Break(27)

I start up the stairs. Mom starts to call me but Dad says, “Let him go,” like he’s some sort of parenting expert.

I sit on my floor with my ear against Jesse’s wall, trying to listen to his breathing around Will’s cries.

That hammer is still here. I pick it up and hold the cold head in my palm. My mind is an explosion of Naomi and Jesse and Charlotte and Mom and Dad and Miss Marlin and I can’t do this right now, and I don’t know what I want but I know it’s definitely not this.

Will’s voice gets higher and higher. Soon, only dogs will hear him and our ears will get a break.

Jesse coughs and my heart jumps with electricity.

I take off my shoe and, through my sock, smash each toe individually.

It doesn’t hurt as badly as you might think. Each toe takes only one or two smacks to really snap.

I try to time my hammering so it matches Jesse’s gasping. Every time I hear his breath snag, I swing the hammer.

Eight toes are broken in no time.

2 femurs + 1 elbow + 1 collarbone + 1 foot + 4 fingers + 1 ankle + 2 toes + 1 kneecap + 1 fibula + 1 wrist + 2 ribs + 1 jaw + 1 hand + 1 shoulder + 1 elbow + 3 ribs + 8 toes = 32 total.

174 to go.

I fall asleep in some painful, drunken state, Will’s screams and Jesse’s coughing lulling me into submission.





twenty-one


THE NEXT MORNING, MY FEET ARE SHARDS OF glass in a sock. I listen to Jesse on the rowing machine and Will sputtering in his crib until the dizziness tapers enough for me to crawl to my computer.

I Google “broken toes.”

I Google “food allergies.”

I Google “I’m so dizzy I can’t see straight.”

I Google “child abuse.”

I Google “Am I going to die?”

None of the answers are helpful, although the last one takes me to some creepy links that at least distract me for a minute.

The windows flash on the screen, and Jesse’s rowing gets faster and faster. I click on my Favorites folder and bring up one of my beloved Confucianism websites. When that Chinese music starts, I lie down on my floor and close my eyes. Begging to sink in, zone out, ignore the baby.

He shouts something, his eight-month-old version of speech, and I wrinkle my nose.

Shut up shut up shut up everyone just shut up.

Mom yells, “Damn it, Will, stop crying!”

That’s it. I need to do something about these toes. “Jesse!” I bang my cast against the floor. “Jess, come up here!”

The rowing stops. I picture him listening, straining his ears over the baby.

“Jess, come here!”


I picture him considering.

My door opens and there’s Mom, her tawdry pink robe washing her whole face gray, Will propped on her shoulder. “Need something, hon? Why are you on the floor?”

I raise my head. Mom spins. “Just need to talk to Jesse.”

She crosses her arms. “Do you need to talk about last night?”

“I screwed up.”

“I know it was just an accident. And you’re so good with him.”

But . . .

She says, “But you just need to be more careful, Jonah. How are the injuries?”

My voice feels glued somewhere near the crown of my head. When I talk, I sound more like Dad or Jesse than myself. “I’m fine.”

Will starts screaming again, and she says something I can’t hear.

I end up sleeping through the time it takes Mom and Will to leave and Jesse to arrive. He wakes me up with one hand on my chest. “You look like crap.”

“I think I’m sick.”

“I think you’re in pain.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“So what’d you do?”

I point toward my feet. “They need to be taped up. I am so nauseous.”

“Okay. Hold on.” He handles my feet, and I grit my teeth. He starts talking, probably just to distract me. “I did five reps,” he says. “And an hour of rowing. I’m really building up my stamina. I think it’s going to make a difference for hockey. You’re coming to my game tonight, right?”

I try not to moan. “Of course.”

“So . . . what are you doing for Halloween?”

When I was little, I always got mad at Jesse because he wouldn’t come trick-or-treating with me. I don’t know how it took me so long to figure out that it would kill him, but ever since, Halloween gives me a sour sort of taste.

I say, “Will I be able to walk?”

He inhales as the socks come off. “Shit. Yeah, don’t worry. We can work this out. Hold on.”

He rushes to the bathroom and I get my first good look at what I’ve done. My toes look like raw chicken nuggets sewn into my foot. They’re purple and stick in incorrect directions. One of my nails is falling off.

Jesse returns with a shitload of gauze and medical tape, as if we really have the supplies to fix all of this.

“When did you do it?” he asks, ripping a piece of tape with his teeth.

“Last night. I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.”

He starts taping the toes together. I dig my fingers into the floor. He says, “I don’t think you’ve ruined anything, here.”

This is a funny way of putting it.