Poster Boy (10 page)

“Dad's got to photocopy some pictures from the book,” she said without looking at me, “and I still have stuff to figure out before I write my report.”

I started to leave, wondered if there were any muffins around.

As I turned the corner into the hall I heard behind me, “I'm bleeding.”

“What?” I backed up. Maggie's nose was running like a faucet onto her comforter.

“Mom!” I didn't have a clue where she was. “Maggie needs you. Now.” It's just a nosebleed, I told myself, calm down. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the roll of paper towels.

Mom met me in the living room.

“It's just a nose bleed,” I said, though the amount of blood streaming out was ridiculous.

“Pinch the bridge, Maggie,” said Mom.

“My new shirt,” Maggie whined.

“It'll wash out. Just lie back.”

Maggie lay back and instantly started choking. Sitting back up she began to cough blood.

That wasn't right. Blood shouldn't come out of your mouth.

“Get the ice pack, Gray — and a bowl.” Mom's voice was shaking.

“Sure.” I was happy to get out of there.

Mom applied ice and Maggie pinched. Nothing dulled the bright red flow into the bowl. Mom called the oncologist's office, asked what she should do.

“I'm taking her to emergency,” she said after she hung up. “Maggie, we have to change your shirt. Then, Gray, you help me get her into the car.” She spoke with a weird forced calm but her eyes were wild, her movements kind of spastic.

“Yeah, sure, Mom.”

“It's going to be fine. You're all right, Maggie. Don't worry. It's just a nosebleed. It's going to be fine. You're going to be fine.”

Behind her bloody washcloth, Maggie did look like the calmest person around. Maybe it was the drugs.

I practically had to carry her to the car, she was so weak, Mom trotting alongside holding the bowl under Maggie's leaky nose as she reminded me three times to call Dad.

“Tell him to shop for dinner on his way home. And will you throw Maggie's comforter and shirt in the wash? Cold water, remember. Cold water.”

I watched them drive away, the car spewing carcinogens all the way to the hospital. Before they turned the corner, Mom swerved after nearly hitting a parked car.

Shit. Calm down, I thought, as they drove out of sight.

I collected the bloodied stuff — God, there was a lot of blood — and threw them in the washer.

Now I had to call Dad who I was trying to avoid these days. Which wasn't hard because he was putting in extra long hours at work, and when he was home, he spent his time with Maggie, not me. But I did as Mom asked, called and told him what was happening and told him about dinner. He didn't ask for details, just said okay. He sounded like a feckin' robot.

* * *

He arrived home with ground beef and hamburger buns.

“Vegetarian beef?” I said.

“Free-range,” he said. “No steroidal hormones, no antibiotics.”

“No dioxins?”

“You don't have to eat it.” He slapped a pack of tofu burgers on the counter. “I bought these, too. I happen to want some meat.”

“You're going to tempt Maggie. And Mom'll be pissed.”

“Lucky for you, you don't make the rules around here,” he said with a stern stare. “Now would you cut some red onions, please?”

Spermbag, I thought, picking up an onion.

He made up the patties and threw one into the pan. It started to sizzle, the meat smell rising, and my mouth watered like a dog.

I heard Mom come in the front door.

Dad took a breath as if steeling himself before going into the foyer. I followed. He and Mom barely looked at each other, just exchanged a few quiet words before Dad went outside to carry a sleeping Maggie from the car. In his arms, she looked smaller than normal. Her face was really pale.

“Don't bump her legs,” whispered Mom as he started upstairs.

“Gray, go flip the burgers, please,” said Dad.

I went back to the kitchen. Mom came in and plopped down silently into a chair. The air reeked of frying beef but she didn't even mention it. I flipped the burgers, then started slicing a tomato.

“The bleeding stopped,” was all she said. She talked like she was in some kind of trance. “It was from a tumor.”

My appetite dived south.

“In the sinus cavity. It's putting pressure on her face.”

“That sucks.” My knife slipped, cutting my finger. More blood. Normally I would announce my cut to the world, asked for a Band-Aid at least, and Mom would give me one of her worried-mom looks. That look alone always made me feel better. But now her face was permanently worried, and she didn't need my stupid little cut to add to it.

