Wing Jones(49)

I’m almost done making my history flashcards, one side with a date or a place and the other side saying what happened and why it’s important, but I’ve got a tickle in my throat that won’t go away and it’s distracting. So I pad into the kitchen, thinking about how maybe I’ll start running at night again over winter break. I miss running at night.

My mom is standing in the corner of the kitchen, the cord of the phone wrapped around her like a snake slowly strangling her to death. Her back is to me, so she doesn’t know I’m here.

“I understand,” she says, her voice cracking like someone has taken a sledgehammer to it. “But we need to take out another loan. My son…” A sharp intake of breath. “Yes, that is my son. You know that. Just like you know that we need this loan.”

A pause. I can just barely make out the tone of the scratchy voice on the other end of the line. It isn’t a nice tone.

My mom pulls the cord tighter around her; it digs into her flesh. “No, please… How about I come in tomorrow? To talk to your manager in person? There has to be some other option. Some other way…”

I take the tiniest of steps back, begging the ancient floorboards to stay quiet, just this once. And they do. Another step, another, another, until I’m at the front door.

Her voice follows me. “There has to be something else we can do. Someone else I can speak to…”

The slamming of the receiver makes me jump, but not as much as the howl that comes after. I look over my shoulder and see my mom hunched over the table, shaking, shaking, shaking as that inhuman sound comes pouring out of her. All I want is to comfort her, but I don’t know how. I feel like I’ve just walked in on her in the shower and I should avert my eyes.

I take one more step toward the door, and this time the house isn’t quiet. The creak is loud enough that my mother’s head snaps up.

The noise she’s making cuts off. “Wing,” she says, voice not just cracked now but crushed to bits. “I … I didn’t see you there.”

She wants something from me but I don’t know what. I don’t know how to make this better. I don’t know how to fix Marcus, I don’t know how to fix my mom, I don’t know how to fix my family, I don’t know how to fix any of it.

“Are … you … are you … OK?” My words are so small, I wonder if they will even reach her.

She starts to nod; I see her cheeks try and go up in a forced smile, but it’s too much, and the nod turns into a head shake and her lips quiver and I hate myself for being afraid, for not being good enough.

I take a tentative step toward her, needing some kind of sign that I’m doing the right thing. She takes a shuddering breath and blows her nose in a paper towel.

“I’m fine,” she says, even as her chin wobbles. “Really. I don’t want you to worry. Everything is under control.”

My mother always flushes when she lies.

After I’ve gone back up to my room, I try to study some more, but the facts don’t stay in my head, the dates are confusing, and I can’t remember who fought who and when and where, and more than that, I can’t figure out why it matters.





CHAPTER 31


It’s Christmas Eve and we’re spending it in the hospital. It is just me, Mom, LaoLao, and Granny Dee. Aaron and Monica are with their families. I brought some tinsel and wrapped it around Marcus’s bed but Granny Dee made me take it down. She said it wasn’t dignified. I wanted to shout at her that getting in a drunk driving accident isn’t very dignified either, but instead I shrugged and took it down.

Between track practice and studying for finals, I’ve been managing to visit Marcus a few times a week. I wish it could be more, but at the same time … it never feels like him I’m visiting. It’s just a body lying there. The nurses say he knows when we visit, that it will help make him better … and sometimes I believe them. And sometimes I think they might as well be telling me Santa Claus is real.

His bruises are all gone. And his ribs have almost healed. But his leg is still shattered and he hasn’t woken up or given any sign that he’s going to. I wonder how long he’ll be like this. Suspended in a false sleep.

When we arrive, my mother smooths his hair, kisses him on his head, and wishes him Merry Christmas. Granny Dee sings a Christmas hymn. LaoLao holds his hand and whispers to him in Mandarin.

I stare at his face, willing him to open his eyes. But they stay shut. His chest rises and falls, the machines around us hum, and on he sleeps.

Our own Sleeping Beauty. Snow White. Rip Van Winkle. Marcus. My brother.

Leaving him is always hard, but tonight I feel like my intestines have unraveled and are wrapped around his hospital bed, and as I walk away they stretch and stretch and drag behind me and who knew that my insides could stretch this far without breaking, and I wonder how nobody else can see that I’m unraveling from the inside out and it hurts like hell.

The next morning I’m sitting in our living room watching some dumb Christmas movie when the door opens. It’s Aaron and he’s carrying a wrapped present.

“Hey,” he says. He puts the present down in front of me. “Merry Christmas.”

I haven’t gotten dressed yet and am wrapped in a ratty red robe. I tighten it around me.

My mom bustles in from the kitchen, face red from cooking Christmas dinner. “Aaron! Merry Christmas! What a wonderful surprise! Do you want to stay for dinner?”