Everything Is Fine. (4 page)

“Oh,” I say. I think about giving him the Frosty coupon. But I don’t.

Then he says, “What happened to your . . .” and he sort of points to my orange boobs.

“They got big.”

“How?”

“Just grew.”

“How?”

“I took some pills.”

He stops wiping again and looks more closely at the oranges even though they are covered by my T-shirt.

“Do you like them?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They look weird.”

“They do?”

“Sort of. But . . .”

“But what?”

“Nothing.”

“But what?”

“Nothing.”

And then I think he is almost going to tell me but his mom comes over and says, “Mazzy, we were so sad you couldn’t come on
the lake with us today.”

She looks really tan and sort of even beautiful.

But she is never as beautiful as my mom.

She used to kind of be my mom’s friend.

She’s not her friend now.

She keeps talking. “Colby said you had to do some things for your mom.”

Colby doesn’t look at me or his mom because he didn’t even invite me at all.

“Maybe next time?”

“Okay,” I say.

Then she says, “Colby’s cousin went with us today. Do you remember her? Ruthanne?”

I don’t say anything. Instead I stick my oranges out.

She looks at them and sort of smiles. I don’t know if she is laughing at me or if she likes them or what she is doing.

Then she says, “I only mention it because Ruthanne used to babysit you and your sister and she wanted me to tell your mom
and you how sorry she was.”

I don’t listen to what she says. Instead I sort of shake the oranges around and flick my hair.

Colby is on the other side of the boat then.

Me and Colby’s mom just stand there for a while. Me shaking my oranges. Her smiling and looking at me.

Finally she says, “You know, I could take you out for some girl time. Would you like that?”

I don’t know what she means by “girl time.”

“Do you think your mom would care?”

I shake the oranges.

“Okay, I’ll stop by next week when I get off work and we’ll go out.”

Then she’s gone.

M
E BEFORE ORANGES
: colored pencils on paper

M
E AFTER ORANGES
: colored pencils on paper

Colby does not have a girlfriend.

Bill comes over three times a week, and when he’s done, sometimes he watches TV with me.

Or this time, we sit on the chairs outside and he gives me a root beer while he drinks a beer.

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Then we keep sitting.

Finally I say, “Why doesn’t Dad come home?”

I don’t know why I say it because I don’t really want him to come home. Not really.

Bill sighs. “He’ll be home soon, Maz. He calls, doesn’t he?”

I don’t answer that. Instead I say, “Did you tell him how bad Mom is?”

He drinks some beer and starts peeling skin off his hand.

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

I knew it. I knew he’d tell.

“Then why doesn’t he come home?” I ask.

Bill wipes his mouth and then looks at me, “He will, Maz. But this ESPN thing, it’s his big break.”

I don’t say anything because no one cares about ESPN 360. We have to special order the channel and we don’t even get a discount.

We keep sitting.

On the chairs me and Bill watch the cars go by and then we watch a lady with a stroller with two kids in it and two kids walking
behind her.

“That’s a crapload of kids,” Bill says.

I don’t say anything because I’m drinking my root beer.

Bill looks at me. “That’s a crapload, eh?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, and it feels like the root beer is going up my nose. I cough.

“Ever want some of those?” Bill asks.

“What?”

“Kids?” Bill says.

“Huh?”

“I mean when you grow up.”

I watch the lady and she yells at the kids, and the two in the back are both holding sticks and poking her.

I wonder how old the babies in the stroller are.

“So?” Bill says.

I drink a big drink of root beer and then I say, “Beer is bad for you.”

Then we don’t talk anymore.

I don’t like Bill so much.

I can’t decide if I want Dad to come home or not.

I usually just want to watch TV.

But then Mrs. Peet came over and things had to change so I had to text him “Government.”

That night he calls my pink phone.

I don’t answer it the first time. Instead I watch
Survivor.

The second time he calls it’s during a commercial so I answer it.

He says: You picked up.

I don’t say anything.

He says: You watching TV, Mazzy?

I say: No.

He says: What are you doing, then?

I say: Making eggplant parmesan for me and Mom.

He’s silent for awhile and I turn down the TV then.

Then he says: So what’s happening?

I say: Nothing.

He says: Nothing?

I say: Yep.

He says: What about the text?

Survivor
’s back on so I hang up.

He doesn’t call back for thirty-two minutes, and when he does call back, he says: Mazzy, tell me what’s going on and don’t
hang up. Is your show over?

I don’t say anything.

He says: What’s going on, baby girl?

So then I tell him: There’s a lady with big boobs coming around named Mrs. Peet who is from the government because a neighbor
called.

