Everything Is Fine. (13 page)

“Mom?” I stand by her bed and look at her face. She is breathing. “Mom? Mom, wake up.” I put my hand on her mouth; she doesn’t
move.

I put my hand on her mouth and her nose.

She moves.

She grunts and rolls to her side.

“Mom. Please wake up,” I say.

Her body goes up and down.

“Mom? Please?”

I look at her body up and down, up and down.

“Mom? You have to wake up. Dad is going to put you somewhere.”

Up and down.

“Mom. Mom? Listen to me.”

Up and down.

“Mom!”

I can feel it rising in me. Why won’t she just wake up? Why won’t she just be normal? Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

“Mom, you don’t want to go to a facility. Remember? You said to help you. You said to help you and take care of you.” My eyes
are blurring with tears but she doesn’t respond.

So I say it. I yell it: “Mom. Olivia is dead.”

Up and down.

“She’s dead.”

Up and down.

“And I’m not and it’s not my fault and it’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. Remember? We decided. And you want another
baby. Remember?”

Up and down.

“Mom, wake up. Please, wake up.”

Up and down.

“Dad is going to take you away. Mom, please?”

Up and down.

“Please, Mom. Please don’t do this.” And I start to shake her how I want to shake Olivia. I start to shake them both. Please
don’t do this. Please.

Please.

Please.

Please.

Please.

PLEASE!

That’s when Dad comes in.

That’s when Dad comes in and hugs me and I am all wet and soggy and please don’t do this MOM.

Dad says, “Sit down.”

I sit down.

“Baby,” he says, but I’m not his baby. “Baby, we’ve made a decision.” We. We. Him.

“We’ve decided that your mother should spend some time at a facility that can help her get better.”

I close my eyes.

“I know you aren’t happy with this decision, but what’s important is getting your mom better.”

Inside my eyes I can see light from the window.

“I love you and your mother a great deal.”

I hear a buzzing and I wonder if someone has left the cable box on.

“Do you hear me, Maz? I love both of you.”

I wish no one would touch the cable box.

“Maz?”

I nod.

“I love you both and I want what’s best for you.”

I think about Colby and his football pads.

“So your mother is going to go to the Park Facility. I’ve called and they are expecting us in tomorrow.”

I take a yoga breath and then I think, Do you buy your own football pads or does the school loan them out?

“Did you hear me, Maz? We’re taking your mother there in the morning so we need to get her all ready.”

That’s when I have my idea.

“Dad?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Do you still have your football pads?”

He looks perplexed. “Why, honey? Do you want to hit something?”

“No.”

“Then why do you want the pads?”

“Because.”

He folds his arms and sits back on the couch. “I still have some pads in the cold storage. You can do whatever you want with
them.”

“Thanks,” I say, and I stand up.

“We’re not done, Mazzy.”

“What?”

“Sit down.”

“Why?”

“Sit down.”

“I have to go.”

“You can listen for a few more minutes.”

Then he starts talking football talk. He says that sometimes you want to make the perfect pass. You want to win the game but
the defense keeps breaking down and you get sacked over and over.

“No one wants to get sacked, Mazzy. Do you understand?”

I pull a string out of my collar.

“I never anticipated getting sacked. Not like this — not over and over.”

I tie the string around my pinky.

“But sometimes,” he says, “after so many setbacks, after interceptions and penalties and all kinds of things, sometimes you
have to just go back to the drawing board. You have to start over.”

I tie it too tight and my finger starts to go red.

“Maz? Are you listening to me?”

It is getting redder.

“Maz. Look at me.”

I pull harder.

“Maz. Look. At. Me.” His voice is loud.

I look at him.

“Your mom is going to the hospital.”

“You already told me that.”

“Let me finish,” he says. “Your mom is going to the hospital and I have been doing well at this new job.”

He stops talking. I am pulling on the string.

“I have been doing well and they want me to cover some big events, but there’s going to be a lot of travel.”

The string pops.

“So your mom is going to the hospital and you are going to stay with your aunt in Kansas.”

On
Oprah,
you can buy a pig or a goat or a sheep.

But you don’t get to keep it.

They give it to starving people in Africa.

You can even buy half a pig.

I want half a pig.

I’m going to ask Mom if I can buy half a pig to give to starving people in Africa.

Or I might ask Norma.

Or Dixie.

Dixie would want to help too.

I won’t ask Dad. I’ll never ask Dad anything ever again.

M
E AND
D
IXIE AND HALF A PIG
: oil on canvas

My dad thinks I’m going to live in Kansas and my mom is going to a treatment center.

I find the football pads.

I find some cleats.

I find some old jerseys.

They are all in a box and I pull them out of the closet while doing yoga breaths.

Dad is in the kitchen on his cell when he sees me with the box and he says, “Hang on a minute” into the phone and then says
to me, “What’re you doing, Maz?”

“Nothing.”

He looks at me.

“Can we talk?”

I start pulling the box across the tile.

“Maz?”

