Rules (8 page)

As Mom reads, I sketch the scene: Harry sneaking down the hallway on a midnight search. I practice drawing perspective, angling the lines of the corridor narrower with each door to pass.

I imagine David turning the doorknobs, needing to know what’s on the other side. Not even realizing the walls are squeezing in, tighter and tighter, the farther he walks.

I flip my page to save him.

Beside me, my word cards sit upside down on the waiting room couch, a tiny white pile. At home I felt ready to share these words, but what if Jason tells me I’m being selfish to feel bad for
me
when David — and he — has it worse?

“And how much for shipping?” the receptionist asks, the phone to her ear. “Is there any discount if we buy two boxes?”

I yank the zipper open on my backpack to find a blank card. Maybe I have time to make new words before Jason gets here.

“That does seem a lot for one box of hearing-aid batteries,” the receptionist says.

I lay a card on my sketchbook, but before I can choose a word, Carol rushes through the clinic doorway, her baby balanced on her hip. “And there was
such
a line of traffic on the bridge!” she says over Jason’s head to Mrs. Morehouse, behind her. “Figures they’d have to raise it for a ship on the day I’m already late.”

Excuse.
I write the word, quick as I can.

“That’s always the way, isn’t it?” Mrs. Morehouse pushes Jason’s chair across the carpet toward me, and Mom picks up her bookmark, leaving Harry still searching in the hallway.

Jason smiles, his hair curling along his forehead and above his ears, no longer dangling past his eyebrows.

“Your haircut looks good.” I slide my words pile under my leg.

Too. Short.
He nods toward the card in my lap.
What? Word.

I frown, sliding
Excuse.
into an empty pocket of his communication book. With no picture, the card looks rushed and cheap. My fingers itch to pull it out again. “I’m sorry,” I say. “The rest of the words I brought aren’t good words.”

Want. Bad. Words.

“Not that kind of bad,” I say, a grin sneaking out. “I mean I was upset when I wrote them. Maybe I could make double for next week?”

He shakes his head.
Want. Those. Words.

I glance to Mom, but she doesn’t look up from her magazine.

“And how soon can I expect delivery?” the receptionist asks into the phone. “Maine.”

Jason stares at me, touching an empty pocket in his book, his finger tapping a soft drumbeat.

I pull a card from under my leg. Not even looking at what it is, I reach across and slide the word into a pocket of Jason’s communication book.
Murky.

What? Drawing. Murky.

“What did I draw for murky?” I ask. He nods.

“I wrote that word for a feeling,” I say. “But a feeling isn’t always drawable, so I drew the pond where I go swimming. There’s a raft, and we dare each other to jump off and touch bottom. You have to go way down and the water gets ice cold, but the worse part is when you touch. The bottom’s all squishy with old pine needles and mud that sucks your feet down, right to your ankles. By then you’re almost out of air, and you start thinking maybe this time the mud won’t let go and you won’t make it back up. But the rule is that you have to bring back a handful of that murky stuff from the bottom to prove you made it all the way.”

I expect disgust on Jason’s face, but I see something else — wishing.

Is? Fun.

I nod. “Coming up makes it worth it.”

He sighs and I realize he’ll never feel the thrill of breaking the surface, fist raised, mud dripping down his wrist. How can someone live a whole life and never feel that?

You. Said. You. Write. Murky. For. Feeling.
Jason taps.
What happened?

I reach down to finger the word cards beside me. “You know Kristi, my new neighbor I told you about? On Tuesday she came over. Which would’ve been great, except Ryan came with her. He’s the boy I can’t stand. David wanted some of Ryan’s gum, but Ryan teased him and everything was —”
Ruined.

“And the worst part,” I whisper so Mom can’t overhear, “David thinks Ryan’s his
friend
. He doesn’t understand Ryan’s only making fun of him.” I add the words fast.
Cruel. Tease. Embarrassed.
“And I get stuck making it better when it all goes wrong.”
Hate. Unfair.

Beside me, little yellow-white sand grains cling to the wheel of Jason’s wheelchair. I wipe them away a few at a time and watch them disappear, too tiny to see fall.

“So I felt like that.” I touch
Murky.
“Stuck at the bottom of the pond, only this time the mud wasn’t letting go.”

