Whatever (13 page)

“Want to what? Help your grandmother draw letters with her big toe? Not a chance.”

“No, she won't let anyone but Karen help her. I meant would you like to . . . there's this new movie, aliens conquering earth, I thought . . .”

“I've heard of it. It's a remake of a classic, isn't it? Got good reviews.”

“Would you like to go?”

“With you?” Was he . . . he was asking me out! I felt my cheeks go red, and turned away from him, staring out the car window. Of course I'd like to go out with him, but I had this awkward problem with my parents.

“No, with Gran. Of course with me. Who did you think I meant?”

“I'd like to, but I have to ask my parents.”

“If they say yes, will you go?”

I turned away from the window, but couldn't look him in the eyes, so I stared down at my hands. “I don't think they'll let me.”

“What? They want to see my references?”

“No, it isn't that.”

“What is it then?”

Might as well get it over with. “I'm grounded.”

“You? What did you do, rob a bank?”

I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't. How could I say it?— I'm sorry Robin but I'm the reason your grandmother's got a broken leg. I'm the reason you have to take her to doctors' appointments, dig up her garden and pick up her prescriptions and walkers. That's why I'm grounded.

“I can't tell you,” I said at last. “But I'm really, really sorry.” Consequence Number Three was still hanging over my life like a black cloud. I was grounded until all the sanctions were finished, until I no longer had to go to Mrs. J.'s twice a week.

We stopped in front of my house. “When are you ungrounded?”

I did a quick calculation of my remaining hours. “After New Year's.”

“That's a long time. Maybe you did rob a bank.”

“No, I didn't. Almost as bad, but I can't tell you. I'm so sorry, Robin.” I opened the car door and escaped before he could ask what I was so sorry for and why I was crying.

Chapter Eleven

I DIDN'T MAKE IT
into the house. The front door flew open and Andrew ran out. “Hey, who's the guy? Thought you were grounded. Does Dad know you're on a date with a guy?”

“It's not a date! He just drove me home.” I tried to push past Andrew but he didn't move. He made a noise, almost a grunt and then he fell. It was as if his body had forgotten how to hold itself upright. He fell straight back, as if he were a knocked-over tin soldier.

Andrew's head hit the lawn, but the rest of him landed on the cement sidewalk. “Mom,” I yelled, kneeling down beside my brother. “Mom!”

But Robin was there first. He hadn't driven off, he had been watching. “What's wrong with him?” he asked. “Should I call 911?”

“Quick, put your jacket under his head in case he bangs his head around. Mom! Mom!”

She was suddenly beside me. “Oh, Darrah, oh, Andrew, oh . . .”

“Stay calm, Mom. He's going to be okay. One of Andrew's arms had flown up, narrowly missing Robin's face. “Move his backpack out of the way, Robin, so he doesn't bang against it, and you move too.”

Robin stepped back.“Shouldn't we call 911?” He already had his phone out.

“Yes. Call them, call!”

“No, Mom, no! You know what the doctors keep telling you. Let the seizure take its course. Wait at least five minutes.”

It didn't last five minutes, it didn't even last three. I was counting the seconds, as I always did if I couldn't see a clock. Usually Andrew's seizures were only a minute or two, but it always seemed like forever while it was happening. “One hundred and thirty-five,” I said out loud. “One hundred and thirty-six . . . thirty-seven.” He stopped jerking, his eyelids stopped flickering up and down and he began to breathe normally again. It was over.

“Help me get him into the house,” said Mom, reaching under his legs.

“I can do it,” said Robin. “You get the door and tell me
where to take him.” He scooped Andrew up, lifting him easily. Mom flew up the stairs, and held the door open. I could hear her voice directing Robin. “Up the stairs, first right, be careful, don't drop him.”

I picked up my backpack and shut the driver's door of Robin's car. He'd left it open when he jumped out to help us. I shut the front door behind me. Mom had left that wide open, too. I dumped my backpack in the front hall and started up the stairs.

Robin was on his way down. “Your mom says he'll be fine now, that he just needs to sleep for a bit. She's staying up there with him. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said, then burst into tears. “Andrew hasn't had a seizure for at least two weeks. We thought his new medication was working.”

“Need a hug?” He put his arms around me and pulled me to him without waiting for my answer.

I bawled louder. Yes, I needed a hug. I needed more than one, I needed a whole barrel of hugs. It was too much. Too much for Mom and Dad and too much for me. Andrew looked so helpless during a seizure—we were helpless. Then he would be pale and tired for hours, for days afterwards. “It's not fair,” I said into Robin's shoulder. “He's not even twelve.” I cried some more.

“Um, my jacket's getting soggy.” Robin steered me to the kitchen and sat me down on a chair. He looked around, found the box of tissue on top of the fridge and held it out to
me. “Here, mop up. But I've still got one dry shoulder. You're welcome to it if you need it.”

“I'll be okay. Thanks for the tissue.” And the hug, I thought. Especially for the hug.

“Want to talk about it?”

Did I? I must have needed to talk, because it all came flooding out: how our lives had changed so much since Andrew's seizures started; how we were always on edge, waiting for the next one; how I didn't get the part in the play because Mom took him to the hospital; how I got so mad I . . .

Then I stopped. Even while my mouth was running overtime and my eyes were pumping out the tears they'd been saving up for months, I knew I couldn't say anymore.

“It's been rough, hasn't it?”

I nodded, still not trusting my mouth not to blurt out things it shouldn't.

There was a cough from the hallway. Mom was behind us. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said to Robin, “but whoever you are, I want to thank you for your help.”

“You're welcome, ma'am.”

Then she turned to me. “Darrah, you're supposed to be doing your sanctions with Mrs. Johnson. Why are you here?”

Robin and I spoke at once. “Mom, he was driving me . . .”

