House Arrest (5 page)

WEEK 10

I know I can't go to José's house
to help work on the car.
Duh, James.
I was just mentioning it, that's all.
You don't have to always jump down my throat
trying to snatch away my words
like they are bombs about to tear the world apart.
I'm just writing in my journal
like I'm supposed to do.
Jeez.
Do you think every thought I have
is about breaking rules?
Do you think every thought I have
is about how to drive you crazy?
Your squinched-up lips
and grouchy eyebrows
say yes.
Ugh.
Could you be more of a tool?
That is not a challenge.

Baby Signing Adventure.
A DVD left on the mat,
seemingly innocent
but like a time bomb
ticking ticking ticking
MILK MILK MILK
in a CUP CUP CUP
I LOVE LOVE LOVE
My MILK in a CUP.
MORE MORE MORE
MILK in my CUP
I LOVE LOVE LOVE
MORE MILK in my CUP.
Someone left this DVD for Levi
but as a punishment for me,
right?
Because, you guys.
This is worse than juvie.
I am not even kidding.
Five times he's watched this DVD today.
FIVE TIMES.
Happy leg kicking away.
I can almost see the smoke
shooting from his ears
as that little brain of his works and works.
But seriously.
Baby Signing Adventure
might kill me.
For real.
My ears will bleed from all those songs.
My heart will explode from running
to get away from Miss Jill
and her pointy talking fingers.
But Levi can't get enough.
So thanks.
Whoever left it here.
I guess.

No, Mrs. B.
There is no way
no how
no where
no when
that Mom would ever
in one million years
allow a benefit to raise money
to help us.
Because we don't need help.
We're just like everyone else.
Or so she says.

I got home from school,
Marisol handed me a package.
An envelope with padding.
Can you fit a million dollars
in an envelope with padding?
I opened it and must have given her a look
because she laughed.
What are these?
Chains.
I can see that, Marisol.
For Levi. Come here. Help me.
We burrito-ized Levi.
I whispered the story in his ear,
the one about the dragon
and the knight who talks with his fingers.
Marisol unfastened the fabric around his neck,
the ties that hold his trach in place,
the ties that get ten times disgusting
whenever he barfs
or spits out his milk
or sweats
or all of those things combined.
Marisol gently pulled the ties away from the trach,
using her other hand to hold the trach in Levi's neck.
One slip,
one distraction,
and the trach could fall out,
could mean no more breathing for Levi.
Hand me the chains?
I handed them over and she measured the perfect fit.
Cut right here.
I took the wire cutters from the package.
I cut right there.
Marisol connected the chain through the trach
and around Levi's neck.
No more yucky ties.
She smiled.
So easy to clean.
I smiled.
And look at that cute little neck!
Levi smiled.
OK. So. Not as good as a million dollars.
But close.

There are sharks in my throat.
Tiny sharks.
With supersharp teeth.
With laser eyes.
They are destroying my throat.
From the inside out.

There are trolls in my head.
Evil trolls.
With superheavy hammers.
With thundering fists.
They are destroying my head.
From the inside out.
It's possible I am dying.
Infected with sharks and trolls.
But I have a math test today.
NO REST FOR THE WEARY.

I can hear them downstairs.
Mom has that voice.
The one she uses when she's really mad
but trying to be calm.
I call it her
I Will Kill You, But in a Superpolite Way voice.
Tonight's nurse is getting a face full of
IWKYBIASWV
I hear the words
go-bag
and
organized
then the fake laugh that is like
IWKYBIASWV's sidekick.
The nurse makes a
pshhh
noise
and I want to yell,
Jump back, lady!
You're about to get murdered with words!
But I stay at the top of the stairs
listening, listening, listening.
No one messes with the go-bag.
It has everything Levi needs if we have to leave the house.
Not that he ever does.
Except for doctor visits.
Or emergencies.
The go-bag is a work of art.
Labeled supplies, rescue meds, extra trachs,
even a handheld suction thing.
You don't touch the go-bag.
You don't go near the go-bag.
The go-bag is perfection.
It's like a tiny hospital
in an ugly red duffel.
I think the nurse tried to reorganize it.
MISTAKE.
That go-bag is the most perfect thing
Dad ever created.
Except maybe me. Har.

WEEK 11

We don't take Levi out a lot
because of the germs, you know?
Sometimes we have to, though.
And that's when we see
Other
People
dun dun duuuuuuun.
First the forehead gets wrinkly,
then the lips turn down in a frown,
the head tilts to the side,
sometimes there's a
tsk
-ing noise
or a sigh and a head shake.
A lot of times there's an “I'm sorry.”
But that's dumb.
I mean, come on.
Why are
you
sorry, ugly lady at the grocery store?
Did
you
give Levi a messed-up airway?
Did
you
give him a trach?
No.
That's the one thing I like about you, James.
Maybe the only thing.
You see Levi all the time
And you never say you're sorry.
You wash your hands,
you ruffle his hair,
you soft-punch his tiny baby shoulder
and say,
What's up, sir
.
Did they teach you how to not say you're sorry?
At Probation Officer University, I mean?
Or is that just a James thing?
Either way, thanks.
Thanks for never being sorry, James.

Should I call social services?
Mrs. B asked me that.
I thought she meant because I'm quiet,
because my social skills are lacking,
like I need a tutor for learning how to talk to people,
but that's not what she meant.
If your mom is overwhelmed,
if there isn't enough food,
if it's not safe for Levi,
you can tell me, Timothy.
There are people and places who can help.
And it was like she hit me.
Right in the teeth.
She meant like Family Cops
who can take away babies
and kids
and put them in other people's houses.
So I was like
NO NO NO NO NO!
And she had to say
OK
a hundred times
and
I'm sorry
a thousand times
and I think maybe her eyes filled up with tears.
It was a little bit crazy.
But not crazy enough for social services.
I swear.

José brought over a crumpled picture.
Take one turtle
shoot it with a ray gun
set to ENLARGE,
remove the turtle's eyes,
replace the turtle's legs with flat tires,
take out all of the turtle's guts,
replace with rusted metal.
This is the car José and his dad are fixing up,
a sad and busted turtle
who somehow managed to save his shell
but nothing else.
How am I supposed to know
what a stupid seal puller looks like?
What do you do when your dad yells at you
for no reason at all?
The question came out of his mouth
before he realized what he was saying.
I said nothing
but my eyes told him to shut his pie hole.
My eyes told him to get on back home
with his dad and their busted-up turtle car.
So he did.
And now I feel kind of bad.
But not that bad.

José is here.
Again.
I'm hiding from him.
In the bathroom.
He just . . .
He never stops talking.
How much he hates his dad.
How much he hates that car.
How much he hates his sisters.
How much he hates his lunch.
I just want to punch him in the mouth.
Hard.
At least you can hate your dad to his face.
At least you have time to spend together.
At least your sisters breathe through their noses.
At least you have a decent lunch.
I take back feeling bad yesterday,
when I was grouchy with him.
He just doesn't even know.
Has zero clues.
About anything.
At least he brought his math book over.
He might not know anything about anything
but at least he remembers to bring his books
home from school
and at least he knows all the x- and y-axis stuff.
Freakin' José.