’re scared to death and you only have one arm. For a second, you turn into a robot.

I snatch the bottle from the shelf and wrench off the cap. I stand over him with one foot on his knee and say, “Open your mouth.”

I pour the pink syrup down his throat. Some leaks through the blue oxygen-starved skin of his lips and dribbles onto his chin. I cover his mouth with my hand. “You will not choke,” I tell him. “You will not throw up. You will drink. You will get this all down.”

He keeps trying to look into my eyes and I keep looking away. He’s crying, but it’s just fear, and it’s just the immune response. It’s not real. We’re robots.

He swallows and I take my hand away.

“Breathe,” I say. “Now.”

He’s coughing. His chest makes noises like a truck.

I’m clutching the EpiPen.

In his high chair, Will positively howls.

“Come on, man,” I say.

And Jesse breathes.

When your little brother looks at you and you almost just destroyed him, you can’t be a robot anymore.

He slumps onto me, more out of exhaustion than affection. His face is so red and hot. I lower the sticky bottle to the table. The guilt is a big ball of yarn at the bottom of my stomach. Breaking bones hurts less than this.

“You’re okay,” I say, and push him away because I might still have milk on me. “But look, man, we’ve got to get to a hospital.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to. I’m okay.”

“Jesse.”

He inhales—it’s harsh, but it’s there. “If the reaction spikes again, we’ll go. But I’ll just . . . I’ll load up on Benadryl and I’ll sleep it off.”

“Man—”

“Come on, brother.” He nails me with those teary eyes. “We were just at the hospital.”

I stand up and walk away from him, toward the high chair. I’ve got to give Will a bath. “You’re being ridiculous. I am not going to let you—”

“What will Mom and Dad say?”

I’m quiet.

“If they find out I’m having a reaction because of something you did, they won’t listen to you anymore. They’ll stop taking you seriously when you tell them to clean up. They’ll use it against you all the time.”

I close my eyes and lean over the high chair. “Hush, Jesse.”

“They will never trust you to take care of me. Come on, Jonah.”

“Stop.”

“Come on. Don’t do it. Don’t call an ambulance. I hate ambulances.”

He really does. He always says I could get him there faster.

Not that I could drive him right now. I’m so fucking useless.

“Don’t make me go, Jonah.”

Will screams, and I turn away from him and face Jesse, and I put my hands in my hair. “All right!” I say. “All right. Stay here.”

Jesse stares at his lap, quietly triumphant.

“Stay here,” I say.

I send Jesse up to his room—he’ll bang on the floor if he needs me—and I clean everything and give Will a good bath in the sink. I scrub him so hard I can’t even blame him for screaming. But I do anyway.

It’s a horrible, metallic relief to be away from Jesse. I pick up the phone.

And ten minutes later the doorbell rings and there she is. She stands on my doorstep with a handful of tulips. One red blossom peeks out of her bun.

I say, “Charlotte.”

“I’m right here. Are you all right?”

I want to hold her, but I’ve got the baby. She reaches out and takes him, and the freedom to not be responsible for him anymore is almost as good as a hug.

She shakes the flowers. “Can I bring these or are flowers not good?”

My throat is stuck or I’d say that say flowers are fine, but since I can’t she leaves them in our garden. I stop her before she unpins the one in her hair.

“Where is he?” she says. “Upstairs?”

“Uh-huh. I just checked him. He’s fine. I made him take more Benadryl—”

She kisses both my cheeks and pulls me down next to her on the couch. “Just calm down, honey.”

“I . . . God, I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Of course I’m here. You called.”

“This was all my fault.”

She says, “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“No. It was. I was making a milkshake and I gave some to Will and Will was a mess, and I just left him there. I just left him there for Jess to touch.”

“Jonah, calm down.”

“I messed everything up.” I wish I could cuss in front of Charlotte because I could seriously use a scream right now.

She holds me, my head against her chest. My face is right next to Will’s.

I make sobbing
huh-huh-huh
noises to match his cries.

“Jonah, shhhh.” She strokes my hair. “Shh. He’s okay now.”

“It’ll happen again.”

“Shhh.”

“It’s gonna happen again.”

“Oh, sweetheart . . .”

There’s nothing for her to say, but it helps to have my head on her boobs.

I’m hysterical, not unconscious.

“This is not your fault,” she says. “It’s just something that happened. So just take some deep breaths, and tell me if I can do anything to help.”

“Just don’t leave me here alone with Jess and the baby. Just stay, okay?”

“Okay.”

Charlotte makes me tea, and I kiss her.

She imitates her choir director and jokes about her Biology grades, and she laughs, and I laugh, and I don’t know if it’s inappropriate to be happy right now, but she holds me so close and I feel her and I touch her.

Charlotte is a prism for my life. Without her, my existence looks pale and bleak and somewhere near the middle of the suck-meter. But around her, I see clearly that my life isn’t made up of anything mediocre, but instead is some combination of the amazing and the dreadful— my brother who adores me, my parents who want what’s best for me, my brother who’s dying, my parents who won’t understand me. It’s not gray at all; it’s too painfully colorful and fantastic and awful for me to see without her help.

And sometimes I realize all that color is too much.

“Someday it will be better,” I tell her.

She kisses me. “I know.”

“I can’t wait.”