Noology (13 page)

“That being said, at least she agreed to
come down here. Not every stuck up tier one would stoop to visit a humble tier
two family for the holidays.”

“And you have to love the fruit,” Tate
pipes in with a smirk. I grin.

“Those blueberries were phenomenal. Like
nothing I have ever tasted.”

“So succulent and juicy,” Tate whispers,
closing his eyes to savor the memory. “Like a perfect orb of untold treasures,
waiting to disperse across the unsuspecting tongue of its next host.”

We sit in contented silence, staring at
the tranquil meadow and dormant woods nestled beyond the picket fence.

A squeak snaps us back to the present.
The sliding glass door opens to reveal my disheveled mother. I am instantly
wary of what could upset my typically composed mother so extensively.

“Tate, there you are. Um…we have a
visitor. Would you both follow me into the sitting room?”

I snatch Tate’s hand and we glide behind
my mother in cautious trepidation. A visitor? Who could possibly have come
here? And why were they looking specifically for Tate?

As we inch closer to the sitting room, a
palpable tension permeates the air and Tate begins to audibly grate his teeth.
After an endless progression of footsteps, we cross the threshold into the
stuffy room.

Huddled in an overstuffed floral armchair
that is threatening to swallow her whole is a frail elderly woman. Upon closer
inspection, I see she is probably no older than my mother, but the years have
not been kind to her. Her cheeks sag with depression and malnutrition, and a
sallow countenance looms over a gaunt skeletal frame. Something in her rich
emerald eyes rings a bell, but I cannot place the emaciated face. I look over
at Tate, and his features are locked in a horrified grimace. Unsure as to how
to proceed, my mother glances from the woman to Tate and back again. Finally,
the brittle woman breaks the silence with her feathery voice like a whisper of
beating wings.

“Tate…I wanted to see you,” she murmurs.
After a long pause, he replies.

“Hello, mother. It’s been a while.”

My slack jaw continues to droop as I
stare through the grimy glass window, sitting dangerously close to the sofa’s
sunken edge. Tate paces anxiously across the lawn as his mother watches
demurely from the sturdy metal bench. I can only wonder what they may be
talking about. Tate hasn’t seen his mom since we started medical school. He has
taken every available opportunity to avoid setting foot in his disintegrating
household and confronting his estranged father. What do you say to someone you
have been indirectly evading for this length of time? “How are you doing?” just
isn’t going to cut it.

Abruptly, Tate halts before his mother
and collapses on the seat beside her in a disheveled pile of weary skin and
bones. Looking into each other’s eyes, the two continue their conversation but
temporarily relax their agitated stances. Tate’s mother cautiously reaches
across the divide to stroke his cheek, and Tate flinches away from the
offensive gesture. She immediately recoils and appears remorseful for
overstepping her rights. A heavy silence settles over the pair, broken only by
the incessant chirping of nesting birds.

Finally, Tate delicately enfolds his
mother’s frail hand within his own large one. They gaze across the vibrant
clearing as the midday sun paints it a sanguine yellow, boldly set against the
vivid indigo of the clear sky.

“Avelyn! Get away from that window,” my
mother firmly reprimands. “They need their privacy. It is a very intimate
reunion for the pair of them, and they deserve our respect.”

I relent, mounting the steep staircase
with sluggish lethargy. Curiosity consumes me, and I have difficulty pushing
thoughts of Tate from my mind as I struggle to relax in this claustrophobic
cottage.

Tate slithers soundlessly into the
bedroom; however, I am wide awake and have spent the past few hours merely
staring at the swirling wood grain stretched across the supports for the top
bunk. I want to assault Tate with an army of questions, but I am unsure as to
how to proceed.

“How is she?” I benignly ask.

“Fine. Everything is good. She just
wanted to see me is all. Otherwise, it’s just more of the same.”

This answer leaves me unsatisfied and
perplexed. After sharing the emotionally crippling details of his home life, I
expected more disclosure as to what he discussed with his mother. Surely things
are still rotten with his father; there is no way the situation could have been
resolved that quickly. Yet Tate is behaving as if our intimate heart-to-heart
never happened. He is reverting to his old habit of shrouding the truth of the
matter in a cloak of good-natured lies.

“Are you sure everything is fine?” I
continue.

Hesitation flashes across his face, and I
can tell he is contemplating whether to divulge any of the distressing personal
communications he exchanged with his mother.

“Yeah. Nothing to report,” he finally replies.

I can tell he is lying in an effort to
protect me from the gruesome truth, but I am not the one that needs protecting.
I want to help him shoulder his undeserved burden, but I cannot assist him if
he refuses to let me into his troubled heart.

I sigh in mild exasperation and drop the
issue for the moment.

“Is she still here?” I inquire.

“No, she had to head back home. But she
wanted me to tell you that she misses seeing you around and hopes that you are
doing well in school.”

“That was very sweet of her. You will
have to thank her for me next time you see her.”

Tate’s expression shifts once again as he
ponders the inevitability of a future meeting with his feeble mother.

I shove his shoulder in mock anger,
drawing him out of his hypnotic trance. We scuffle the whole way to the
kitchen, grinning and laughing to hide the uneasy emotional barrier that
separates us.
 

As needles of brilliant sunshine pierce
the gauzy curtains, I am reluctantly extracted from my blissful sleep to pass
yet another day in this sacred childhood home. I listen closely to determine
whether Tate is still asleep above me, and upon further investigation, silence
leads me to believe he has disembarked from the rickety bed. After a moment’s
hesitation, I finally rise from the warm burrow that is my cot and change into
another disintegrating outfit for today’s exploits. Settling on a faded navy
t-shirt and washed-out jeans, I hastily zip into my coffee-colored hunting
jacket and head downstairs to assess the situation in the kitchen.

