Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,50

where Mr. Carty would sit me down to give me the news. I would react stoically at first and then run from the school. These were mixed fantasies. There was some pleasure in them someplace. The pleasure of feeling sorry for myself. The pleasure of making a clean break into misery after always dangling above its canyon. Then the pinch: Stop it, I told myself. And this I also tell myself now.

The swinging doors open and everyone in the waiting room looks up. It is for none of us, it is a nurse walking out the front door. Everyone looks down.

She is what I have. I am what she has.

Just let me think a minute.

If she dies I will have to find my father. But I am eighteen and therefore don’t need a father who does not need me. I am eighteen and will be alone in this world.

Just let me think a minute.

If she dies I will live in the house by myself.

If she dies I can go anyplace I want to play baseball. Pinch.

If she dies I will be alone in this world.

I should call Trevor. I should call Lindsay. All I really want to do is call Lindsay and then put my head against her and fit her in my arms but I have never told her about my mother. Never once. Furthermore I never told my mother about her which makes Lindsay seem less real.

The doors swing open. An ancient doctor with a white lab coat and enormous gray eyebrows.

Mrs. Keller’s son? he says.

I sort of raise my hand.

—Follow me, please.

We walk through those doors. He stops just inside them and leans against the wall so I do the same. Facing him.

What’s your name? he says.

—Kel.

He raises his eyebrows again.

I’m Dr. Moscot, he says. He puts his hands behind his back and then crosses them in front. Right hand over left hand over file folder.

Let’s keep walking, he says, and we go back into the same room that the med student took me to.

Have a seat, he says.

Now Kel, he says. Do you have a father?

In Arizona, I say. We’re not in touch.

How about aunties or uncles, he says. Grandparents?

Again I shake my head. Now I know it is very bad. I am waiting to fall into the canyon. I am waiting for the plunge, for the drop.

I’m going to be very up-front with you, says Dr. Moscot, because I can tell you’re a strong young man. Things don’t look good. Your mother isn’t responding at the moment. We’re not quite sure how long she wasn’t breathing for, and I hear you’re not sure either. Her initial bloodwork seems to indicate that she consumed a large amount of Valium, and when you mix Valium with alcohol it’s very dangerous. Do you understand?

He pauses.

He says, I’m afraid it’s unlikely that she’ll wake up. She was a very sick lady.

He sort of shakes his head.

I am very very silent. I cannot breathe or move. It is not so much a drop as a slow descent.

—The neurologist will be here first thing in the morning. We’ll do some tests on her to see if her brain is working at all. You understand?

He won’t stop saying this. I do not acknowledge him. I do not move.

I noticed the rash on her face, he says.

I force myself to nod.

—I hear she has lupus.

Mild, I say. It was always mild.

Again the huge eyebrows head north.

I see, he says.

I’m not so sure, he starts to say, but then he takes pity on me and stops.

He leans toward me. I lean away. She must have been in a lot of pain, he says. As if that will make me feel better.

Tell me if she’ll wake up, I say.

—I can’t tell you that.

What are the odds, I say.

I like odds. I like statistics.

—I can’t tell you that.

But the look on his face.

Not good, he says finally. Never good in situations like these. Grim.

I can’t help it and I cry. I don’t want to cry in front of this man but I do. I cry a lot for a long time. Not loudly, I don’t let myself cry loudly, which is what I want to do. I want to wail. I put my hands on my face to try to cover it but it’s very bright in this little room and I feel as if I have a spotlight on me. I turn my back to him. I swivel around in my chair.

Do you want to