Long Bright River(43)

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No one, at that point, not even Kacey, knew that I spent time with Simon Cleare in this way. On the nights Kacey was home, we two lay in the same bed, each with our own secret, a line drawn between us, a chasm that widened each week.





Kacey stopped going to high school. She didn’t tell Gee. And our school, underfunded and filled to capacity with struggling students, failed to send home a notice.

I, too, said nothing. As always, my main priority was to keep Kacey under Gee’s roof, and so I concealed from Gee what I knew. To this day, I don’t know if that decision was correct.

But I loved her. And there were moments, still, of real tenderness between us. When Kacey was depressed, or when she was high, she came into the house wanting a hug. She came into the house wanting to sit next to me and lean against me, her head on my shoulder, as we watched television together. She used to ask me, I recall, to braid her hair into two neat rows; she would sit on the floor in between my legs as I did this, making lazy, funny commentary about whatever was on television—she could still, even then, make me laugh—her breathing slow, her head heavy against my hands. I felt for her, in those moments, something akin to maternal love—an emotion I can only name in retrospect, now that Thomas is in my life.

I pleaded with Kacey openly, in those moments, to get well again. I cried. I will, she said, or I promise, or I’ll be better. But she wouldn’t look at me when she replied: always, she was looking elsewhere, at the floor, out the nearest window.



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—

In my senior year of high school, I began to narrow the list of colleges to which I would apply. The time I spent thinking about where I would go brought me some respite from the worry that otherwise constantly plagued me: At last, I thought, at last, the time has come for me to make my escape. And once I escaped, and made a good life for myself, I could rescue my sister. I’d been dreaming about it for years, ever since Sister Angela Cox, at Holy Redeemer, had told me that with my brains I could be whatever I wanted to be.

I knew enough not to go to Gee for help. Whenever anyone reported to her that I was smart, or a good student, she reacted skeptically. They’re setting you up, she said to me once, frowning. Gee, and all the O’Briens, took pride in doing only what was practical. A life of the mind—even a profession like teaching—seemed to most of them prideful in some way. Work was done with your body, with your hands. College was for dreamers and snobs.

Still, with help from my beloved history teacher, Ms. Powell, and on the recommendation of the somewhat incompetent (or, more kindly, understaffed) guidance department at my high school, I filled out two applications to nearby universities: one to Temple, and one to St. Joe’s. One public university. One private.

I got into both.

I took the admissions letters to Mr. Hill, the guidance counselor to whom I had been assigned. He high-fived me. Then he gave me a bundle of information on scholarships and a FAFSA form.

—What’s this, I said to him.

—It’s how you get money to pay for college, he said. Have your parents fill it out.

—I don’t have parents, I said. I remember hoping that the baldness of this statement, the lack of any cushioning, would convince him that I could—would have to—do everything myself.

He looked up at me, surprised. Your guardian, then, he said. Who’s your guardian?

—My grandmother, I said.

—They’re for her, he said.

Already, I could feel the lump rising in my throat.

—Is there any way not to, I said.

But my voice was too quiet, or Mr. Hill was too busy, because he didn’t look up from his desk.



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—

I knew what would happen. Still, I took them to her, all the forms, cradling them lightly in my arms.

She was sitting on the couch, eating cereal for dinner, watching the local news. Shaking her head at the antics of hooligans and thugs, the words she dispensed most frequently during this part of her routine.

—What’s all this? she said, when I handed her the stack of paperwork. She put her spoon down in the bowl with a high clink. Put the bowl down on the coffee table in front of her. She crossed a leg so that her ankle met her knee. She said nothing. She was still chewing as she looked through it all. She began then, quietly, to laugh.

—What, I said.

I was so ill at ease in my body, in those days. So little at home. I remember crossing my arms and uncrossing them. Putting my hands on my waist.

—I’m sorry, said Gee, laughing harder. I just, she said, putting a hand to her mouth, calming herself. Can you imagine? Kid like you at St. Joe’s? You barely talk, Mickey. They’ll take your money and spit you out on the sidewalk. They’ll have a laugh at your expense and then get rid of you. That’s what they’ll do. And if you think you’ll ever see a return on that investment, well. I’ve got a bridge to sell you.

She pushed the stack back across the coffee table. There was milk, now, on some of the papers. She picked up her cereal bowl.

—I’m not filling that out, she said, nodding at the financial aid forms. I won’t help you dig yourself into debt for some useless piece of paper at the end of it.



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