Watch Over Me (19 page)
The boy smiled a little.
I will. Tomorrow.
“Good.” He motioned to the book. “You planning on solving one of those?”
Not me.
Benjamin paused. He stared at the boy’s scrawl and realized he had no idea what meaning to put on it.
Not me, I’m not smart enough
to do something like that? Not me, I won’t have enough time?
Just how sick was he?
Benjamin wasn’t sure he should ask. Matthew had a reason for not telling them, and Benjamin understood all about hiding weakness. A pride thing. A guy thing. Or, simply a thing humans suffered because of this sin-drenched world. He wouldn’t put the kid in a position of having to answer, when he was still trying to figure out his own questions.
“Then, tomorrow,” Benjamin said.
Matthew nodded.
In the truck, Benjamin smiled at the thought of going home. More specifically, of going home to his family. To his wife and baby. He turned on the radio. And he whistled.
Abbi dreaded going to her yearly exam, but because of her history she couldn’t miss it. She was at an increased risk for cervical cancer, so she put up with the prodding and swabbing so both she and Benjamin would have peace of mind. He more so than her. He knew her appointments came around September, and by the end of the month, if she hadn’t given him any sort of update, he’d begin pestering her to go and get checked.
She read
Good Housekeeping
magazine in the waiting room, with Silvia, and the nurse called her name. Abbi perspired as they approached the scale in the hallway and the nurse said, “Step on.” She removed her shoes—that would shave off a pound or two—and got on the wobbling platform. Squeezed her eyes shut. Each year she told herself she wouldn’t look, and each year she did anyway. One hundred sixty-eight pounds. Eleven pounds heavier than last weigh-in.
She only learned her weight during these appointments; Benjamin didn’t allow a scale in the house, and she loved him for that. As a child, her mother had weighed her every day, sometimes two or three times, until Abbi turned thirteen and decided to refuse.
She wasn’t chubby; she was fat, despite her mother putting her on a perpetual diet from the time the scale inched over fifty pounds when she turned five. She went to kindergarten with her Care Bears lunch box stuffed with mustard and lettuce sandwiches on thin, low-calorie bread, celery sticks, and a thermos of skim milk, while the other kids traded Ding-Dongs and Handi-Snacks. She wanted nothing more than to smear that salty cheese onto crackers with a little red plastic stick.
Sometimes she kept to the diet. Sometimes she snuck food. Not from home—her mother always knew exactly how many packages of granola bars remained in each box, exactly how each orange was positioned in the fruit drawer. In elementary school, she’d take change from the ashtray of her father’s car to buy a sixty-five-cent ice cream, or two. By junior high she’d chuck her packed lunch in the trash and feast on chips, Slush Puppies—with tons of syrup and very little ice— and tater tots, purchased with her babysitting money.
She wasn’t the fat outcast; that was Joy-Marie Ingersman, with dandruff and body odor, who wore stirrup pants and her brother’s peeling Nirvana T-shirts every day. Abbi’s parents had money and status—a lawyer and a state senator. She wore trendy clothes and let the popular girls copy her Spanish homework. The in-crowd kept her around for the ego boost. “Oh, Abbi,” they’d say, “you’re so lucky you can eat whatever you want. If I gain five pounds, Coach will kick me off the cheerleading squad.”
She refused to go away to college as any kind of fat girl, and spent the summer first walking, then jogging, then running the wooded trails behind the YMCA, listening to the trees and birds, stopping to eat a handful of sour wild-buffalo berries when the trail erased in the brambles. She ate little more than that, slept too much to escape the hunger headaches, and the pounds fell off—more than thirty.
But the food kept getting in the way, and she knew she hadn’t the willpower to be anorexic. She tried vomiting a few times, once with her finger but mostly by poking her toothbrush into the back of her throat. And she wasn’t cut out for that, either—the chunks of chewed carrot or sugar snap peas forced into her nose from the heaving, the pain of blowing them out, or the coughing fits from sniffing them back down her throat.
With the laxatives came freedom. Oh, she cramped the first few times she took them, sat on the toilet with her toes curled, breathing as if she were in labor, until her body adjusted to her daily senna regimen and she ate what she wanted and popped those pills, and the weight stayed gone.