“My grandmother asked me to take . . .”

“You're Mrs. Johnson's grandson?”

“Yes, ma'am. She asked me to bring Darrah home.”

“She did?”

“Yes, ma'am. Gran sent her away early today.”

“Oh.”

Thankfully the word “sanctions” didn't ring any bells for Robin. “I wouldn't skip out on my hours, Mom,” I said indignantly.

“I know you wouldn't, Darrah. I wasn't thinking straight.” She turned to Robin. “I'm sorry, young man . . .”

“Robin,” I said. “His name is Robin, Mom.”

“I'm sorry I leaped to conclusions, Robin, and thank you for your help. I'm afraid I always get a bit emotional after one of Andrew's . . .” Then she burst into tears.

Robin grabbed a handful of tissues from the box he was still holding and passed them to Mom. For a minute I thought he was going to offer her a hug, too, but all he did was pat her awkwardly on the shoulder.

She grabbed the tissues, muttered “thanks,” and fled.

“Is she all right?” Robin asked.

I nodded. “She'll be okay. We all will. I guess we all thought—hoped—that the new meds would stop the seizures completely. I think that's why she's so upset.”

“I don't blame her. Need another hug?”

“No. Stay away or I'll start bawling again.”

“Are you sure I can't help?”

“No, thanks, no one can help. Andrew will sleep, Mom will helicopter around him when he wakes up, and for the next week or so Dad will invent six more ways of not saying ‘epilepsy' and life in the Patrick household will go on.”

“I'm so sorry, Darrah. Listen, promise me you'll let me know if I can do anything?”

I was pretty sure there wasn't anything he could do that would help me or Andrew or anyone, but said, “Sure. Now please go away, there's nothing more you can do here. I've got to check on Andrew. And Mom.”

“Okay, but call if you need to use my other shoulder, okay?”

“I will,” I said, and meant it. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

He let himself out. As the door clicked shut behind him, I sighed. “Welcome to my world, Robin.”

The house was silent, so I tiptoed up the stairs.

Mom was lying down on the bed beside Andrew. It looked as if they were both asleep. I didn't disturb them and instead went back downstairs, wondering what I could find for supper.

In the fridge was half of the barbecued chicken Mom had brought home two days ago. All that was left was one leg, one wing and some bits of meat sticking to the rest of the bones. Not enough for dinner. Maybe I could turn it into soup? I pulled as much meat as I could off the bones, then broke the carcass into smaller pieces and tossed them in a pot of water. Barbecued chicken might make interesting soup stock. Once the stock had simmered for a while I would take out all the bones, let them cool, then remove the rest of the meat from them before putting it back in the soup. That would be less
greasy than taking the meat off the chicken legs to make soup for Mrs. J.

So, would I make chicken noodle or chicken rice? There weren't any noodles in the house except in a box of Kraft dinner but there was a bag of rice. Okay, barbecued chicken with rice soup coming up.

I thought back to the soup recipe in
Foods, Nutrition and Home Management
and dug around in the refrigerator crisper. All it yielded was half a tired onion, three soft tomatoes and several small baggies of equally tired small, peeled carrots— lunch snacks that Andrew had brought home untouched. While I was rummaging in the crisper, I tossed out two apples with soggy black spots and an orange that smelled funny. Maybe there were vegetables in the freezer? I checked. Frozen mini-pizzas, burritos, a heat-and-serve lasagna. Fries, curly and straight, not good for soup. But there were frozen peas and an almost empty bag of kernel corn. Hiding in the back of the freezer was something that might have once been ice cream, sitting uncovered in a bowl. I put that in the sink to thaw, rinsed the ice crystals off the peas and corn and put them in a bowl with the chicken meat to add to the soup later.

When Dad got home the onion was browning while the chicken bones cooled. “You're cooking?” he said, surprised. “Where's your Mom?”

“Upstairs. Andrew had another—”

He was gone before I finished the sentence; I could hear
his feet pounding up the stairs. I scooped the onions into the soup stock, and went to work on the carrots.

Although I'd baked biscuits once already today, I thought that Andrew would like them, so I dug out the flour and baking powder I'd had Mom buy and started mixing. I now knew the recipe by heart, and it was somehow comforting to be kneading dough while the soup simmered. It was already smelling good.

By the time Mom, Dad and Andrew came downstairs, the soup was ready, the biscuits cooling on a rack, and the table was set.

Mom looked even more surprised than Dad had. “I was going to order Chinese,” she said.

“No need to.”

“Biscuits?” said Andrew. His voice was weak, but he wasn't as pale as he often was after a seizure.

“Yes, sorry, just plain ones. There was only a bit of cheese and it was mouldy so I threw it out.” We did have some processed cheese slices, but I didn't think they would work in biscuits. How could anyone grate those floppy squares?

Andrew was already eating. “Good anyway,” was what I thought he said through the mouthful of biscuits.

Dad asked for a second helping of soup. Andrew almost finished his bowl and ate three biscuits. Mom kept staring at me as if I'd just flown in from outer space.

“Mom, what's wrong?”

“You made dinner.”

“So?”

“I didn't ask you. You did it on your own.”

“You were sleeping beside Andrew,” I said. “I thought I'd try to cook something. But you need to go grocery shopping, there's no fruit left.”

“I was going to do that this afternoon.”

“How about I help make the list? I can tell you the stuff I need to make stew like I did at Mrs. Johnson's. I didn't get to eat any of it, but it smelled good. I wouldn't mind making some at home.”

Mom nodded, and Dad put down his spoon. “Thank you, Darrah,” he said seriously. “You stepped in when you were needed.”

“Brownies?” said Andrew. “Can you make brownies? I love brownies. With sprinkles. And lots of chocolate icing.”