I felt the pain rise a minute after the blood. My head seemed to pinch up to a point before the ache settled into an even throb. It wasn't very deep and I knew it would stop hurting after five minutes.

“The oncologist at the hospital guesses she has six months.”

“Six months?” I repeated dumbly.

“At best.”

Mom had been given different time frames from different doctors — a year, one to two years, and the optimistic “people can do surprising things.” Today's guess was the shortest prediction yet.

I counted off in my head. April, May, June, July, August, September. I wondered if Maggie would make it to her birthday: August 30. If she'd ever be a teen.

“I have to go for a walk,” blurted Mom, nodding real fast. “I have to walk.”

She had dark circles under her eyes. The last thing she looked like she needed was exercise.

“Don't you want to have a veggie burger first?”

“I have to walk,” she said and left the room.

Since Dad was eating meat I refused to eat with him and took my dinner downstairs. He didn't say anything.

I sat in front of the TV, started flicking around. I passed two commercials for SUVs, which I'd learned polluted three times as much as an ordinary car. Saw another for cancerous pop, another for cancerous shampoo and conditioner, another for beer. Alcohol was on the cancer list, too.

Did the world have some sort of feckin' death wish?

The phone rang and, just to spite Dad, I didn't answer it.

“Gray, it's for you,” Dad called downstairs.

I picked up and heard him hang up the other phone.

“Gray?” It was Natalie.

“Hi, thank God you called. Man, my dad is driving me — ”

“I want to break up, Gray.”

“You want to — ”

“I just don't think we're really right for each other.”

I stood up, lifting the coffee table off its legs, my burger flipping to the floor.

“You mean because my sister has some deadly disease, my mother shops in reverse and I wear marijuana shirts.”

Natalie paused. “No, no. It's just time, I think.”

“It's just time? Two days before…” It was shallow of me, sure, but she could have at least waited until after I lost my V-card.

“It's just how I feel…”

I looked at the gold-ribboned box on my desk, thought of those two stolen condoms in my wallet, the reservation I'd made at Little Italy.

“Fine, if that's how you feel.”

“Yeah, sorry.” She almost sounded sad until she chirped, “Still friends, I hope?”

I heaved the plastic petroleum phone across the room. It made a serious dent in the drywall, and I imagined a cloud of formaldehyde bursting forth.

12
Breakup and Breakdown

Friday night, and instead of sitting across from my first lay and eating great Italian food, I was at home eating with my asshole dad, freaked-out mom and ill sister.

I hadn't gone to school, had told Mom I wasn't feeling well. She'd panicked at first until I told her I felt fine and just needed a day off. I didn't want to have to pass Natalie's breasts in the hall, see her friends stare.

I got Davis to skip, too, and we spent the day at his place, playing music we were convinced would stimulate plant growth and trash-talking Natalie. Davis, who'd never liked Natalie, called her all the names he always wanted to call her but didn't because of me: Brainless Slut Bucket, Boobs for Brains, Jerk-around Dickface, etc.

Mom had made a stir-fry of onions and garlic, chard and carrot plus little chalk-white squares of tofu. This mix was humped over brown rice. The chard was kind of bitter and the onions a little hard. The tofu seemed to have no taste other than the organic tamari sauce I dumped over it, but I wasn't going to complain. That was Dad's job.

Maggie begged for ketchup and Mom finally gave it to her.

Dad took a long sip from the glass of wine he'd poured for himself. He wasn't a drinker, would have a couple of glasses at a party or a beer or two on Saturday night in front of the game. Having wine with dinner on a weekday was some sort of statement.

“Curious meal,” he said.

Knew it, I thought smugly.

Mom shot him a look. “It's macrobiotic. A very well-known and ancient healing diet. I know it seems a little spare but I believe it's the way to go.”

“It tastes good for you.” I was trying to say something nice without lying.

“You don't have to do this just for me,” said Maggie, the corner of her mouth smudged with ketchup.

“Yes, yes, we do,” said Mom. “And it's not just for you but for us, too. For everyone, actually. Everyone everywhere.” Mom glanced hard at Dad, as if challenging him to contradict her.