And then Benjamin came along and caught her dipping into the laxative bottle, just twice, but enough for him to understand. He told her she was beautiful, and she made it out to be less than it was— “Just once a week, really. Not even.”—and managed to cut back to a couple of episodes a month, after big meals or during exams when she had no time to exercise.
After they married, she stopped—she had to. She couldn’t bolt to the toilet every morning without suspicion—except for his weekends away with the Guard, and even then, she found she didn’t need or want them as much. She didn’t purge to be thin, not really. She did it for the same reason she binged, some bizarre paradox of simultaneous self-soothing and self-loathing that not even coming face-to-face with the living Christ at nineteen could end.
That bothered her most of all; each time she swallowed those pills, or drank a half-dozen glasses of Metamucil, or simply binged until she felt as if her stomach would split, she denied the reality of Jesus’ sacrifice. He died so she wouldn’t have to allow the bulimia to overcome her. But some part of her didn’t want to give it up. She feared if she stopped the purging, she’d end up that fat girl again. That scared her more than grieving God.
The nurse handed Abbi a paper blanket for her lap, and after her exam the receptionists passed Silvia around. Then Abbi went home and ate, and didn’t stop until Benjamin came through the door
.
“I have to grab some groceries,” she said to Matthew, standing over him.
He wrote on his pad and held it up to her—
I’ll be here
— from his back, on the floor with Silvia, his legs sprawled in the opposite direction of hers, their faces inches apart. The baby giggled each time Matthew made a noise or smacked kisses on her lips.
Abbi nudged him with her ankle. “The sky’s about to open up. Come with me, and I’ll bring you home when I’m done. You don’t want to get stuck riding home in the rain.”
My bike?
“Ben can drop it off tonight or in the morning.”
Matthew stood with Silvia, ambled across the living room with wide, uncoordinated steps, his teenaged sneakers too large at the end of his thin legs. Thunder cracked, loud enough to vibrate the front window, and Silvia tensed, arching her back and crying her startled cry. Matthew squinted at Abbi.
“Thunder. It scared her.”
He nodded and cuddled the baby close. Abbi gave him a smocked blouse and tiny shorts to dress her in and then bent over and tied a red bandana around her own hair. “Let’s get out of here before it starts pouring.”
She took the diaper bag and an umbrella, and Matthew carried the baby, strapping her into the car seat and remaining next to her in the back. The rain pelted the windshield in plump, explosive drops as soon as Abbi backed from the driveway. “Good timing,” she said, forgetting for a moment Matthew couldn’t hear her. She didn’t repeat her words.
Pulling up in front of the Food Mart, she saw a girl standing out front, under the roof overhang, smoking. She tucked the cigarette behind her back, dropped it, one foot stealthily smothering the butt. Abbi cut the engine and the headlights, turned around to Matthew, who looked up.
“That’s your cousin out front?”
Matthew glanced out the window. Shrugged. Abbi looked toward the store again; the girl was gone. “She must have gone inside. If I see her, I’ll ask if she wants a ride. Stay here, okay?”
Abbi darted from the car through the glass doors, shaking off the rain and greeting Martha, the cashier. She made a bit of small talk about Silvia, and with a shopping basket over her arm, grabbed a container of strawberries, a bottle of Head & Shoulders for Benjamin, a cucumber, and two boxes of prunes. She had come only for the prunes but didn’t want to admit that to herself, or the cashier. And Benjamin had run out of shampoo that morning.
As she paid, she saw the smoking girl plucking videos from the rack near the front of the store, glancing at the back of the cases for a second before sticking them back. “Skye, right?”
The girl fumbled with the movie she held; it slipped from her hand, clattering to the linoleum. She left it there. “Sorry. Yeah. Hi, um, Mrs. Patil.”
“Do you need a ride?” Abbi asked.
“Uh, no. It’s okay. I’m just gonna wait out the rain here. These storms, you know. They’re loud but they don’t, uh, really like, last long.”
“I have Matt in the car, and I’m going that way.”
Skye finally bent down to retrieve the dropped video. She jammed it into the rack, knocking two more out. Swearing softly, she picked those up, too. Wiped the back of her hand across her upper lip. Abbi went over to her. “Look,” she said in Skye’s ear. “Relax. Matt didn’t see it, and I won’t say anything about you-know-what out front.” She took the movies from the girl and placed them on their proper shelves. “Come on.”
