In an Instant(15)

Only Kyle wears gloves. My mom wraps her scarf around her hands.

Uncle Bob crawls back into the camper, and I follow.

“Oz, I need your gloves,” he says when he reaches my brother.

Bad idea.

Oz still holds Bingo and is stroking him with his gloved hands. Oz is dressed for the cold because my dad promised they would build a snowman in front of the restaurant after dinner, a tradition they follow every time we eat at Grizzly Manor.

Mo’s eyes slide to my dad’s pocket, but she says nothing.

“Oz, I’ll give them back,” Uncle Bob says. “But I need to use them so I can block out the wind.”

“No,” Oz says in his blunt Oz way, crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits.

“Oz, give me your gloves,” Uncle Bob orders, trying a different approach, his hand held out with authority.

I roll my eyes. Trying to argue, reason, demand, or cajole Oz into doing something he doesn’t want is a complete waste of time. It’s simply not going to happen. But Uncle Bob, for being as smart as he is, can be pretty dense. And though he’s known my brother since he was born, he doesn’t really understand his disability.

I describe Oz as simple. Some would say he’s dumb, but it’s more than that. My brother’s mind works in a very rudimentary way, relying more on impulse than thought to get by. If he sees a cookie, he eats it. If he needs to go to the bathroom, he pulls down his pants and goes. His cognition does not extend to calculated thought or complex emotions such as compassion, empathy, or sympathy. He understands his own needs and acts on base instincts to fulfill them. This isn’t to say he doesn’t love or care. His heart is large as an elephant’s, but things need to be presented in a way he can understand. If Uncle Bob asked him to help close up the window, Oz would work until he collapsed and wouldn’t complain a lick. Or if he asked Oz to “share” his gloves, “one for you, one for me,” Oz might do that as well. He might even “take turns” with the gloves. These are concepts Oz has been taught and that he can understand.

But Uncle Bob doesn’t know this. He sees Oz only as a simpleton with gloves he needs so he can close the window. He steps toward my brother impatiently, all his feigned kindness gone and his eyes hard and dark.

Oz is only thirteen, and Uncle Bob mistakenly thinks therefore he can commandeer the gloves. This is foolish. Although Uncle Bob is two inches taller, thirty years older, and a whole lot smarter, it’s like believing that because you’re taller, older, and smarter than a grizzly, you will win in a fight.

Uncle Bob grabs Oz’s sleeve to pull his gloved hand toward him, and quick as a shark, Oz bends down and bites him. Hard.

Uncle Bob yanks his hand away, teeth marks imprinted on the skin. “Animal,” he snaps. “Goddamn animal.”

Oz tucks his gloved hands back into his armpits, and Uncle Bob hobbles back outside, gloveless and swearing.

He finds my mom and Kyle beside the undercarriage. They have pulled my dead body from the cab and carried it to the downhill side of the camper so it won’t get buried when they fill the windshield with snow. I’ve been laid behind the front wheel, where I will be somewhat protected.

My mom weeps as she unclothes me, stripping off my UGGs and socks and sweatpants. Kyle removes my parka and sweatshirt. I watch, thankful it is dark so Kyle won’t see my nakedness, which is ridiculous since I am dead, yet I feel embarrassed just the same.

When they are done, my mom carries the clothes back through the windshield.

“Mo, put these on,” she says, setting the pile beside my friend.

Mo swallows hard and shudders from more than the cold. Even in the darkness, the blood on my jacket shows.

“Are those Finn’s?” Natalie asks, her voice hiccupping, and I realize she might have just realized I’m not there or just remembered it, her brain not fully processing what is happening.

My mom lifts her head, almost surprised to see Aunt Karen and Natalie, as if she had forgotten they were there.

Aunt Karen’s eyes flick side to side, the pupils wide. “Natalie should get the boots,” she says, her wild gaze skittering over the clothes as she hugs Natalie against her.

My mom’s face tilts to process Aunt Karen’s words as if trying to reroute her thoughts to include the additional data. Both Mo and Natalie wear boots that offer little protection from the cold. My mom’s own feet are sheathed in ankle-high combat boots that aren’t much better.

Perhaps it is the fierceness with which Aunt Karen is looking at my mom, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s not making any move to help close the window, or maybe it’s because I’m dead and Mo is my best friend, or maybe it’s because she made a promise to Mrs. Kaminski to look after Mo, or maybe it’s because my mom can’t reprocess the decision. Whatever the reason, my mom turns from Aunt Karen and repeats, “Mo, put these on.” Then, without a word, she pivots and walks back into the fray.

Mo can barely get her body to work. Her muscles convulse violently, and her fingers are frozen into claws. Finally she manages to pull on my sweatshirt and parka. Then she unzips her boots, pulls my sweats over her torn jeans, and jams her feet into my too-small UGGs. My socks she uses as mittens. Lastly, she cinches the hood of my parka at her chin, blocking out the wind and Aunt Karen’s glare.





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