When You Go Away (5 page)

     "It's Brooke.  She's sick, Ryan.  I don't know what to do."

     "Like I do?"

     "We've--we've got to call someone.  We've got to call Grandma Mackenzie.  Maybe Dad."

     Ryan rolled his eyes.  "Yeah.  He'll care.  He'll come racing up here from
Phoenix
any second now."

     "She's sick.  She's really sick.  Worse than the time you gave her that chocolate syrup."  The sentence stuck hard in her throat.  She could have brought up another illness, but she didn't.  She needed him to see everything.  He'd given Brooke a taste of chocolate syrup when she was two, and she'd thrown up all her formula, breathing in some of the barf and getting really sick.  Carly could still remember the way their dad had looked at Ryan, his eyes hard and small, his finger pointing to the middle of Ryan’s chest.

     Ryan bit his lip and stared at the yellowed linoleum.  "What’s wrong with her?"

     "A fever.  I can't get it to go away."

     "Shit.  Shit!"

     "Come and check her."

     "I'm supposed to kick it with Quinn.  I've gotta go."  He started to walk past her, but Carly grabbed his arm hard, feeling how he'd changed, his arm not skinny any more but more like her dad's, or at least what her dad's used to feel like.

     "Please.  I--I can't do it.  I can't do it
anymore
."

     He clenched his fist, his muscles moving under her fingers, and then he relaxed into the brother she remembered from long ago, the one who used to play foot war with her on the couch.  They used to name their feet Graham and Peri, their feet fighting out the marriage, as if one contest could answer the question of why they were all unhappy.

     "Fine.  Whatever.  Okay.  Let's go check."

     They walked together into the room, the smell of Brooke's hot skin--lotion, formula, peroxide--reaching them before they made it to the door.  "Fuck."  Ryan pushed ahead.  He sat down by her bed and lifted the washcloth.  "She's on fire."

     "I gave her some Tylenol.  In the peg."

     "It's not working now.  Where's the thermometer?"

     Carly handed it to him, and he stared at it.  "How do you use this thing?"

     "Here."  Carly grabbed it and moved in front of him, placing it in Brooke's ear.  She didn't want to look.  She didn't want to see, but then it beeped and she had to, for Brooke.  "One hundred and three."

     "That's not that bad.  Can't it like get higher before . . .?”

     "Before what, Ryan?  She like totally dies?"

     "What's the highest it can go?"

     "I don't know.  Like 106 or something.  But your brain fries."

     They were both silent, staring down at Brooke, her skin and hair almost matching.  Outside, cars drove in and out of the parking lot, and Carly wondered if one of them might be their mother's.  Peri would come home, bringing medicine and doctors and lots of money.  "There is that pink shit in the refrigerator," Ryan said.  "It's still there. Almost half a bottle or something."

     "I don't know.  I think we should call 911."

     Ryan shook his head.  "Mom. She'll be like in total shit."

     "I know.  But she's not here.  She--she left us.  And Brooke is bad now.  I can't do it
anymore
."

     "I say we give her the medicine. 
You
can do it.  In the peg."

     "No.  I've been doing stuff all day.  What if the medicine's old?  We can't wait any more.  She might stop breathing all together.  She . . . " Her sister moaned, and Carly stopped talking.  Brooke was listening to them, even in the burn of her fever.

     "But if we call 911, they'll wonder where Mom is.  And she'll be screwed.  We can't call Grandma Mackenzie either.  Or Grandpa," Ryan said, whispering now.

     "I don't even have their numbers.  I looked today all over the apartment.  Mom took them."

     “We could go to
Oakland
on BART. I bet I could find Grandpa’s.”

     “What?” Carly shook her head.  He didn’t know anything.  “And leave her?  Alone?  And I don’t want to stay by myself
anymore
.”

     “Fine.  Okay.”   Ryan sat down on Brooke's bed, pulling the sheet away to expose her   legs.  "What are those red spots?"

     "I don't know.  I only noticed them today."