Reaching the tiny room, I am surprised to
see no one inside. I swore I heard voices curling up the crackling walls like
smoke as I was getting changed. My growling stomach entices me to snatch a
meager breakfast: a bulbous and misshapen pink grapefruit. As I scrape the
flesh from its tender shell, acidic juices bite into my tongue and set my
palate ablaze. There is a slightly fermented finish to the fruit, the result of
too many days left to ripen in the grasp of an oppressive sun. Turning to pitch
the remnants of the rind through the window to compost in the overgrown garden,
a figure seeps into my peripheral vision.

“What is it like?” comes an abrupt
question.

I start, pivoting by reflex to face my
examiner. Nestled uncomfortably in the corner of the kitchen upon a splintered
stool, Amy awaits my acknowledgement and response.
 

“God! You scared the life out of me!” I
yelp. “Have you been there this whole time?”

“Yes. I was enjoying watching you savor
that slightly rotten grapefruit. It got me wondering about what it is like to
grow up in less than perfect conditions. I have always had the best produce
that the farmers can offer and I have never known the bitter pang of true
starvation. Talking with Rian got me thinking. We have had such different
childhoods, and I just want to understand how hard it was for him growing up.”

I don’t think I have ever heard Amy speak
such a long soliloquy. Or express any interest in anyone other than my brother,
for that matter.

“Um…well, it’s hard to explain. We’ve had
no other choice, so it just feels natural. I guess it’s been difficult at
times. When the crops fail or are less numerous than normal, we have to make do
with gritty rolls and tainted vegetables just to survive. It comes with being
in the middle of the social pecking order. There are nights where I have had to
go to bed hungry, but my parents never let us dwell on our misfortunes. There
are so many people who have it worse than we do and so we try to appreciate
everything.”

“What is it like to be truly starving?”
she prods.

“It’s like…a caged animal. A tiger or
lion – something with claws. And it’s ripping at the lining of your
stomach, trying to break its way out. The fierce gnawing sensation is the
worst. Eventually, you become numb to its demands and try to placate it with
measly morsels and scraps of edible matter. I have never been completely
starved, however. We always had at least some food to consume; my parents were
very careful about rationing our resources.”

A heavy silence thick with pity settles
over us until Amy finally responds to my characterization.

“I see. Thank you for sharing with me,”
Amy awkwardly whispers.

“My turn to ask a personal question,” I
blurt without pause. “Do you love my brother? Because he is so important to me,
and I don’t want to see him get hurt. He adores you – worships the very
ground you walk.”

“Yes. I do love him. I am not always the
most expressive of people, but Rian brings out some of my inner emotions. I am
truly happy when I am with him, and I cherish the joy he provides in my life.
You do not need to worry about your brother as far as I am concerned. I want to
make life easier for him and share the bounty that my family can provide.”

“Okay. That is a huge relief,” I concede.
“This was nice. You know, talking almost like friends. I want to get to know
you better. You must be an amazing person if Rian is willing to vouch for you.”

“Thank you,” Amy replies, genuinely
pleased with my praises. After a lull in conversation, she pipes up, “I should
go. Rian is planning to take me on a walk this morning, so I better get ready.”

“Okay. I will see you soon,” I call as
she departs from the room. It’s nice to see Amy opening up and trying to be
included in our family. I know it is uncomfortable for her because of her
strict and proper upbringing, and I appreciate the effort.

Just as I am strolling out of the
kitchen, Tate comes striding in, almost barreling me over with his long-legged
gait.

“Where the heck are you rushing to?” I
shout, leaping out of the way in the nick of time.

“Oh, I just wanted to grab a bite to
eat,” Tate drawls with a confused expression plastered across his face.

“Where have you been anyways? You weren’t
there when I woke up this morning. In fact, that has been happening a lot
lately.”

“I was studying for my SMART’s. Your dad
lent me his office for the week, and I have been cooped up cramming for the
exams. I haven’t had much of a chance to sleep.” He is buzzing around the tiny
room like an agitated fly, attempting to settle but unable to stop his frantic
motions.

“Tate, are you okay? You seem…restless. I
hope you aren’t killing yourself over this test. You have to take a break!”

“I can’t afford to take a break, Avelyn!”
he snaps. “This test means everything. If I don’t perform, I could be sent to
the production farms and destined to live a life in poverty.”

“Stressing out won’t help you study. It
only hinders your mind’s ability to process things.” I am sulking after his
sharp rebuke, but I try to cut him some slack because I understand the enormous
pressure he is operating under.

As he sits at the kitchen table,
methodically chewing his breakfast, he seems a little jumpy and ill at ease. Is
Tate suffering from some horrible stress-induced malady? Should I be concerned?
I wonder if my dad would take a look at him…

Then it hits me like a ton of bricks
– he’s spinning.

“You’re spinning!” I accuse, judgment
dripping from these words. I remember the sponsor Tate told me about that is
providing the supplements for his examinations. Lucid snapshots of waking up in
the hospital flicker through my mind, and I begin to panic.

“It’s not safe! You could end up in the
hospital! Please Tate, it’s not worth it!”

“Shut up, Avelyn. Who died and made you
the moral authority on this? I need to compete with everyone else and the only
way that I can do that is by taking advantage of the resources at my disposal.
If I get all high and mighty now, I can forget about keeping rank and should
just drop out to save face.”

My insides blister with the scalding
words he spits in my face. I care about him, almost more than anyone else. I
don’t want to see him fall into a pattern of pharmaceutical reliance and abuse.
His hostility is making it impossible to speak reason and open his eyes to the
error of his ways.