Chapter 6
Andrew
I wake up in the morning to a quick, but disturbing series of texts.
You make me wanna listen to music again. How do I get you alone? And it goes on. I close that text and read the next two. More of the same.
Robert, I’m a little uncomfortable here.
Ha, ha. Good morning, Mr. Mac. They’re just song lyrics. I’m sorting the music on my iPod into playlists. You like music, right?
I scan back through the texts and see that they are just that. Song lyrics. Some I don’t recognize, but most I do. Adam Lambert. Heart. The All-American Rejects. I feel like an idiot.
How’s your dad today?
Okay, I guess. The hospice nurse is here. I think she’s helping him shower.
And you?
I can still shower myself.
You know what I mean.
I’m okay.
Robert
Nic does a drive-by the next day. I’m trying to install my new car stereo, and I doubt he would have stopped if I hadn’t seen him. He parks his vintage Mustang on the street and saunters over, then stretches out on the driveway.
“Trying to make your granny car cooler,” he says, looking at me over his sunglasses.
So much for sweet Nic. My skin prickles in irritation as I wedge myself between the steering wheel and the front seat. I slide the head unit back into the dash cavity, careful not to bunch up or pinch the wires in back.
Installing the stereo has proven to be a pain in the ass. The instructions read like they were written by monkeys. I’ve had to go back to my room each step of the way to search for YouTube videos to clarify something that, in my opinion, should have been spelled out clearly by the people who made the damn thing. I’m sweating despite the temperature in the forties.
I prick my thumb on a sharp piece of exposed metal. A bead of blood seeps from the wound. I stick my thumb in my mouth to stop the bleeding.
Nic is pattering on about his new Kindle, the Rude jeans he’s on his way to buy at Hot Topic with his Christmas cash (jeans he calls sexy and to die for), and the hot new guy at the tanning salon. Despite his annoying running monologue, I finally manage to get the connections right and everything back in place. I just need to get the screws back in, reconnect the battery, and try it out.
“Is your dad going to have a big funeral?” Nic says out of the blue. “I read that in New Orleans they sometimes march down the street after a funeral and play ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ I think that would be really cool since he’s from Louisiana. And, oh God, it would be so sad, you know. It makes me want to bawl just thinking about it.”
I don’t respond.
“I’m not going to be there. You know that, right?”
I scoff as I try to get the angle right on the first screw and wonder again what I ever saw in this pretty boy.
“He’s not even dead yet,” I say sullenly.
“You’re getting kind of fat, you know,” he says, without skipping a beat. “You really should lay off the sodas and the French fries.”
I yank down the hem of my shirt. “I’m not getting fat.”
“Um, yeah, you are. Just a little though. A little pudge around the middle. And really, you should consider tanning. You’re stomach is as white as a marshmallow.”
I wonder for a moment if there is anything Nic likes about me. I’m about ready to jab the end of the Phillips head screwdriver right through his trendy designer sunglasses when he says, “Oh my God! I almost forgot. You’re never going to believe who’s tripping the light fantastic on the dark side.”
“Who?” I ask, ignoring the strange juxtaposition of his words and feeling like I already know the answer to my own question.
“Your calculus teacher. Mr. McNelis. Damn, he’s hot. I wouldn’t mind tapping that.”
Ironic, I think, since you can’t even stand the idea of French kissing. I steady my hand, my throbbing thumb notwithstanding, and secure the screw.
I mumble something about not believing everything you hear, and reconnect the battery. When I start the car, the new stereo booms. I turn down the volume, then kill the ignition and close the hood.
A little black-and-white Boston terrier has appeared out of nowhere and is sniffing at Nic’s legs, his tail wagging furiously. Nic knees him—“Get out of here”—and the scrawny dog scuttles backward. He advances on Nic again, a little more cautiously. This time Nic smacks him hard in the nose and the pooch yelps.
“Why did you do that?” I ask angrily.
“He’s getting dog snot all over my jeans.”
I crouch down on the driveway and try to coax the dog to me, but his tail is between his legs now and he holds back, wary. His ribs show through his dull, short coat. “Come here, boy. I won’t hurt you.”
“He’s probably got rabies,” Nic says.
“He doesn’t have rabies. He just looks like he’s lost.” I stand up and take a step toward the dog, but he turns tail and dashes off.
“That’s one ugly dog,” Nic says, then flexes his ankles and studies his Rockports.
“I gotta go in,” I say, closing my car door. “I need to help Dad with a shower.”
It’s a lie, but Nic runs off like his hair is on fire.
Andrew
By the end of the day I’ve accumulated so many texts that my in-box reaches its limit and I have to delete some. I start with the oldest texts and delete a lot of them, but I don’t delete Robert’s. I pretend that I don’t know why.