Dad stepped right up to the plate. “We can still practice moderation and try to enjoy ourselves a little.”

Mom's shoulders seemed to grow epaulets. Dad sipped his wine.

“The rice is nice and chewy,” I said.

Mom forced a smile and turned to Maggie.

“I was thinking about your birthday, Maggie. Becoming a teenager and all, I thought a big party was in order this year. We could hire Dr. Fry the Science Guy?”

“That would be great,” said Maggie.

Dr. Fry was a local magician/scientist we'd seen perform at a fundraiser for the university's new biotech wing.

“Make sure he brings the pinwheel,” I said. Dr. Fry did optical illusion stuff. For example, he'd ask the audience to stare at this moving pinwheel for three minutes and then at his head and his head would slowly expand to twice its normal size. It was sick.

“And how about getting the bug zoo to come with some specimens?” continued Mom.

“Wow,” said Maggie.

Maggie's birthday was months away. But Mom had also been reading about positive attitudes and healing. Having projects and things to look forward to apparently boosted the immune system. Which was why she wanted Maggie to keep up with her homework.

“I bet they'd do such a thing. Don't you, Ethan?” said Mom.

“If you pay people enough money, they'll do anything,” said Dad. He was refilling his wine glass. Had barely touched his tofu.

Mom changed the subject and asked Maggie how her project was coming along.

“You know how the Love rice was turning that weird yellow? Well, Dad said it's started fermenting!” she said happily.

“Seems to be turning into rice wine,” said Dad, toasting to it.

“I'm writing in my report that the rice is drunk on love.” Maggie laughed, which seemed to make her cough.

“Alcohol's on the American Cancer Society's list of carcinogens,” I said, looking at Dad.

“Good thing I don't drink,” said Maggie.

We all burst out laughing, even Mom, tears rimming her eyes.

* * *

After dinner, and despite the fact that it was raining out, Mom left the dishes to Dad and me and went for a walk. She used to work in her studio after dinner. Now she walked in great big circles around the school playing field. Every night for like an hour. I could see her through the glass doors to the deck, weaving in and out of trees, hooded, hunched slightly forward.

If I could see her, the neighbors could, too.

Dad did the dishes and I cleared the table. Clearing and scraping dishes had become my job now that Maggie had to lie down after dinner.

“We should be having feasts every night,” said Dad. “All of Maggie's favorite foods.”

“But don't you think it's worth trying stuff to cure it?”

“It's not going to cure it,” he said with a slow blink. “No macrobiotic diet, no turmeric pills, no organic shampoo is going to make any — ”

“Well, maybe it'll slow it down at least.”

“I wish I could believe that,” he said, implying he was smart and I wasn't.

I stopped, ketchup in hand. “Why are you so goddamn pessimistic?”

Dad stopped then, too, and held up a threatening finger. “Don't you talk to me that way.”

“Spermbag,” I muttered and stuck the ketchup in the fridge.

“What did you say?” Dad came and stood on the other side of the fridge door.

“Nothing.” I shut the fridge and there we were, face to face.

Between being dumped by Natalie and listening to his negative shit, I'd had it. My muscles involuntarily flexed. I was as tall as him now. Didn't have his bulk but bet I could take him.

Dad shook his head as if he was real disappointed in me. He turned and went back to the dishes.

But I was the one who was disappointed. Mr. Scientist was the one with zero ideas and zero answers. Who wasn't even trying to help.

I left, not bothering to finish clearing the table and went downstairs. I waited for him to yell at me to come back and finish the job.

But he didn't.

* * *

Saturday, first day of March Break. Needless to say we weren't going skiing. Not that I wanted to. Not with my family anyway.

The Russian agents came as usual, Dasha armed with her aerosols. Mom had arranged the new non-toxic cleansers on the kitchen counter. I was heading out to meet Hughie and Davis at the skate park but stopped to watch her explain to the unsmiling couple what each bottle was for and the dangers to themselves and others of using chemical cleaners. Dasha was glancing sadly from the old bottles on her belt to the new ones on the counter. One dark eyebrow raised, Sergei looked as if he thought Mom was secretly trying to poison them.