Everything Is Fine. (14 page)

“Well, can I at least come with you to Connecticut? I don’t want to go to Kansas. Please, Dad.”

Another long drink, and then he shakes his head and says, “Not now. Soon. When I get settled.”

“Fine,” I say, and I don’t say one more word the rest of the dinner.

He asked for it.

Dad goes into his office and I stand there.

Finally I yell, “I’m sleeping in Mom’s room.”

Dad says from his office, “Not a good idea, Mazzy. I’m staying with your mom.”

I yell it again. “I’m sleeping in Mom’s room.”

Dad comes out of his office and says, “Honey, I’m going to sit up with your mother. I haven’t seen her for weeks.”

“That’s not my fault. I want to sleep in her room.”

I walk out of the room, down the hall, and lock myself in her room.

I put my face to the door for ten seconds.

Nobody comes so I get started.

I pick out her painting jeans, a white button-down, and blue earrings. The ones she wore to my elementary school graduation.

I find her old Tevas so she would be comfortable and I lay them all out on her bed.

I don’t even try to talk to her.

Then I pull out her suitcase and throw stuff in. Her umbrella, her windbreaker, her walking shoes, her maps, her wallet —
especially her wallet with credit cards.

After I have everything in and ready, I try to get her in the jeans.

“Mom?”

She doesn’t reply.

I sit her up and try to pull her nightgown up. She turns away and lies back down.

“Mom? I’m trying to help you.”

She goes into a ball.

“Mom. They are taking you away so we have to leave tonight. I know you can hear me. If you want to go, and I know you want
to go, look at me.”

She doesn’t.

“Just look at me once and I’ll know you want to go.”

She doesn’t.

But she is probably just tired.

It takes me over an hour to get her dressed.

Usually she’d be limp and I could change her. This time she is stiff.

I even put her Tevas on her so we’d be all ready, and then I pull the covers over her just in case.

It is 10:13 and I haven’t heard anything from Dad.

At 10:54 Dad knocks on the door.

I am lying on the bed watching the clock — I don’t answer the door.

He knocks again. “Mazzy, can I come in?”

I pull the sheet up to Mom’s chin and say, “No.”

“Mazzy, let me in.”

I hide the suitcases — hers and mine — and open the door.

“Baby,” he says, “I want you to sleep in your own room. You need a good night’s sleep.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Come on, Mazzy. You need to sleep in your own bed and let your mom get some rest.”

He looks over my shoulder at her. Even how she is, her face white and sunken, even like that she is still beautiful. His eyes
start to fill up. If he loves her so much, why is he making her go to a facility?

“Mom is used to me in here. I always sleep here,” I say. It isn’t all the way true but sometimes.

“She’s sick, Maz. And this is her last night at home.”

I lean against the door. “If I don’t sleep in here, then you can’t sleep in here, either.”

He closes his eyes for a long time and then says, “I won’t.”

“You won’t?”

“No.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“In the study.”

The study. Three doors down. Beyond my room.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And then tomorrow morning we’ll all go together and you’ll see that the place where your mom will be staying is nice.”

He swallows. “Really nice and she’ll get better.”

He is staring at her.

Dad in the study will make the plan easier.

I take his hand. “Okay, Dad.” I say. “Will you tuck me in?”

He smiles at me like I really want him to tuck me in.

I don’t.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, honey.”

And then we leave but I look back at Mom and send her a mental message: 1:00 a.m.

When Dad comes to tuck me in he tries to talk to me.

He keeps trying to say things.

Over and over and over.

I don’t go to sleep.

Instead, in my mind I try to work it out better.

It is going to work.

She will be okay. We can do it. She is fine.

M
E WAITING
: pencil on notebook paper

At 12:45 I get out of bed.

At 12:52 I am dressed and ready to go.

I have the keys in my pocket.

12:54 I am in Mom’s room and she is exactly how I left her. In a ball with Tevas on.

“Okay, Mom. Wake up. It’s now.” I shake her.

She doesn’t move. I don’t really expect her to move but I think maybe. Or maybe not.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got help.”

Then I open her window and throw our suitcases into the bushes.

“The suitcases are outside,” I say. Still in a ball. “I’m going to go get everything ready and then I’ll be back.” Balled.

As I climb out the window, I feel a rush of something go through me.

This is going to work — because everything is going to be different from now on.

Everything.

Colby is sitting in the Spyder.

He is wearing a black hoodie, black jeans, and had black something smeared all over his face.

“What’s that?” I ask as I put the suitcases in the backseat.

“Shhh,” he says. “What’s what?”

“The stuff on your face.” He is gripping the steering wheel.

“Blackout for football.”

“Why’s it on your face?”

