Break(24)

“It’s self-torture. Not exactly inspiring. Or even interesting.”

“It’s not self-torture. Don’t belittle it like that.” She shakes her head. “Don’t pretend that’s why you’re doing it. Just because it will make it easier to stop.”

I don’t say anything.

“You want to get stronger. You want to be a better person.”

“Jesus Christ, Naomi, I’m not some sort of martyr. I’m not even a novelty. Everyone wants to be a better person.”

“But you’re going for it.” She throws her arms around my neck. It’s like hugging a doll. “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So don’t stop,” she whispers. “Keep inspiring me.”

All best friends are the same because you’ll do anything for them.

She’d do it instead, if I asked. She’d break her neck for me.

“I’ll think about,” I say.

Aw, shit.





twenty


NEXT DAY DURING DINNER, NO JESSE. INSTEAD, just the squeak squeak squeak of his arms on the rowing machine.

And Will shrieks.

Dad leads grace then slices into his chicken breast. “Did Jesse eat already?”

“He’s not eating,” I say, and stick a piece of cheese in Will’s mouth. He spits it out.

Squeak squeak squeak.

“What do you mean, he’s not eating?”

“He means he had a smoothie,” Mom says, reaching for a drumstick.

Will bangs his hands in his strained carrots.

I say, “No. I mean he’s not eating. He hasn’t eaten all day. I don’t think he’s eaten since the hospital.”

“Of course he has.”

“I really don’t think so.”

Because I keep offering him food and he keeps blowing me off. Because the blender’s sparkly clean. Because he’s pale as hell.

Dad looks at me. “Why are you wearing that sling?”

“My wrist is sore. Can we talk about Jesse?”

He cuts into his meat. Only my father would use a knife and fork to eat fried chicken. He’s still in his suit. “If he weren’t eating, he’d be having trouble.”

“No, he wouldn’t. He’d probably be healthier. I think that’s the point. The only way he could have an attack would be by, you know, touching Will’s shit you leave lying around.”

“Language, Jonah!”

“Stuff.”

I hear them both exhale.

“So, what’s the problem?” Mom says. “He’s afraid of having another reaction?”


She says it like it’s an irrational fear. Sometimes I really don’t think she gets how terrifying the reactions are.

“I can’t read his mind, Mom. I just know he’s not eating. Maybe because he can barely breathe in this house as it is—”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

I hear them both keep breathing.

Squeak squeak squeak.

Baby screaming.

I take a thigh from the fried chicken bucket.

“Just give him some time,” Dad says.

“How long? An hour? A week?”

Dad straightens his tie. “Come on. He’ll be fine.”

End of discussion. Apparently we’re fine!

Mom and Dad have Bible study and Jesse blows out to some kind of sports practice, so I stay home with the baby. I lie on my bed with my eyes closed, while he crawls along my carpet and cries intermittently. I try very hard not to think. About why the damn baby won’t stop crying. About how skinny Jess can get.

My hand twitches toward the hammer beside me.

Why do I have a hammer?

Because I took it from downstairs.

For Naomi. For me. I exhale.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, Jonah.

If you have a problem with Jesse, deal with Jesse.

Don’t take it out on your toes.

I look at them and wiggle the eight I didn’t break in the first skateboard crash. Might as well walk while I can, I decide, and head downstairs.

Because I just don’t want to think about Jesse right now.

I plop Will in his high chair and open the refrigerator. Just the thought of eating half this crap makes me want to throw up. My jaw’s killing me, so I settle on a milkshake. I’ll make up for the calories Jess isn’t getting.

I scoop chocolate ice cream and milk into the blender, and it takes me like an hour to find the button to make it spin. No one uses this blender but Jesse. I pour my milkshake into a glass and end up with half of it on the floor. And of course we’re out of paper towels. “Stay in the chair,” I tell Will, and he looks like he nods through his tears. It’s the first flash of sweetness I’ve ever gotten from the kid, and I scoop some milkshake into his mouth as a reward. He actually smiles.

He babbles while I tilt some milkshake into a sippy cup for him. He spills all over the tray of his high chair and starts crying again.

All good things end, I guess.

He splashes in the brown puddle. He’s got milkshake all over him. I tweak him on the nose and venture into the garage for a new roll of paper towels.

I hear footsteps in the kitchen—definitely not Will—and when I return, Jess stands by the table, stripping off his layers of hockey clothes.