Dad says: Crap.

Then he says: I already told her everything is fine.

Then I say: I told her that too. She came in even though I said things were fine and you were just gone on a business trip
and Mom is fine and everything, but when she was here, Mom was tired and in bed so she thinks things are bad even though they
aren’t and she says she doesn’t care who you are and that things have to change.

Dad sighs.

I keep going: She says things have to change and I can’t live here alone with Mom.

He’s still quiet.

I said things were fine and that everything was fine but she said she was going to talk to you and she doesn’t care who you
are and things were going to change.

She said she doesn’t care who I am?

Uh-huh.

Okay.

Okay what?

Okay.

I’m not sure what he means.

I say: Dad, what do you mean, okay?

He says: I mean she’s right.

His voice is deep and he sounds not like himself. Not like on TV.

I say: No. No, she’s not. Things are fine. Mom’s doing really good.

Come on, Mazzy.

What?

Mom’s not doing good.

Yes, she is. She just did a painting the other day.

He breathes heavy and then he says: Mazzy, what’s been going on was never permanent. You know that. Bill told me Mom is getting
worse.

I hate Bill.

So you’re coming home?

He’s silent again.

Are you?

Mazzy, it’s complicated. We’ll work something out.

What about Mom?

Mom’s going to be fine.

So you’re coming home to take care of her?

Silent.

Are you going to put her someplace? We’re fine, Dad. We’re both fine. You can stay.

Silent.

So I hang up.

He calls back and I let it ring.

He calls back again and I let it ring.

He calls back again and I finally answer.

He says: Mazzy, I am going to say one more thing and then you can hang up.

I pick my toenail and lie on the couch.

He says: Your mom and I love you very —

But then I hang up again.

A rerun of
Judge Judy
is on.

Colby wears football pads all the time now.

“Why are you wearing those?”

He ignores me but he’s mowing the lawn so maybe he can’t hear me.

I get up out of the sprinklers and go by him. “Why are you wearing football pads?”

But he mows right past me.

It used to be that Colby told me stuff like if he was on the football team. Now he just mows right past me.

So I follow him.

Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

Sometimes I march, sometimes I walk slow, but I follow him around the whole yard and he acts like he doesn’t see me.

Finally he turns it off and starts pushing it to the garage.

“I know you know I’m here.”

The pads are wet from his sweat.

He keeps pushing and doesn’t say anything.

So then I don’t say anything. I just watch him put the lawn mower away.

Then he gets out two brooms and hands me one.

I sweep the driveway and around the Dean Machine.

He sweeps the front walk.

Afterward he says, “You are a freak,” and goes inside.

He doesn’t mean it.

I look over and Norma is in her yard.

She waves.

I wave back.

Then I sit in the sprinklers.

C
OLBY WITH HIS FOOTBALL PADS
: chalk on paper

In the mornings, after her sorbet and pills, I sometimes do Mom’s hair.

Her hair was short when she first got in bed but now it’s longer.

And it doesn’t shine.

So I comb it and comb it and comb it and sometimes I put clips in it or bows or once I put a hat on her.

She pulled it off.

I said: It’s pretty.

She just lay there.

I said: Come on, Mom. Get up.

She kept lying with her eyes closed even though I know she could hear me. I knew she could get up and comb her own hair and
wash her own privates and get her own sorbet.

But she wouldn’t.

I said: Either get up or you have to wear the hat.

She didn’t get up so I put the hat back on.

She pulled it off.

I put it on again.

She pulled it off.

I put it on again.

She pulled it off and threw it.

You should have seen my mom before.

She was not like this.

Norma is outside and her butt is in the air.

I see her because I’m outside sitting in the sprinklers and Colby is sitting in the Dean Machine.

He doesn’t feel like sitting in the sprinklers with me.

I yell, “Norma, what are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer and I wonder if she has so much fat in her ears that it’s hard to hear.

I yell again. “Norma!”

Nothing.

“Norma! Norma! Norma!”

She turns and sees me and I wave.

Instead of getting up she just plops down on the ground and yells, “Come over here.”

I decide to go over there because I want to.

Today Norma is wearing yellow stretch pants and a purple T-shirt that says: “The Objects Beneath This Shirt Are Larger Than
They Appear.”

That means they are very large. Larger than Mom’s, Mrs. Peet’s, and even Dixie’s.

When I get there she says, “How you doing, honey?” She’s covered in mud.

It’s even in her fake fingernails.

“Fine. What are you doing?”

“Pulling weeds. Wanna help?”

I turn and look at Colby, who is watching us from the Dean Machine.