I pull it to the carport door and then I turn and look at him.

“Maz? This isn’t permanent.”

Not permanent. Lie.

I close my eyes and do three karate chops at him. Hard. Fast. And then I go out the door.

I go behind the Spyder and put on the pads and one of the jerseys and the cleats.

Then I go and sit in the Dean Machine.

I could get in trouble but I don’t care.

Dad is watching from the window, I’m sure.

Probably everyone is watching.

I hope that Colby is watching.

I am in the Dean Machine for six minutes when Norma comes out.

“What’s going on?” Norma is standing by the side of the boat.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nope.”

She has purple lipstick on but I don’t care.

“I like your football clothes.”

“It’s a uniform.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to be an LB on the team.”

“An LB?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s an LB?”

“A linebacker.”

“Huh. I’ve never heard anyone call a linebacker an LB.”

I do a yoga breath. “You probably don’t know anything about football.”

I won’t look at her but I can feel her trying to be friends again.

“Nope, I don’t.”

“I do.”

She is quiet.

I pretend like I am turning the wheel of the boat. Colby says it’s easy to drive. Easy to drive the Dean Machine and probably
easy to drive the Spyder.

“Mazzy,” she says all quiet, “Mazzy . . . I’m going to try to explain one more time. After that it’s up to you.”

I wish I had the key to the Dean Machine.

“I have bad health and I’ve been trying to get better.”

“So,” I say.

“So, I eat too much.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” I am being mean. She clears her throat and is about to say something when I say, “It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say again. And it’s true.

“Okay.” She wipes some sweat from her neck. “So, can we be friends again?”

“Not right now.” She doesn’t know that we can never be friends because I’m leaving.

“Okay. Later?”

“Maybe.”

That’s when a door slams and it’s Colby.

When ladies get pregnant, their belly buttons stick out. Even if they were innies before, they go out after a while.

And the skin looks like elephants.

Mom and me, we’d look at her belly button and I’d try to poke it back in.

“Maz, it won’t go back until the baby’s here.”

“Oh,” I said. “Can I color it?”

“Okay,” she said.

I got the markers and I made a ladybug on her belly button.

“What are you doing in the Dean Machine?” Colby is wearing his swimsuit again.

“I’m sitting in it.”

Norma is still standing there and Colby is climbing onto the boat. “Move over,” he says.

I move to the passenger seat.

“You can only come on here if I say.”

“Okay.”

Norma still stands and Colby doesn’t even look at her or say anything to her. Then he says, “Where’d you get those pads?”

“The team.”

“What team?”

“The football team.”

“What football team?”

“The Florida Gators.”

“That’s a real jersey from the Gators?”

“Yeah. It’s my dad’s,” I say, and Colby bites his lip.

“Oh,” he says.

We keep sitting there and Norma keeps standing there until she finally turns around and goes back to her house.

I want to say, “Bye Norma,” but I don’t.

“She’s weird,” Colby says.

“Yeah,” I say. “But I like her.”

Then he says, “I saw your dad.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s home?”

“Yeah.”

Colby flips a switch on the boat.

“Are you glad?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

Then I say, “Colby? Do you like these pads and jersey and stuff?”

“No,” he says, and he is doing something under the steering wheel.

“Oh,” I say. “But do you want them?”

He looks at me. “What do you mean?”

“I could give them to you. And the cleats and the jersey. My dad said I could do whatever I wanted with them.”

“Why?”

“Why did my dad say that or why would I give them to you?”

“The give them to me part.”

I take a deep breath. This has to sound good. “I’ll give them to you if you do something for me.”

“What?”

I look back at the house. No Dad. Norma is inside.

Then I say very quietly, “Steal the Spyder.”

“What?”

“Steal the Spyder.”

C
OLBY AND
M
AZZY IN
D
EAN
M
ACHINE
: crayon on paper

Oprah says: you gotta plan.

And on
Survivor
you make plans.

No one knew until I talked to Colby that I had a plan.

Dad takes me to dinner that night.

Dad calls Bill to come over and watch Mom while we are gone.

Mom is home alone all the time. He doesn’t need to call Bill.

Brick oven pizza.

He tries to talk to me. “So, what’s your summer been like? We never got to really talk on the phone.”

I pull a pepperoni off and put it in my lemonade.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t you go to the lake with the Deans a few times?”

I look at him. How does he know that?

“No.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Mazzy, I know you did. I talked to Ellen.”

Mrs. Dean.

“She said she took you to yoga and shopping and you had a great time.”

“We didn’t.”

“You didn’t what?”

“We didn’t have a great time. I hated it and Mom was mad that Mrs. Dean made me go.”

Dad sighs. He sighs like he is some authority on my life or yoga and shopping with Mrs. Dean.

I decide to give him one chance. One more chance.

“Dad,” I say, “can’t you just let Mom stay home?”

He picks up his Coke. “I can’t, Maz,” he says, and takes a long drink. “Your mother is sick.”