Chapter 29

They’re predicting a nor’easter by the end of the week. At the hospital, the TV is on 24–7. The coming blizzard is supposed to blanket the state with several feet of snow, and everyone has predictions. I’d been hoping Mom would be discharged before the snow hit. As much as I’d like to think my arguments swayed her, I suspect Dad’s sudden arrival is what actually frightened her into trying to get well. She seems determined to pull herself together, if only to push him out of our lives. Her medications have finally started to kick in, and she’s showing steady signs of improvement. Today she started walking around without the assistance of the IV pole.

Last night, the doctor had been optimistic about getting her home, but then he was called away on a family emergency, and the covering doctor changed the plan. Mom threw a fit and declared that she would leave against medical advice, but then Dad stepped in and threatened to sue for temporary custody if she didn’t follow the doctor’s orders. They were still arguing about it when I left.

When I get home from school, Ethan and I head out for a run. Because of Mom’s hospitalization, we’d been skipping our afternoon tradition. But tonight, with the forecast warning the state of the arriving snowstorm, we’re forbidden from visiting the hospital. Even though he hasn’t complained about it, I know the disruption to his routine has bothered Ethan, and I realize suddenly that it’s bothered me too. I’ve missed this, the rhythmic pounding of our rubber soles on pavement, the bite of the wind on our cheeks, the burn of cold air in our lungs, the smell of the mountain firs.

So much has happened since we last ran together: Mom’s illness, Marcus and Kathy’s split, Liam’s scholarship, my brief nausea scare, our reunion with Dad.

“Are you going to see Dad?” Ethan asks me, as we round the corner and circle Manny’s shop. “He said he wants to come by later. Before the snow starts coming down.”

“Yeah, of course I’ll see him. I’ve talked to him a few times since he got here. I assumed you knew.”

He hesitates and slows his pace. “I thought you hated him.”

“Oh, come on, Ethan. I don’t hate him. It’s not like that.”

“Okay.” He comes to a halt and stretches his long back. “What is it like?”

“I…I don’t know, really. I’m starting to understand that our parents’ relationship wasn’t black and white. I used to think that the difference between good and bad was obvious. Responsibility and loyalty. But I guess it isn’t as simple as that anymore.”

I’ve completely confused him; I can see it before I’m finished speaking.

“You thought Dad was bad?” he asks.

“No, not bad exactly. But…unworthy.”

“Because he cheated on Mom?”

I shouldn’t be surprised that he knows. Over the last few weeks Ethan has shown he knows far more than I thought he did. “Mom told you about that?”

“No, Dad did. He said that was the reason you weren’t speaking to him anymore.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say to that. “I was just trying to do the right thing. I didn’t want to hurt Mom.”

“I know.”

“But now I wonder if maybe I was missing out.” I hesitate and squint at the approaching mass of gray clouds. “We should head back. It’s going to start snowing soon, and my legs are cramping from the cold.”

“Mine too.” Our breath is making the air foggy.

“My side hurts.”

“We’ve gotten out of shape,” he remarks. “You must have pulled a muscle.”

“Yeah, probably.” But the pain is deeper than a muscle sprain and seems to spread upward every time I inhale. “I don’t think I can run anymore.”

“What did you mean before?” Ethan asks me as we limp back to the house. “When you said you were missing out?”

“I don’t know. I guess I feel like I’m fading out of your life. And you’re talking to Dad almost every day; he’s giving you all this advice. It seems like you spend more time talking to him than to me—”

“That’s not true,” he protests. “On average I talk to Dad about fifteen minutes a day, excluding the week when he comes to visit. And I talk to you—”

“I wasn’t speaking about quantity, Ethan. I meant that Dad knows more about what’s going on with you than I do. And all these details like his visits to Montana, his advice to you about becoming a doctor, even your relationship with Hope—I find out all this stuff after everyone else. It’s not that I mind that you’re getting close to him. It’s fine. But I’m sad that we don’t talk anymore. Not like we used to.”

He doesn’t answer me. I hear his heavy breaths as he plods along next to me, but there’s nothing else coming from him: no admission, no explanation, nothing to comfort me. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I was hoping for something more than total silence.

“Never mind,” I say after a few minutes. “Sorry to bother you with my issues.”

“It’s okay,” he replies. “Does what you just told me count as a problem?”

I’m briefly pissed until I remember that Ethan doesn’t do sarcasm. He’s asking me because he wants to know.

“Yes, Ethan, I do think of it as a problem.”

“That’s good. Then it’s an extra point.” He does a quick calculation. “I’m at sixteen,” he announces triumphantly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m collecting points for Dad. Every time I do something on his list I get a point.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. What list are you talking about?”

“Here.” He thrusts his hand into his pocket and shoves a crumpled up sheet of notebook paper at me. “You can read it.”

I scan the scribbled lines. For a future surgeon, my father’s written in the corner. I smile at the title on the top. “The Dreams of Ethan?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s a dream of yours to…change the time of a meal?” I remark, pointing at the first item.

“No. But each time I do it, I get a point. So far I’ve changed my lunchtime six times. So, six points.”

I hadn’t even noticed. “And the points you accumulate will get you…what? Closer to being a doctor?”

He nods. “That’s what Dad says. He told me that I have steps I need to go through if I want to get there.”

I shake my head and squint at the blurry writing on the page. “I’m sorry, I don’t get it. How many points did Dad say you have to collect to become a doctor?”

He gives me a strange look. “Dad’s not stupid, Rain. He knows I have to go to medical school to become a doctor. The points are not about that.”

“What are they about then?”

“They’re just motivation. When I collect a hundred, Dad gives me a prize.”

“What prize?”

“I get to visit him in DC. By myself.”

There’s no hint of maliciousness in his last words, but they smart anyway, almost as if he’d said without YOU. I duck my head and focus on the letters in front of me. The last line catches my attention, but I’m not sure whether it’s too personal a point. So instead I tap item three on Ethan’s list. “So are any of these actually dreams of yours? Like, listen to someone talk about their problems without interrupting. I guess that’s what you did just now. When I was complaining about us.”

“Yes. Also when I listened to Marcus. I think I should get two points for that. His problem was really long.”

I can’t help laughing. “You’re probably right. But it’s not a dream of yours exactly, is it?”

“No. That’s just one of the ways I can pretend.”

“Pretend? Pretend what?”

“Pretend to be neurotypical,” he responds quietly.

“But I thought you didn’t want to be neurotypical.”

“Of course I don’t. But Dad said that sometimes I’ll have to pretend. To get through the day.”

“I guess so. Especially if you want to be a doctor.”

“Yes. And if I want to get to the last step on the list.”

I fold the paper and hand it back to him. The last line was just two words, scrawled boldly across the bottom in fluid script.

Kiss Hope.

“Is the last step also a way to pretend?” I ask him.

“No,” he says. “The last step is my dream.”