“Okay, yeah,” Skye said.
They scampered to the car, Abbi slamming the driver’s side door and dropping the grocery bag between her and Skye. “I found her,” she said to Matthew, who smiled and waved at his cousin.
“Hey,” Skye said, barely glancing over her shoulder. She jerked too hard on the seat belt and it jammed. Again. A third time. “Ugh. Stupid thing.”
“It does that sometimes,” Abbi told her, though it never did.
“Pull slowly.”
Finally Skye buckled herself in, and Abbi drove carefully through the rain, the drops long and thin now, like needles. The teenager plucked at her thumbnail.
Click, click. Click, click. Click.
And when Abbi stopped at the curb of the apartment, Skye jumped from the car, closing the seat belt in the door.
Matthew saw it, pointed.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix it when I get home. Thanks for all your help today, and I’ll see you Thursday.”
He nodded, and before going inside came around to the passenger door, opened it, and tugged the belt back into place. Abbi rolled her eyes, waving him away with a laugh. The kid was too perfect; she wasn’t surprised his cousin didn’t want him to know she’d been smoking.
He turned off the lawn mower and waited for his bones to stop vibrating, then maneuvered the machine into the back of the shed, in the corner behind Abbi’s pottery wheel. He was careful not to bump anything; once he’d knocked some sort of urn off the worktable and had debated against telling Abbi, thought he might leave the broken pieces and pretend he knew nothing of what happened. But Matthew couldn’t, of course, and he gathered the shards in some newspaper and brought them into the house with a long note of apology scribbled on three notepad pages with promises of repayment and working for free. Abbi read the first line—
I’m so sorry
—and dropped the pieces in the trash can, except one. She squeezed that piece until it crumbled and let the dust fall through her fingers, brushed it on her shorts.
“Just some clay and paint,” she said, and it was one of the few times he’d been certain her tone would have told him something more.
Untangling the weed trimmer from the rakes and shovels, he tried to wiggle it from the small space but lost his grip on the handle. He shook his left hand. His skin felt too tight, and when he pressed his thumbnail into each fingertip, he knew he’d lost sensation. He had been worried about this after he woke this morning with his access arm twisted under his body, his hand rubbery numb, as if he’d slept on it most of the night.
He pressed his right palm against his fistula, feeling for the thrill, the whoosh of blood through his joined veined and artery. It was gone. He gritted his teeth and jerked his head forward in frustration, punched his outer thigh with his right fist. Then he went inside to find Abbi and the deputy.
They sat at the table—she with a grapefruit and a bowl of some curly grain, he with a buttered bagel. They spoke softly, fingers almost touching.
“Matt,” Abbi said. “There’s bagels, and cinnamon quinoa on the stove, and lots of fruit. Help yourself.”
I need help.
“What’s wrong?” Benjamin asked, shoulders going rigid.
He held out his arm.
I think I have a clot. In my access. Please call this number and tell them.
Benjamin nodded, took the pad. “I will,” he said, and flipped his phone from his belt.
They’re closed Saturday. Someone will be on call.
Benjamin dialed, wrote another number, pressed a button and dialed again. Abbi got up from the table, Silvia swaddled against her chest in the black fabric wrap. “This is because of us, isn’t it? We worked you too hard.”
He shook his head.
Benjamin snapped his phone closed. “The nurse said to go to the hospital. Let me call your aunt.”
“No,” Matthew said slowly—N’s were difficult, having the same tongue position as L and H—making sure to feel the sound vibrate through his face, to keep it buzzing. He shook his head again, harder.
Abbi and Benjamin looked at one another, as if startled by his voice.
“She needs to know. She’ll probably want to take you herself,” Benjamin said.
No. I’ll go by ambulance, if you’ll call for me.
“Matt . . .”
Please, just call the ambulance.
“I’ll drive you,” Abbi said.
“We’ll take the Durango,” Benjamin said. “You stay with Silvia.”
“I’m coming.”
“I’m not speeding with the baby in the car.”
“I’ll leave her with the McGees.”