Purple Hearts(66)

“I can’t believe you got up on your own!” she said again, her smile taking up her whole face. She looked me up and down, probably so unused to seeing me upright.

Another gentle step. The floor stayed solid.

Pinching pain rather than stabbing. Pinching and poking, small, like a secret, like Jake and I used to do to each other in the grocery store line when we knew we would get in trouble if we pushed each other in public.

“Goddamn,” I said, swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat.

It’d been a wave inside me when the sun had hit my eyes this morning, my mouth dry from passing out. I’d reached for my glass of water but realized I’d left it on the shelf where the records were, across the room. A chorus of fuck, fuck, fuck had rung in my ears, louder than usual, fueled by anger at my useless body, that I couldn’t get a fucking glass, that I could feel my stomach spilling over the same sweatpants I’d worn for a fortnight.

I’d pressed so hard on my feet that I wanted the floor to fall away. Pain was there, but I’d told it to fuck off.

Fuck off, I’d said aloud on the second attempt, and I’d pressed on the coffee table, almost tipping forward until my knees caught the edge.

I’d tensed my quads like I used to when we lifted weights for football, felt them shake. Just when I thought they were going to give out, I was straight. They were straight.

I was up, I was up, and Cassie reached for me, taking my arm, somehow knowing I’d want to walk in a circle, around and around, away from the couch, the room its own little country.

Her steps with mine were strong, slow.

She beamed at me. My chest felt wide open.

“You don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to,” I offered. “Do you have anywhere to be?”

“No. Here,” she said, steering me toward the stereo. “Let’s put on some music. What do you want?”

I didn’t know at first, but then the smell of motor oil drifted toward me from another time, the vision of my dad’s hands tapping along on the hood while he examined an engine. “I’d like to request,” I began, and took another step with her arm now around my waist, “?‘Spirit in the Sky’ by Norman Greenbaum.”





Cassie


It was cool and sunny, so I opened the windows to the apartment and put on David Bowie’s “Rock and Roll Suicide,” turning it up as high as it would go. I’d decided to wait until my mother’s schedule matched mine so I could tell her the band’s news in person, and I had a good feeling about today. Luke had been standing on his own for a few days in a row, and was now outside with Rita, making laps around the yard.

I was nine days and a thirty-minute show away from being signed for a record deal. I couldn’t wait to tell her: I was a musician, and I had proof.

When she pulled up outside, I watched her step out of her Camry wearing drugstore sunglasses, a Rosario Ferré book under her arm. I smiled, and turned down the music as she climbed the stairs.

“Who’s mowing your lawn?” she was saying as I opened the door. “It’s a jungle out there.”

“Oh, Rita’s supposed to take care of that,” I said, reaching over to kiss her on the cheek.

“And you’re wearing a dirty T-shirt. Same jeans for days. Estas flaca.”

I pursed my lips, resisting a retort, reminding myself that today was supposed to be good. To fix things between us. Still, sometimes I thought I could tell her that I won a Nobel Prize and she’d say, Make sure they aren’t using that photo of you from your goth days.

But that was about to change.

“Anyway, Mom, I—”

“And where am I supposed to sit?” She was looking at the couch, which held Luke’s pillow and blanket, crumpled and probably smelling like sweat.

My face burned.

She picked up the blanket and began to fold. “Does a nurse come?”

“Rita comes. From downstairs, on nights when I have to bartend or when I need to practice.”

She set down the squared blanket, and picked up the pillow, beginning to fluff it. “Hm. And how long will you have to do that without figuring out how to pay her for real?”

I watched her work, trying to find the right words. “Well, yeah, but hopefully Luke will be better soon. And, Mom, I have something to tell you.”

“Go on,” she said, tossing down the pillow, a smile growing on her face.

My stomach dropped. My heart started to beat, hard. She would be proud of me. Right? “I don’t think it’s exactly what you want to hear, but it’s good.”

She pulled a strand of hair out of my mouth. “Oh, does this have something to do with your piano playing?”

A punch to the gut. “Piano playing? Mom, it kills me that you call it that. It kills me.”

“What would you rather I call it?”

“My career.”

“Your career.” When I looked back at her, she was rubbing her temples, as if my lack of comprehension were giving her a headache. “All I’ve told you, all I’ve given you, out the window.”

“All right, forget it. Forget it.” I fought back tears, heading toward the kitchen. “You want some lunch? I’m done talking to you about this.”

“Why?”