Page 13 of Good Half Gone

“You’re going to need help. She needs in-home care and someone to drive her to physical therapy sessions. Long road…” he says. The nurses give me sympathetic glances as they squeak by in their practical shoes. They bring boxed apple juice and animal crackers for my shock. I’m touched, but I don’t want any of it.

I don’t remember the drive home; I’m suddenly in the driveway, aching all the way to my bones. I walk through the door for the second time at midnight. I’d been texting Mary-Ann updates from the hospital, so she opens the door before I can take out my key. It looks like she wants to hug me but doesn’t. I’m glad. Kindness feels like too much. Everything feels like too much.

“He’s asleep. I let him keep the TV on. It seemed to take his mind off things a bit.” She paces to the dining table and grabs her bag and sweater.

I look toward Gran’s room and see the flickering of light through the crack in the door. “Thank you, Mary-Ann. I don’t know what I would have done without you—truly. It’s late, and I know you have to work in the morning.”

She flips her blond hair out from beneath her sweater and beelines for the door. Waving off my thanks, she touches my shoulder. “It was fine. I graded tests. Gary is sanding our floors, so it was nice to get away from the noise for a few hours.” Her husband was retired, having passed the family business to their son. “He was great as always,” she says, nodding toward where Cal lies asleep. “Any more news on Betty?”

I tell her what I know.

Her face grows serious. “Iris, I talked to Gary about it, and we’d like to help with Cal for the next few months. I can take him to school with me in the mornings and bring him back. He can eat dinner with us and do his homework. We have the spare,and he will be able to hang out with Bryan on Friday nights. Just until Betty gets better.” She squeezes my hand. “You’ll need the help.”

I don’t know what to say. I haven’t even gotten that far ahead yet, and she’s already giving me a solution. Bryan is her nine-year-old grandson, and Cal absolutely loves playing with him. But spending such long periods of time away from home, and without me or Gran?

“You’ve been through a whole lot. Why don’t you sleep on it and let me know?” She positions her bag on her shoulder and swings open the door. I almost call after her—I don’t want to be alone, could she sleep over maybe just tonight…?

A selfish thought. Mary-Ann has done enough for one night. Besides, I’m a big girl with a little boy to take care of. I thank her again and lock the door behind her. It feels strange being here without Gran, like being in a Walmart after it closed—so full of things but empty of energy.

I check on my cherub-faced son, covering him with Gran’s duvet. He’d camped out in her room to feel close to her, and it sends a pang of sadness through my heart. I’ll have to explain everything tomorrow morning; what a horrible thing to wake up to. I drink two glasses of water standing over the sink. I’m trying not to panic, but my world is collapsing. There will be medical bills, and medical transport. There is a chance I’ll have to be her full-time caregiver.

Not tonight, I tell myself. My emotional capacity is on empty. I need sleep. I shower and crawl into Gran’s bed with Cal, turning the volume all the way up on my phone.

I can’t deny it; I’m being triggered. Because on top of the stress this sudden turn of events has inflicted upon me, I can’t stop thinking about the last time this happened…those catastrophic days after my sister disappeared in that car. The depression associated with that time lingers on those memories like grime, no matter how hard I try to douse it. If I choose to remember,I am also choosing to hit refresh on my trauma and feel it all over again.

Some things can’t be avoided, I think as I fall into jumbled dreams where strangers stop to tell me that it’s going to be a long road ahead.

The next morning Cal stumbles into the kitchen, sleepy and rubbing his eyes.

I sit him across from me at the table and tell him what happened while cinnamon buns bake in the oven. If someone is sad, you feed them. Gran’s take, but I’m willing to give it a shot. I explain everything the best I can, but when I get to the part about him staying with Mary-Ann and Gary—he loses it.

“If you told me who my dad was, I could go stay with him!”

I shouldn’t be surprised Cal is using this as another opportunity to bring up his father, but I am. I take a moment to steady my voice before answering. “No, you couldn’t, Cal. That’s not the way it works.”

I can’t stand the idea of him hating me and thinking his father is out there being a hero. That narrative has somehow taken root in my son’s brain in the last few months, although I knew this would happen eventually as he got older. He’s been more inquisitive lately, asking after a man I’ll never forget, but want to.

Cal is approaching manhood without a man to show him the ropes—a reality for a lot of little boys, but it makes me feel deeply guilty, nonetheless. I haven’t been able to produce a substitute father for him, I’ve been too busy tracking the men who took Piper. It stings for him to see his friends and their dads together, a feeling to which I can relate. When Piper and I were little, we’d tell people our dad’s name was Tom Cavendish. We didn’t know a Tom or a Cavendish, but we liked the way it sounded—a news anchor name.

The timer on the oven dings. “Look,” I say, getting up and grabbing the kitchen mitts. “You’ve got a mom who is crazy about you, and the coolest great-grandma in the world. This isn’t permanent,it’s just until Gran gets out of the hospital and my work-study is over.” My voice sounds overly cheerful. He’s not buying it.

“Bryan will be there on the weekends,” I offer.

He cracks a smile.That’s all you need.

“You’re going to be a really good dad someday. As for your dad—I don’t know where he is. That’s something we have to work through together, so talk to me about it when you need to, and we will be sad together.”

He nods, a good boy, and he is pressing back the tears, trying to be strong for me. I don’t want him to have to do that—be strong for me. He is the kid and I am the adult, and I want to make sure he always knows that. Even though I don’t feel like an adult right now. I want someone to cry on, someone to stroke my hair and tell me everything is going to be all right. She is in the hospital.

I sit beside him while he eats. My son, my sweet son has no idea how hard I’ll work to keep him away from his father. I’d kill.

Chapter6Past

The Sky Wasdark when we pulled up to the mailbox on East Cherry Street. I rolled down the window, squinting at the numbers.

“It’s the right one,” I said to Gran. Before she could stop me, I opened the door and hopped out, my Chucks splashing through the deep puddles in the driveway.

I couldn’t see much of it, but the house was squat, tucked behind a row of overgrown hedges that separated house from sidewalk. The driveway was to the left of the house, leading to a detached garage, and when I turned toward the door, I immediately heard voices trailing from the open window. A bunch of scraggly tennis shoes sat in a tumble beside the door.

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