Break(11)

He retches.

“You okay? You didn’t touch any of it, did you?”

“If I touched it, I wouldn’t be breathing.”

Good point. The boy’s unbelievably allergic to milk. It’s dramatic even for him.

The kitchen is a wreck. The refrigerator’s propped open—great—and one of Will’s overturned bottles drips onto the floor. There’s a saucepan full of milk on a burner that’s still hot.

“Solved the mystery,” I yell to Jesse. “There’s milk on the stove in here.”

He steps out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Great.” He’s covered in pink nickel-size spots—calamine lotion over the hives.

I make my responsible older-brother face. “Go into the living room and lie down, all right? I’ll clean up in here.”


I take the pan off the stove and rinse it in the sink, watching all the milk run down the drain. I put the bottle in the refrigerator, close the refrigerator, and give the countertops and floor a good scrub. Wash my hands. Open all the windows. The October wind stings the back of my throat.

“It’s going to get cold in here,” I tell him as I flop down on the couch beside him. “I’m airing the kitchen out.”

He pulls the quilt off the back of the couch and drapes it over us.

“It’s kind of a problem that you get this sick just from the smell,” I say.

“I know.”

“And I know food challenges suck, but you’ve got to get more tolerant than this.”

Jess used to do challenges where he had to eat tiny bits—like, really tiny bits—of something he’s allergic to every day. The point is that your body deals. Starts to accept it. And then you eat a little more, then a little more. Just building up. Immune system overcomes the challenge.

But Jess always ended up getting sick as hell whenever he was in a challenge, and a few years ago he said he wouldn’t do them anymore.

He rolls his eyes and lies down, his head next to my knee.

I shove my hand in his hair and turn on the TV to some game show. “Let me know if you get bad, okay?”

He says, “Okay.”

The show’s so boring that Jess falls asleep within minutes. And I’m only half-conscious when Mom turns the key in the lock and slogs in, screaming baby on her hip.

Jess groans and throws a pillow over his head.

“Want to take the noise somewhere else?” I say. “He’s in the middle of a reaction.”

“Gosh, really?” She hovers over him, mothering to the best of her ability when she’s not allowed to touch him. “What happened?”

I hold the pillow over his head so he’ll stay asleep. “You left milk on the stove, is what happened.”

She touches her forehead with her non–baby-wielding hand. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did. Which is irresponsible enough considering the whole fire hazard thing, but you might as well have left frickin’ cyanide boiling—”

“Jonah, I don’t need a lecture.”

I shut up.

She says, “Are you going to be okay, Jesse?”

He nods and the pillow shakes. “What’d the doctor say?”

She walks back and forth with Will, bouncing him with her shoulder. “He doesn’t know. He said it could still be colic, that sometimes it’ll last this long.” She pauses, hand in her hair. “I’ll bring Will upstairs and give him a bath, okay?” She directs this to me.

I say, “Okay.”

Jesse falls back asleep, snoring through his congestion, and I’m left with this awful feeling in my mouth, like I’ve been swallowing carpet. I’d get up and drink something, or walk around, if it weren’t so damn cold and I didn’t have a responsibility to watch Jesse. I need to just shut up and be here for him.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to distract myself.

So. Distraction. How about another bone, Jonah?

My mouth twitches up.

How about tomorrow?





nine


WHEN I WAKE UP AT 5:57 THE NEXT MORNING AND hear the squeak-squeak of Jesse on the rowing machine, I trudge downstairs and find Mom eating toast at the kitchen table, baby tucked under her arm.

“Hi.”

Her mouth’s full, so she waves. I rescue Will. He’s turning purple from crying so hard.

When you hold him close enough to your ear, it’s impossible to think.

Sort of nice.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Mom says.

What is it about that sentence that makes your stomach curl up?

She pats the table across from her. Will’s getting as close as he ever is to quiet, just doing his pissed-off whine. I sit down and try to concentrate on Jesse’s rowing and Will’s whimpers instead of her.

“I haven’t really gotten to speak with you since the accident,” she says. “How’re the breaks feeling?”

“Okay. I took some aspirin.”

“Good.” She rakes her hair back in one hand. “Been praying?”

Shit. “Yeah, Mom.”

She sighs and takes my hand. “We feel guilty about this, Jonah.”

I wonder if it’s only religious parents who always tell you how they feel. And I wonder if it’s only terrible children who don’t want to hear it.