Sometimes.
Jason hesitates, his fingers held in the air over his book.
I. Wish. Die.

“Don’t say that!”

Mrs. Morehouse startles. “What’s wrong?”

I look from Jason’s finger on
Secret.
to Mrs. Morehouse sitting forward in her chair. “He just surprised me, that’s all.” I flip through his pages to find words.
I. Would. Miss. You.

Jason smiles.

But. Why? Wish. Die.

He shrugs.
No. Word. Frustrating. Most.

I roll one last sand grain, perfect and sharp, between my finger and thumb.

I. Am.
He turns the page in his book and points to
Incomplete.

“No you’re not. But I know what you mean. Sometimes I don’t feel whole, either.” I find an empty pocket for
Torn.
“I feel like I’m ripping in half. One half wanting to run away and be a regular person with my friends, but my other half is scared to leave David because he can’t make it on his own.”

Make. Word. Please.

I open my backpack and reach for a blank card. “What do you need?”

Leg. Go. Very much. Fast.

“Run?”

He nods and I scribble the letters, leaning forward, rushing across the top of the card.

Jason taps,
Sometimes. Asleep. I. Dream. I. Can. Run.

“Really?”

He nods.
How? Does. It. Feel. To. Run.

“Strong.” I struggle for the right words. “And fast and in a weird way — weightless. Like if you could go fast enough, you’d fly. It’s an amazing, free feeling.” I squeeze my toes, imagining the slap of my sneakers on the sidewalk. “Is that how it feels in your dreams?”

No.
He looks away from me, his lips pressed together.

How could I bring these words to comfort myself when they put that hurt in his face? “I could push you around the parking lot, really fast,” I joke. “That’d be close to running.”

Jason taps,
Okay.

My smile freezes. “Okay?”

Sure. Why not?

Out the window, a man in a gray sweatshirt walks down the gift shop steps. A woman opens the door to Elliot’s Antiques, and a family comes out of the restaurant, laughing. Between the rows of parked cars, a seagull struts, looking side to side.

“Because there are cars out there, and tourists,” I say. “And seagulls!”

You. Can. Watch out!!! For. Car.
Jason smiles.
Bird. Will. Move.

“I don’t think —”

Tell. Mom. I’ll be right back.
He stops his finger on
Please.

I pull in a shaky breath. “Mrs. Morehouse? Jason and I are going out in the parking lot for a few minutes. We’re going for a run.” I say the last part extra quiet.

“A what?” She looks up from her magazine.

“A run.” I step behind Jason’s wheelchair and push. It rolls smoothly, easier than I expected across the carpet.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Mrs. Morehouse asks as we pass her.

I can’t see what Jason taps, but she moves to open the door. “Be careful, Catherine.” She fixes me with a stern look.

I grip the wheelchair handles as we go down the ramp, my muscles tight as rope. My palms feel slick, but I don’t dare relax even one finger, afraid he’ll roll from me.

At the bottom of the ramp, we both let go a relieved sigh. I turn the wheelchair to face the parking lot. “If this gets too wild, lift your hand and I’ll know to stop, okay?”

Jason nods.
Run.

I jog, more a fast walk than a run. Jason’s head and shoulders shake as I bump him over cracks in the tar. There’s so much to watch out for: holes and rocks and sand near the side of the building.

I stop beside the Dumpster. “Sorry this is such a bouncy ride. Are you sure you want to do this?”

Run. Fast.

I start again, pushing Jason’s chair ahead of me. I run past the fire hydrant and around the parking sign, keeping a lookout for cars pulling into or out of the parking lot. Every few feet I shoot a lightning-quick glance at Jason’s hands.

He doesn’t pick them up, just holds tightly to his communication book. So I make the first turn, running faster. Clouds of seagulls take to the air in front of us, quarreling and shrieking.

Running hard now, my feet pound the tar, the flap of seagull wings as loud as my breath in my ears. People are looking, but I try not to see them as real, just statues to run past.

At the final turn, I see Mrs. Morehouse standing in the entrance to the parking lot, her palm out like a traffic cop, keeping cars from pulling in.

I dash past the mailbox, the
EXIT HERE
sign, past Mrs. Morehouse.

Leaning into it, faster, harder, my feet slap the pavement, until it comes — that weightless, near-to-flying fastness. “Do you feel it?” I yell to the back of Jason’s head.

