Hope and Other Punch Lines(60)

“This is Brittany Brady reporting live outside of Garden State Hospital.” Then the news goes back to covering the president’s latest tweets threatening nuclear war and hence the destruction of humanity. I switch off the television.

“Just when I thought I was ready to hate her,” Abbi says.

“Brittany Brady? She seems okay to me, though I think someone should really buy her a coat,” I say.

“Cat!”

“Joking. Who knows? You’re better off without her. I’m starting to learn that sometimes there aren’t easy explanations for why people do the things they do,” I say. “Also, I think sometimes people think they’re protecting you when they’re really protecting themselves.” I look at the floor of my room, which is covered with boxes of my dad’s old stuff. My mom hauled everything up from the basement, including about a dozen photo albums I didn’t know existed. She wants to go through it all together, to, in her words, introduce me to my father. She seemed so hopeful, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t think he’s in there. As Sheila put it, a picture of a thing is not the same thing as the thing.

“Sorry for bleeding all over you. I should have said that sooner. The most embarrassing moment of my life,” Abbi says.

“Don’t apologize. Though you did scare the shit out of me, figuratively speaking. And out of Livi literally.” I open one of the albums, and my parents’ wedding photo stares back at me. I close it. There’s plenty of time for all this later. I’m no longer going to think of my dad as if he’s only available in limited quantities that need to be rationed. He’s dead, yes, but he lived for thirty-three years. I have a lot to catch up on.

“I heard Brendan came to the hospital?” Abbi asks. “Please tell me he and Jack are hooking up. I need some good news today.”

“According to Jack, they’ve been doing more than talking by the frozen fish,” I report.

“Yes!”

“Can I come visit you tomorrow morning? I…Yeah, can I come by?” I ask, and realize this is not suave at all. I’ve never been suave. I’m never going to be suave. Listen, my dad did pun competitions. I apparently have nerd encoded deep in my DNA.

“Sure,” she says. I smile.

“I’m so happy that you’re feeling better, Abs,” I say.

“Thanks.”

“Oh, crap. You failed my test.”

“What test?”

“I called you Abs and you didn’t correct me. Now I’m really worried.”

“You practically saved my life this morning. I think I can let one Abs go.”

“Wait, I can call you Abs now?”

“I guess.”

“I knew it! There’s an Abs stage!” I pump my fist in the air, even though I know she can’t see me.

“There’s no Abs stage,” she insists.

“I never would have guessed that you’d have such an elaborate initiation ritual. I mean, I had to practically shower in your blood to get here. But it was worth it.”

“Good night, Noah,” she says, all mock-annoyed.

“Good night…Wait for it…,” I say.

“Waiting,” Abbi says.

“Good night, Abs.” I sigh with contentment, loud enough for her to hear. “It was so, so worth it.”





“I’m here,” my mom says after we’ve both been pretending to sleep for at least an hour. My mother returned to my room around dinnertime, sheepishly donning her weariest divorce-smile and carrying a bunch of balloons, of all things, and now lies on the cot next to my bed. Despite arguing that I’m old enough to stay here alone for one night, that she and my dad should go home and talk, I’m relieved she ignored me. I didn’t realize that once darkness fell, the fear would slice right through me. “I mean, I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere. I panicked earlier. Residual PTSD, maybe.” She pauses. “No, that’s an excuse. It’s seems so silly now, but I really believed if I worried about you enough, that that alone would keep you safe. Like my mother says when she reverts to Yiddish in an emergency, Kinehora. Imagining your future would jinx it. But the world doesn’t work like that. It never did,” she says.

I don’t answer. I listen to the beep, beep, beep of the machines. Find comfort in their rhythmic reliability.

“After the first plane hit, Dad and I started running back toward the Towers. To get you. But we couldn’t. There were cops, and all these people running in the other direction, and the roads were blocked, and it was impossible. Dad said that Connie would keep you safe—you were her favorite—and she’d been so excited about your birthday. She made you that crown. There was nothing to worry about, but of course this was before the Towers actually fell. We didn’t know. No one knew,” she says, and starts weeping quietly. “Sometimes the worst thing you can possibly imagine happens. It just does. But on that day, for me, it didn’t. I mean, I thought it did, it almost did, it could have, but then you came home. My baby came home.”

“And so many other people’s didn’t,” I say, tears hot on my cheeks. I don’t have to look over at my mother to know her face is wet too.

Tomorrow afternoon I will be knocked unconscious while doctors cut me open and tinker with my tumor.