Here So Far Away(18)

Three days ago.

“Good for you. Now stop hovering and sit down; let your mother serve you breakfast.”

The smell of the cod-hash had become overwhelming, and my skull felt so heavy and tight around my brain, it was like wearing an old deep-sea-diver’s helmet. “I think I’ll skip,” I said. “Go up and start the rest of my homework.”

Ah, but he was not fooled.

“You’ll be extra hungry for those beautiful chicken livers that we’re frying up for supper.” My stomach acid began to burble. “Is it just me or do raw chicken livers look like Jell-O made out of—”

“Paul,” Mum said in a warning tone. She tipped her head in the direction of Matthew, who had stopped chewing and was staring at the saltshaker as though it could transport him to a better place.

“Burnt ketchup?” Dad finished.

Matthew swallowed. “Aren’t you going for a run, George?” he said, an angelic smile on his perfect face. “Consistency is the most important part of a training program. And, you know, oink-oink.”

“Rest is important too,” I said, trying to stifle a yawn and hitch up my pajama bottoms to cover my muffin top at the same time. Dad’s eyes were lasering into me again. He was about one and a half seconds away from relaunching his investigation. “But of course I’m going for a run!”

Tying my laces took more energy and brainpower than I had in my reservoir. Mum sat on the porch beside me and did the other shoe. “Iris Perry’s home from the hospital. They put in the pin.”

“What pin?”

“I told you yesterday. Broke her shin falling down the stairs. Bone went clean through.”

I didn’t know who Iris Perry was. Didn’t matter. Today it was her pin, tomorrow it would be Mr. Inglis’s cat’s tumor, and the day after that it would be somebody’s cousin’s friend’s something. I’d long ago put together that my mother repeated this gossip, if you could call it that, because she didn’t have a lot of stories of her own to tell.

“Are you sure you’re not sick?” she asked, putting her hand on my forehead. “I could pick up some Pepto for you when I get the groceries.”

Oh blessed saint of ideas borne out of desperation.

“Why don’t I do that?” I said. “I’ll take the car over to the track and get the groceries on the way home.”

“Hmm. No, it’s easier to do it myself than to explain which kind to get of what.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be out in the garden? How many more good days like this are left?”

“I suppose . . .” She squeezed my foot. “That’s my good girl.”

I hit the grocery store first. As usual, it wasn’t as simple as pulling things off shelves, putting them into a cart, and going through the checkout.

Yes, Mrs. Greenwood, my dad is doing well. Thanks for asking.

Sorry, Mr. Richardson, I don’t think he can talk to your neighbor about the dog poop on the lawn.

Actually, Donny, Dad was kind of wondering if you could dial 911 the next time your kid sets the basement on fire instead of calling our house.

At least people had stopped showing up on our doorstep to lodge complaints, now that word was out about Dad’s surgery.

Afterward, I did a loop around town to kill time. It wasn’t one of the prettier valley villages, with their quaint churches and gingerbready houses. Many of the older homes like ours had fallen into disrepair, or the lots had been subdivided to make room for bungalows and split-levels, and there must have been a sale on turquoise, avocado, and mustard siding when the newer places were going up. The downtown was filled with nondescript storefronts, too ugly to be charming and not ugly enough to be romantic like some sooty old Welsh mining village. The only big industrial building was the “new” sawmill, which replaced the original in 1920 after the boiler exploded.

While stopped at our one traffic light, I opened my door and vomited onto the asphalt. I wiped my mouth with a receipt I found on the car floor—all class—sat up, and met the eyes of our principal, Mr. Humphreys, who was in the car perpendicular to mine in the intersection, his mouth an O. (There was no mistaking the red beard and red Afro. Lisa insisted that she and Keith could never stand near him at school because they’d seem like they were all part of a lost ginger tribe.) The car behind me honked loudly, and I peeled out through the newly green light, a tad too Dukes of Hazzard.

I parked at the arena, rested my head on the window. How long could I snooze here before the milk went bad? A day or two? I was just drifting off, hazily considering the best way to get my cheeks red so it’d look like I’d been jogging, when a loud knocking on the pane jolted my stomach into my throat.

Bill. He had a hockey bag slung over his shoulder, obviously on his way to practice. “Hey! What happened to you last night?” he said as I opened the door.

I pushed past him to a pile of leaves, and threw up again. Midretch, I saw he had followed me and was hanging on to the end of my ponytail. “Look, I’m holding your hair. That means we’re girlfriends now, right?”

“Why are you talking at me?”

“Isn’t that how this works? I hold your hair while you puke and you tell me that what I’m wearing isn’t flattering and how to fix it.”

I gave him a quick side eye. He had on his usual plaid shirt, long white T-shirt, and baggy jeans. “Where are the rest of the Kids in the Hall?”