Call It What You Want
Brigid Kemmerer
CHAPTER ONE
Rob
I eat breakfast with my father every morning.
Well, I eat. He sits in his wheelchair and stares in whichever direction Mom has pointed him. If I’m lucky, all his drool stays in his mouth. If he’s lucky, the sunlight doesn’t fall across his eyes.
Today, neither of us is very lucky.
I’m blasting alternative rock, the volume turned as loud as I can tolerate. He hated this music when he had the cognitive ability to care. I have no idea whether he can hear it now.
I like to imagine he can.
“Rob!” Mom bellows from upstairs, where she’s getting ready for work. She never used to bellow.
She never used to have a job before, either.
It’s been a great year.
“Rob!” she calls again.
I stare across the table at Robert Lachlan Sr. and shove a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. “You think she’s talking to me or to you?”
A drop of saliva forms a circular mark on his shirt.
“What?” I yell back.
“Turn that down, please!”
“Okay.”
I don’t.
Until last spring, I never knew there was a right way and a wrong way to kill yourself. If you put a gun to your temple and pull the trigger, it’s possible to survive.
It’s also possible to miss and blow half your face off, but luckily Dad didn’t do that. I’m not sure I could sit across the table from him if that had happened.
It’s bad enough now. Especially knowing what he did before he tried to commit suicide. That’s worse than all of it.
The suicide, I can kind of understand.
Mom says it’s important for Dad to know I’m here. I’m not sure why. My presence isn’t going to magically reconnect the neurons that will let him walk and talk and interact again.
If I could get my hands on a magic wand that would put him back together, I’d do it.
That sounds altruistic. I’m not. I’m selfish.
A year ago, we had everything.
Now we have nothing.
The living, breathing reason is sitting at the other end of the table.
I get up and turn off the music. “I’m leaving!” I call.
“Have a good day at school,” Mom calls back.
Like that’ll happen.
CHAPTER TWO
Maegan
My sister is throwing up in the bathroom. It’s awesome.
I want to offer help, tissues or water or something, but I tried yesterday, and she snapped at me.
Mom says it’s the hormones. Maybe she’s right, though Samantha has never been someone people would call nice. If she’s on your side, you’re her best friend. If she’s not, look out.
When Samantha left for college, half the cops at Dad’s precinct threw her a party. It’s not often that blue-collar kids go to an Ivy League school—on a full lacrosse scholarship, no less.
It’s not often they come back pregnant, either.
There’s a small, dark part of me that’s glad I’m not the troublemaker, this time.
Another part of me squashes the thought and shoves it away. That’s not fair to my sister. Unlike her, I’ve always been someone people call nice.
Well, until last spring, when people started calling me cheater.
The toilet flushes. Water runs. A minute later, Sam’s door closes quietly.
Mom appears in my doorway. She’s in a bathrobe, a towel wound high on her head. Her voice is soft. “Dad says he can drive you to school, if you’re ready now.”
“Almost.”
“I’ll let him know.” She hesitates in the doorway. “Maegan … about your sister’s condition—”
“You mean the baby?” I study my reflection in the mirror, wondering if the ponytail is a mistake. My fair skin looks pale and washed-out already. Besides, the first day of November has brought freezing temperatures, and my homeroom class has a cracked window.
She eases into the room and closes the door. “Yes. The baby.”
I wonder if Samantha had hoped to keep the pregnancy a secret, even from our parents. She was already planning to come home this weekend, so her appearance wasn’t unexpected. I just don’t think she’d planned on walking in the door, hugging Mom, and then throwing up on her feet.
Even that might have been explainable, but then Sam burst into tears.
Mom’s not an idiot.
Then again, Mom and Sam have always been close. Sam probably would have told her anyway. Just without the projectile vomiting. I reach for a colorful scarf. “What about it?”
“Your sister doesn’t want anyone to know yet.” Mom wrings her hands. “She’s only ten weeks pregnant, so she’s trying … she’s trying to decide what to do.” A pause. I wonder if my mother can’t bring herself to say the word abortion. “I’m asking you to respect her wishes.”
I pull on a denim jacket over my sweater. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Maegan, your sister deserves your compassion.”
“Mom. No one talks to me. Who would I tell?”
“Rachel?”
My best friend. I hesitate.
Mom’s eyes almost fall out of her head. “Maegan. Did you tell her already?”