     He tucked the sheet around her body and clenched his hands between his thighs.  "So, what?  What should we do?"

     "There is someone.  You know.  Mrs. Candelero.  She's a nurse."

     "That old lady?  Why would we bring her up here?  She'll be talking about it for the rest of her life."

     Carly grabbed his arm, and hissed, "If not her, 911.  I'm not going to stay with Brooke like this one more minute.  You've just like totally bailed on me.  I've been with her for two whole days.  You go off with Quinn, and I have to feed her, I have to worry.  And it's not like it's been normal with Mom for weeks and weeks.  So I don't even care what you say.  I’m going down to Mrs. Candelero's now."

     She said all this, but she didn't move, her hand still tight on his bicep.  Ryan didn't pull away, but touched her hand, softly rubbing it.  "Okay.  Okay.  Jeez.  I'll stay with Brooke and you go get Mrs. Candelero."

     Letting go, she backed away, looking at Brooke, glad that in less than five minutes things would be better.  "Her name is Rosie.  Don't call her Mrs. Candelero.  She doesn’t like it."

     "If you call, I'm out of here," Ryan said, his hands on his hips, standing over Rosie, who knelt beside the bathtub holding Brooke up in the cold water.  "There's going to be cops, and I don't want any part of it."

     "Well, you better get your ass gone because I’m calling in about five minutes.  Once I get this fever manageable, I’m all over my phone, so pack your bags."

     Ryan swore lightly under his breath and then turned to Carly, his face red.  "I told you this would happen."

     Carly frowned at Ryan, handing Rosie a towel as she lifted Brooke up.  "There, sweetie.  You feel better?  You're not so hot now."  Carly helped her pat Brooke dry, while Ryan stood in the doorway.

     "What is it?  What does she have?"  Ryan asked.

     "You still here?  I thought you'd left already."  Rosie lifted Brooke to her chest and carefully stepped through the door and down the hall to the bedroom.  "You have that Tylenol?"

     Carly handed her the Tylenol and the syringe after Rosie laid Brooke down.  "That's all we have left."

     "That should do for now.  I need that ice pack, Ryan."

     "What does she have?"

     "Listen, I’m no MD, as I am reminded every day at work.  But I can tell you she has an upper respiratory infection.  Maybe pneumonia.  She needs to get to the hospital.  I've got this fever down, but it's only temporary, you understand?"

     Ryan blinked, his mouth open.  "Oh."

     "So, the ice pack?"

     Ryan went to the kitchen for ice.  Rosie put a clean diaper on Brooke and then covered her with a sheet.  "I need my phone, Carly."

     "My mom. She'll . . ."

     "Yeah.  I know.  But if she could see what we're looking at, she'd do what I'm doing.  I don't doubt it for the world.  I’ve seen your mom.  She’s tender for you all.”

     Carly nodded, knowing that was true, even when her mother was still and silent under the covers.

     “So, sweetie,” Rosie said.   “Could you get my purse?  I have my cell phone in it."

     She turned and went to the living room, grabbing Rosie's heavy black leather purse.  As she carried it back to the bedroom, she heard things jangling and clicking together inside it, and she wanted to stick her hand inside and pull something out, remembering the grab bag presents from her second grade classroom.  Her mother usually carried a sleek tan purse, so small all she could fit inside it were her wallet, keys, and sunglasses.  But Rosie seemed to have a world inside hers.

     "Okay.  Let's get the phone."  Rosie dug around, lifting out a candle, timer, her wallet, and a spoon.  "It's here somewhere.  Oh!  Okay."

     "Tell them it's not her fault,” Carly said.  “She didn't mean to!  She didn't know what she was doing.  Tell them--tell them how sick Brooke always is."  Tears pushed out her eyes and ran down her face. 

     Rosie moved her stuff away from her and pulled Carly down on the bed, putting an arm around her.  "I'm going to tell the truth.  That's what you did when you came to get me, and that's what I'll do when I talk to the paramedics."

     Leaning into Rosie's shoulder, Carly nodded, wanting this part to be over even if the next part was worse.  At least then, Brooke would be okay.  Brooke wouldn't die.

