Break(49)

“Jonah, what is going on?”

I say, “I did it for you.”

His voice finds me through the quilt with intense clarity. “No! This isn’t about me! Stop pretending your whole life is about me!”

I think I’m crying but I can’t tell.

It’s so humid and sticky under these sheets. I throw them all off.

“I’ve got to go,” he says.

“Where are you going?”

He’s pacing back and forth, his hands in his hair. “I’ve got to try to make things okay with Naomi, man!”

Will picks up his screaming.

“She hit me!”

“Jonah.”

“I’m sick!”

“Shhh.” He stops pacing and heads for the crib.

“Don’t hold him,” I say.

“SHUT UP! Stop telling me not to hold him! It’s not like you’re going to help him if I don’t! You talk all this shit about family and then you . . .”

“What are you—”

He covers his ears with his palms. “God, man, I can’t do this right now, all right? Having you around when I’m sick is not worth you making me think I’m sick when I’m not, okay? I want to be a f*cking human, and I can’t keep arguing the same f*cking things with you, Jonah! You have a f*ckload more family members you could worry about, and this is not my life!” He tightens his hands. “This can’t be my life.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive, you *!”

Jesse, stop covering your ears. Jesse, listen to me.

I start to recoil under the quilt but Jess yanks me back into the room, back into life. One of his muscular hands grabs the front of my neck and pushes back on my throat. I am choking on my own vocal cords.

It is a relief not to breathe.

“This needs to stop,” he says. He bites down on his tongue.

My eyes water.

“I am not going—” he stops and swallows. “I am not going to die. I have shit to take care of and you stop making me think I’m going to die.”

Will’s room spins and the baby is upside down. I latch around Jesse’s wrist and try to pull him off me, but he won’t budge. I try to cough and the pressure makes my broken face explode.

Jesse’s going to kill me.

“Stop telling me I’m going to die,” he says.

I blink and he releases me, returns to his pacing. I rub my chest and cough without fanfare. My face aches.

When I’ve stored some breath, I say, “Stay here. We can talk about this.”

“No! Jesus, I can’t talk about this anymore, okay? I’ve got, like, life. And you need to back off. Okay.” He stops and faces me. “Okay. You’re sick. So you stay here. And you listen to the f*cking baby cry, okay?”

“Jess—”

“Maybe you’ll try to help him! Who the f*ck knows?”

“I am trying!” I close my eyes against the fuzziness and snap my hands over my head. “I’m trying I’m trying I’m trying I’m trying.”

But Jesse’s gone.

He left me here.

I curl up and hum, but none of it helps. I hug my quilt and my chair and I try to be happy that I’m home, but I know any second I’m going to hear a sort of dog-whistle siren that only crazy people can hear, and the men in white coats will come and take me away.

And Jesse’s gone, and now I have nowhere to go but Charlotte’s.

And I can’t walk that far.

In fact, about two minutes later I throw up on the floor.

I’ve thrown up a few times before, but it never hurt like this. With the wires in my jaw, I’m very nearly choking.

“Ohhh my God,” I groan.

I consider calling Jesse. He’s thrown up enough times that it doesn’t bother him anymore.

Or I could call Mom and Dad.

But I don’t want them.

I just want the girl with the white teeth and the flowers in her hair. Is that so much to ask? Is it so incre-dibly more than I deserve?

Yes.

Will’s screams tumble into my ears. The smell of my vomit burns the inside of my nostrils like my brain is being cauterized.

A smell-lobotomy.

Jonah, think.

Fever + broken bones = infection.

What’s that word?

Oh. Right. Osteomyelitis.

Symptoms: pain and swelling at the infection site.

I look at my f*cking broken hand.

Fever. Nausea.

Treatment:

IV antibiotics.

Amputation.

Death.

So this is it. This is a moment. This is an I-have- nothing-to-lose moment.

I stand up and my knees click with my shaking.

“Wait,” I say. “Wait.” I go to the crib and look down at Will, look at his purple baby face.

“You can come with me, if you want,” I say.

He cries. I’ll take that to mean yes.

“We’re a family, right?” I talk to him all the way out of the house. “Come on, Will. It’s cold. You need a coat, okay?” I pull his purple coat over his arms. “I have a fever, so I’m all right, but you need a coat. Stay warm, okay, Will?”

I take the cordless phone. “I need to call Charlotte,” I tell him as I shut the front door behind us. “Oh, look. It’s raining.”