“Duh,” he says. And then: “Where’s your mom?”

“She’s coming. But I might need your help.”

“For what?”

“To get her.”

Colby stares at me and I say, “Hang on. I’ll be right back. You probably won’t have to do anything.”

I go back to the window and climb into Mom’s room. She is in the same position.

I pull off the cover. “It’s time to go, Mom.”

She doesn’t move.

“Mom, we’re leaving now.” I pull her to a seated position but she is resisting. “You have to help me, Mom, because we have
to go out the window.” She won’t get up.

“Please, Mom. Please get up. You have to help me.”

I try to pull her up but she is almost pulling the other way. She just doesn’t get it. She wouldn’t want to go to the facility.
She would want to leave with me.

“Come on, Mom. We’re going in the Spyder. You’ll feel the wind and then we can go to Beachy Head. We’re going to go to Beachy
Head.”

Still resisting.

I sit by her and look at her face. Closed. Smooth. White. “I’ll take care of you, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here
and you’ll feel better once we’re in the car.”

Her mouth sort of moves.

“I saw that, Mom. I saw that. Once you feel the wind in the Spyder, you’ll, you’ll feel better. And we can go to the airport
and fly to Beachy Head.”

Her mouth moves again and I know she wants to go. I know she does but she just can’t get up by herself.

“Wait, Mom. I’ll get help. Wait right here,” I say, and then I climb through the window to get Colby.

When my mom feels the wind, she will wake up. She’ll be okay. She won’t go to the hospital and I won’t go to Kansas.

“Come on,” I whisper.

“Where?”

“To get my mom.”

“I thought you just went to get her.”

“I did.”

“Then where is she?”

“I need your help to get her out the window.”

“What? Like carry her? I’m not carrying your mom.”

He is whispering too loud.

“You don’t have to carry her. Just help her.”

“I thought she wanted to go. I thought this was her idea.”

I can tell he is getting nervous, but he can’t back out. I need him.

We argue for ten more minutes until finally I say, “It’s okay. I’ll get her by myself.”

I turn to leave, but he opens the car door and gets out.

“Fine, I’ll help. But this is getting weirder and weirder, and if I get in trouble I won’t talk to you again.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

When we get to her room — Colby and I through the window — she is gone.

The bed is empty.

Yoga breath. Yoga breath.

“Where is she?” Colby asks.

“Shh,” I say. Yoga breath. “Shh. She’s here. She’s just doing something really quick.”

I look on the other side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

I look under the bed.

“You think your mom is under the bed?” Colby says.

Yoga breath.

“No. I’m just seeing if I left my bag.”

I look in the bathroom.

Nothing.

She is gone.

“Maybe she’s already outside,” I say.

“Whatever,” Colby says. “We have to go. This is taking way too long.”

We climb back out and look around. No mom.

“Wait here,” I tell him.

“I’m going home.”

“No, no, please,” I say. “Just wait here.”

I go back inside.

Everything is still.

In the front room, the clock is ticking.

In the kitchen, the fridge is buzzing.

I look in my room.

Nothing.

I look in the hall closet.

Nothing.

I look in the bathroom.

Nothing.

I even open the door of the study a crack.

That’s when I hear it.

At the end of the hall. In the art studio.

My dad’s voice.

I tiptoe down the hall and put my ear to the door.

He is talking.

But not with his TV voice.

And not his dad voice.

It’s different.

I open the door quietly and there they are.

In the moonlight streaming through the window.

Dad on the rocking chair.

Mom in his lap.

Dad whispering and talking.

If I meet her I’ll say that she was wrong about some things.

I stand in the doorway and watch them. Dad has all my paintings out on the floor.

Mom is just curled up — her Tevas dangling.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I miss Olivia so much, but I miss both of you too.”

I stand there.

And watch him cry and then I see her put her arms around him and hug him.

My mom hugs my dad.

They sit like that a long time.

Rocking.

Then I hear Dad say, “I didn’t know Mazzy could paint.”

I hold my breath.

She doesn’t respond right away but then she says, “She can.”

I let the air out and that’s when I close the door.

Instead of kidnapping my mom, Colby and I go to Wendy’s for two free Frosties.

We walk.

In the morning, Mom is sitting in the front room.

She has two suitcases and she is wearing the same outfit I put her in.

She looks like Mom.

Dad is making a power shake in the kitchen and he doesn’t say anything about her clothes.

As we are leaving and getting in Dad’s car, Norma comes over.

She is in a fluorescent muumuu and she has her hair in curlers.

“You all need any help?” she asks.

I look at Dad.

He looks at me.

“I think we do, actually,” he says.

O
LIVIA
: watercolor on paper

The END.