The next morning, another long string of texts. More lyrics. I recognize them for what they are this time, but these are darker.
Hello, teacher, tell me what’s my lesson. We should never be afraid to die. Boys don’t cry.
Wow. What’s the title on this playlist?
Pity Party. Hey, you drive through Huntsville on the way home, right?
You are correct.
Can I meet you there? At SHSU? I want to tour the campus. It’s not top tier, but I can commute if Mom needs me here after, you know.
Wow. I didn’t expect this. I’m planning to head out in about an hour. But that would put me in Huntsville at about ten this evening. A little late for a tour of the campus even if it weren’t a colossally bad idea.
I don’t know, Robert. Not a good idea.
Why? I’d go with Mom, but this, um, doesn’t seem like a good time.
I don’t respond right away.
Mr. Mac, I’ve got to get out of here for a while. Seriously. You take classes there, right? You could show me around. If you don’t, I’ll go by myself. It’s no big deal.
What about Nic?
He wouldn’t be caught dead on the SHSU campus.
Why am I not surprised? Your parents okay with this?
Mom’s totally cool. Don’t think Dad cares much about anything anymore.
Against my better judgment, I plan to meet Robert at two o’clock the next afternoon. I don’t tell him, but I drive home that day as planned and sleep in my own bed.
Robert
Dad looked bad Christmas Day. Turns out, that was the beginning of a rapid downhill spiral as the cancer spread exponentially throughout his brain. He can still speak, but it’s only with a great deal of effort, and Aunt Whitney says soon he won’t be able to do that either. He’s weaker, and he’s confused, but he does have a few hours of unexpected lucidity this evening.
“I’ve called Father Vincent,” Aunt Whitney says gravely.
Mom pulls the fish sticks from the oven. Her back is to Aunt Whitney, but her silence speaks volumes.
“You know, Kathryn, I know you are not a spiritual person, and that makes me very sad for you. But my brother is. He needs to make his last confession and receive absolution.”
That’s an understatement.
Aunt Whitney shoots me a look, and I fear I might have spoken out loud. But then she rattles off a couple of things she wants me to find.
When I’ve collected the stuff she’s asked for—a crucifix, a vial of holy water that she purchased for Dad years ago—I take it to her in the bedroom. She’s dusting and straightening everything in the room. On the highboy are three lit candles. A white tablecloth covers the puzzle on the card table at the foot of the bed. And the windows are open. I can’t help wondering if she’s airing out the room for God or so the priest doesn’t have to breathe in death.
When Father Vincent arrives, he ushers us out of the room. The confession, not surprisingly, doesn’t take long, and I wonder what the eternal penalty is for omitting sins to God on your deathbed. We are welcomed back to witness communion, the anointing with oil, and the last blessing. Father Vincent finishes with, “and may the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, descend on you and remain with you always.”
My aunts are weeping (it’s the only word for what they’re doing) as they mutter an amen.
Mom and I stand off to the side, interlopers in this little ritual. All of this stuff is supposed to prepare Dad for his passage through the portal of death into eternal life. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I’d like to dispense with all this hocus pocus and just shove him through and slam the door.
After Father Vincent leaves, Aunt Whitney gets Dad out of bed and props him in an armchair she’s muscled in from the living room. Aunt Olivia brings a bowl of homemade chicken soup on a tray and places it on Dad’s lap. He struggles with the spoon, and I wonder if it’s the last time he will ever feed himself. I’d prefer to make myself scarce, but Aunt Whitney charges me with changing the sheets on the bed while Dad is out of it.
And that’s when Mom makes her move. I can’t blame her. Dad’s going to die, but we have to go on living. And Mom’s practical because she’s had to be. Her questions are gentle enough, and not extraordinarily difficult—“Wesley, I need to know where your will is, what life insurance policies you have, passwords.”
“Not now,” Aunt Whitney warns when Dad becomes agitated.
Mom ignores her and presses him for answers. I snap out a clean sheet and settle it over the mattress. There’s a sudden movement from Dad, and I look up as the tray and the bowl clatter to the floor, leaving noodles and bits of chicken scattered all over the carpet. Before anyone can react, Dad throws his good arm out, his fist clenched, and knocks the lamp off the table next to him. Aunt Whitney tries to calm him down, but he’s grunting and growling as if all speech has left him. He struggles to get out of the chair.
Mom looks at him coldly and leaves the room. Aunt Whitney catches up with her in the kitchen a few minutes later.
“What is wrong with you? My brother is dying. You are the most insensitive, selfish bitch I have ever known.”
Mom glares at her, then grabs her keys off the counter and slams the door behind her.
Aunt Whitney turns on me. “Are you running away too?”