But if he answers, it’s only in his head.

I run all the way to the clinic ramp. “How was that?”

Awesome!

I bend over to steady my breath. When I straighten up, I see not only is everyone in the waiting room standing at the clinic windows watching us, but a family on the sidewalk is staring, shopping bags in hand. And in several of the restaurant windows surrounding the parking lot, people have stopped eating to watch. Most of them have their mouths dropped open.

Jason waves.

A man in one of the restaurants gives a thumbs-up, and everyone in the waiting room cheers, Carol holding her baby high so he can see.

“One more time?” I ask Jason.

He grins.
Excellent!

And we’re off! Past the windows and the Dumpster, around the parking sign. Seagulls billowing into the air at every turn.

Strong, flying-fast, and free, we run.

Though my legs are tired, I run faster up my driveway, trying to put every feeling into words for Jason’s cards. Fierce, hard — my sneakers slap the tar — swift, brisk. I take off across the lawn (squishy, springy), but as I round the far corner of the house, my feet slow to a walk.

Dad is kneeling in our garden, his back to me. Watching him, I think of Kristi at her dad’s for the weekend and Melissa in California with hers. Part of me wants to run up and hug Dad from behind or cover his eyes with my hands, like I did when I was little. “Guess who?” I’d say and he’d guess everyone but me — even though we both knew he was pretending because he’d give impossible answers like “Queen Elizabeth” or “Little Bo Peep.”

Before I can decide what to do, Dad spots me.

“Look, Cath.” He twists a ripe tomato from the vine and holds it out to me. “Isn’t this beautiful? I’m sure not many people have ripe tomatoes yet.”

I walk over and take it from him. “I bet we’re the first.”

Dad’s always proud we have tomatoes before anyone else. That’s because he starts the seeds in pots on the kitchen windowsill while snow’s still deep on the ground.

I study the tomato closely, drawing it in my mind. It’s so smooth I’d need dense color, layered until not even a flicker of white paper showed through. Alone, each of my colored pencils would be too bright, but blended, I could make it look real. “People usually think tomatoes are red,” I say, “but they’re more red-orange with yellow-orange streaks. And there’s even the smallest hint of purple here in the creases.”

“Purple?” He looks over, his forehead lined with concern. “Is it mold?”

It feels stupid to be jealous of a tomato, but sometimes I think Dad likes them more than he likes David and me. “No, it’s just a shadow.”

“Oh, good.” Dad turns a frilly leaf to check the underside. Standing above him, I’m startled to see more gray hair than brown on the top of Dad’s head. When did that happen?

“Have you heard from Melissa lately?” he asks.

“I got a postcard last week. Her father took her to Disneyland.” I roll my tomato between my hands, the prickly stem poking into my palm. “Maybe you and I could do something special, too? Just us?”

He sighs like it’s the millionth thing I’ve asked him for today, instead of the first. “You know we can’t afford something like that.”

“I don’t mean Disneyland. Just something, me and you.”

Dad smiles, but it’s a worn-out smile that doesn’t light his eyes. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ve been dealing with doctors and customers and staff all week. I really need to stay home today and be quiet a while.”

Watching him pick another tomato, I mouth words at the back of his head: “But what about me?”

“Maybe we could cook spaghetti tonight?” He places his tomato with the others in his basket. “These would make a great sauce.”

Before I can answer, Mom yells, “It’s three o’clock.”

Dad frowns at his watch. “I’d really like to finish up here first,” he calls to her. “I’m almost done.”

In the kitchen doorway, Mom crosses her arms over her stomach. “David has his shoes on already, and I have paperwork to do for my meeting on Monday.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Dad shouts.

The sound of Mom slamming the kitchen door makes me cringe. I’m torn between wanting to yell at him for choosing tomatoes over Mom and wanting to cry that he’s choosing David over me. “Maybe we could go to the mall?”

“You heard Mom, I have to take David to the video store. Do you want to come with us?”

“No, thanks. Maybe we could do something afterward?”

“Someday soon,” he says. “I promise.”

I drop my tomato in his basket with the others. I know he’s just promising to stop me from asking again. Walking away I turn once to check if Dad’s watching me go.
Look for me
. Staring at the back of his head, I imagine him turning left and right, searching.

He picks another tomato.