     "Ryan, take your sister back to the apartment.  I'll stay at the hospital until Brooke’s all right, okay?  I’ll call as soon as I can."  Rosie patted his cheek, and Carly noticed he didn’t flinch.

     Rosie dropped her hand, and Ryan pulled Carly to him, holding her wrist.  "All right."

     Before the paramedic closed the door, Carly saw Brooke wrapped in a sheet on the gurney, one small hand reaching up.  Rosie took it, held it to her cheek, and talked to her.  If anyone should be in that ambulance, Carly thought, it should be her mom, not a stranger, even if Rosie was nice.  Carly felt something new inside her flare hot and constant like the pilot light in the apartment's one heater.  The ambulance drove off, neither Carly nor Ryan moving until the noise of the big engine disappeared in the night air.  The small crowd of people that had gathered stared at them, eyebrows raised, hands at their mouths, and then walked away without saying anything to them.  Carly wondered if one of them was the terrible Ted, who was supposed to collect the rent.  "Have a good enough look?"  Ryan called after them, but not loud enough for anyone to hear.  "Assholes."  He looked down at Carly.  "Come on.  Let's wait inside."

     "Don't go."

     "I'm not going.  I’m sitting here, aren't I?"  Ryan shook his head and punched at the remote control, flicking through the channels without seeming to look at one single show.  He finally paused at The West Wing, and both of them stared at the screen, trying to find
a way to let the show pull them away from the empty apartment.  But all Carly could see was who wasn't there, her mom, Brooke, her father.

     "Shit."  Ryan threw down the remote.  "I can't fucking believe this."

     "What's going to happen?"

     “Who cares?  You don’t see anyone here but some lady from downstairs, do you?”

     “You like her.”

     “So?” Ryan moved away from her, crossing his legs.

     “But what the police and stuff?”

     "Who knows?"

    She thought about all the people who would soon know that their mother had left, the doctors and nurses and lawyers, people who could change things. "What about Mom?  What are they going to say about Mom?"

     He stood up, running his hands through his red hair.  Carly was the only brunette in the family beside her mother, but Carly was even darker.  Her mother always told her she had Grandma Janice’s coloring, but Carly wondered if people thought she was adopted. Sometimes when they'd all been out as a family, she'd pretended she was adopted, a changeling, pulling slightly aside, walking behind her fire-haired family, imagining who her real parents were, the parents who really loved her.  Lately, she hadn't had to pretend.  Every night, she wished something would happen or someone would come to take away the sad feeling, the days that felt like bad nights full of horrible dreams.

     "Look, Carly,” Ryan said.  “It's too late to worry now.  Brooke's at the hospital.  Everyone will know.  I don't care at this point.  I really don't."

     "You're just mad.  You care.  You were telling Rosie you would leave."

     "Yeah, well I
don't
care.  It's not my problem.  Mom's no better than Dad now anyway.  And I thought he was the complete asshole."

     "Don't say that."

     "Why?  Isn't it true?"

     "You left me, too.  You left me for two days all alone.  You didn't help me take care of Brooke or do the laundry or feed her.  You don't even know how.  You were off with Quinn, smoking or whatever . . ." Carly bent forward, her forehead on her knees, the scratch of her jeans on her face, wanting her mother to come in and touch her back, rub her neck, say, "I'm so sorry, baby.  It will all be better."  But there was nothing except the live wire of Ryan body, the hum of his anxiety that matched hers, the whine of the refrigerator. 

     "I . . . I--" he began, but then there was a knock and a voice at the door.  He stood up, ready to let in whoever was there.  Ready to let their whole lives change.

At 2.30, Carl Randall was up at the tennis court next to the
Montclair
fire station, sitting next to his old buddy Ralph Jones, waiting for another two players so they could get a doubles match going.  It was Wednesday, the spring afternoon swelling with late heat, the sun reflecting off the metal fence.  Carl sat with his elbows on his thighs, spinning his racket on its end.