LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

been tying her blouses in front for a year because she couldn’t figure out how to button them. I’d gotten used to the pantomime at dinner, nodding and smiling when she abandoned her fork and pawed through her plate.

      Dave and Iris had worked hard all their lives, and this caretaking and dementia were their only retirement. He didn’t have religion or children or close family of his own, but he’d confided in me that after Iris died, he planned to take a bicycle tour through the wine regions of Tuscany. He enjoyed the light-tasting Chianti of Florence, as well as the more full-bodied pinot chiefly associated with Pisa. He’d already done the research.

      “I need to talk to her nurses,” Robin said. “I have to call the house when Dave’s not there.” I could hear Kaya singing in the background. I could picture the bench where Robin sat at the park by a sweltering playground. “If he’s home, they won’t say anything.”

      It was the song Kaya had been singing in the kitchen before I’d left. “Shakira, Shakira!”

      “They’re not nurses,” she said. “They’re probably corn farmers. Or soldiers. When did the war end in Sierra Leone?” I said I didn’t know. Kaya yelled for Robin to watch her climb.“He’s so incapable of dealing with his grief.”

      Actually, I thought Dave was holding up pretty well, considering. The steroid he took to suppress whatever was choking his lungs had terrible side effects. His face was bloated and his skin had turned red, thin, and fragile. His beard had gone white. He looked like Santa, if Santa started drinking every day at lunch, which Dave did.

      “How come this morning at an air-conditioned gymnastics place for seventy-five bucks an hour she wouldn’t get off my lap, but we come here in a million degrees and she can’t stay off the monkey bars?” I figured it was because she knew the layout, but kept it to myself. “I got so mad at her for quitting. I started screaming, ‘You never try. Why is that?’ I’m sitting outside gymnastics, sweating my ass off, holding Beanie, she can literally see my head from the window, and twice she came out crying, saying she missed me. I just wanted to close my eyes for five seconds. You know how you say I never admit I’m wrong? Well, I was wrong, and I’m not just telling you I abused her to make you feel guilty. I went too far.”

      “I’m sure you didn’t.”

      “I had to shove him into his stroller so I could deal with her, but he wouldn’t let go, and I pressed down so hard I thought I broke his rib cage.”

      “Jesus.”

      “At lunch, the nice counselor let her sit on her lap, but the mean one told her she was a big girl and should stop crying. I’m going to find that one and explain to her that it doesn’t do any good to tell that to a four-year-old.”

      “You tell Kaya that all the time.”

      “That’s different.”

      “Why is it different?”

      “Because she woke me up five hundred times last night. Oh, here she is. You woke me up five hundred times last night.”

      “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

      “You don’t sound sorry.” It was true: Kaya didn’t sound sorry. I looked out at the bay, the sky, the seagulls, thankful for the distance between us.

      “I’m locking her in her room tonight.”

      “With what?”

      “I’ll buy a hook.”

      “Why didn’t I think of that?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Because I wouldn’t do that to a dog.” Two sailboats tacked at the same angle as they cornered around the jetty.

      “She’s not used to being ignored in the middle of the night. One peep and you’re there, hovering over her. Maybe now she’ll finally get sleep-trained. Now she’ll learn to spend the night in her bedroom alone.”

      “You’re going to sleep-train her in one night?”

      It went on like this for a while.

      “It’s you, you feed and flirt and sing and have conversations at three A.M.—”

      The bay, the water, the seagulls.

      “When you’re here, it’s always ‘Daddy Daddy,’ keeping them out of the basement so you can work, brokering that. When you’re not here, it’s quiet and I feed them early and put them to bed early, not at nine o’clock—”

      “Hey, why don’t you take the night shift for the next four years?”

      “Because I need drugs to sleep.” Beanie let out that piercing cat scream. I heard her whacking him on the back. “And when I take medication, I need more sleep. I’m not doing this for you next summer, so have fun.”

      “I’m having a blast.”

      “I don’t care what you do up there, but if you give me a disease I will cut it off. Got it?”

      “Fine.”

      “Or shoot you. Or chop off your balls.”

      “Understood.”

      Beanie remained quiet, and then we were all quiet.

      “I wouldn’t mind going to some makeout festival if my body wasn’t broken.”

      “Go ahead.”

      “As long as you take care of them while I take care of me.”

      “I should probably get back to it.”

      “You didn’t say how your first class went.”

      “My class?”

      “Yes.”

      “Fine.”

      “You say that every year. You worry about that class for weeks, slaving over your notes, ‘What do they want from me? I forgot how to teach!’ It hardly pays anything, and you’re up there having a blast and I’m here killing myself and for what?”

      “At least it gets me thinking about comics again. I used to love making comics. I don’t know what happened. I have to get a break from the magazine. I have to start something I care about. I have to find a way back in.”

      “Maybe you’re not supposed to write stories about your life anymore. Maybe you outgrew it. Maybe it bubbles up because you’re there and you should force it back down where it came from.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Or maybe being around those people, you’ll have an epiphany.”

      “Sure.”

      “Go on, shove it down. Next to your childhood. Next to your parents. Keep shoving.”

      “You don’t know anything about me.”

      “I know all about you. That’s what you’re trying to get away from. You think you’re worthless, so you make me feel worthless, and when you’re gone I don’t have that, nobody second-guessing me or giving me nasty looks or turning off my music or criticizing my soul. It’s more work, but there’s no time to be depressed or think, although I actually can think. Four producers are coming from L.A. on Monday, I’m meeting with the network, it’s the busiest time and budgets are insanely tight and Realscreen is right around the corner. I can keep fairly complicated ideas in my head without having any obligation from you to talk and listen. I’m myself. I get love from people at work, and Karen Crickstein wants to meet me for lunch, and Elizabeth comes over and we do the knitting tutorial, and have conversations that matter, and she doesn’t wish I would shut up and go away.”

      

       Скачать книгу