In Sight of Stars(35)

“Stop apologizing! And stop trying so hard. It’s not life or death. Sometimes, you just have to chill.” She turns around and makes crazy bug eyes at me like she’s being silly to lighten the mood. “You’re still hot. It’s fine. Take a chill pill.”

But isn’t it all life and death?

I pull on my jeans and move into the front seat, and turn on the car.

“No, don’t. Not yet,” she says. “I want to stay here for a bit.”

She puts her feet up on the dash and slips a broken cigarette from a pocket somewhere. I didn’t even know she smokes. I open my mouth, but before I can protest her lighting up in my father’s car, she drags at it unlit, inhaling deeply, and says, “See? Chill. I quit months ago. I’m not an idiot, dude,” before blowing invisible smoke out the rolled-down window.

“I didn’t say you were, Sarah. I don’t think it either.”

“I know, Alden. We’re good.” She takes another fake drag and says, “And, really, don’t feel bad. About what happened. It’s nothing. Seriously. But you’re going to have to learn how to chill. One of these days, you’re going to have to learn how to fake it and chill.”

Day 6—Late Afternoon

There’s the sound of a rolling cart, then a soft knock on my door before it opens. Sister Agnes Teresa appears, the swish of her robes sounding as she makes her way into my room.

“Ah, in bed, I see. How novel! In the middle of a perfectly good Saturday afternoon.”

“Well, I don’t know about perfectly good. There’s sort of a monsoon outside, no?”

“Nonsense,” she says, waving me off, then wheels the cart to the far side of my bed. She opens the shades and bends to extract a box from the cart’s lower shelf. “A perfectly good day for a board game.” I roll my eyes, but I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Well at least you’re dressed,” she says, eyeing my T-shirt and jeans. “You had some plan to conquer this day after all. Has something derailed it?”

“My mother. Bearing gifts.” I nod toward the narrow closet, and Sister Agnes Teresa glances at the primary-colored easel stashed off to its side.

“I see. Do you finger-paint?” She chuckles at her own joke.

“That’s about my speed right now, isn’t it?” I say, joining her in laughing. “So this”—I walk over and tap the lid of the box—“should be right up my alley too, right?” She smiles, so I add, “And, I’m taking your chair. I’m pretty sure that other one is jinxed.”

She sits across from me, adjusts her positioning. “Take whatever advantage you feel you might need, Mr. Alden.”

She puts the box on the table. Chutes and Ladders, with its gaggle of cavorting cartoon kids sliding down pink slides, stares up at me. I must snort because she says, “Do you have an issue with the offering?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Well, good. Because I know it may appear simple, but you’d be surprised. There’s a lot to be learned from Chutes and Ladders. People underestimate the lessons that abound within the four cardboard corners of this box. Just like in life itself, we’re constantly clawing and stretching and climbing in pursuit of life’s sweet and just rewards. Our prizes, you know? Cute cats and cookies and blue ribbons and bouquets. But just when we think we have a foothold, when we’ve mowed the lawn so we’re clearly going to get to go to the circus, we take one step too few or too many, and bam! We hit that chute and go falling, falling, falling, irretrievably down.”

“I see what you’re doing here—”

She interrupts, holds up a finger, and says, “Or do we?” so I let her continue on with her soliloquy. “And sure, you can forget the cats and the cookies and the circus. We both know I’m not actually talking about those. Go ahead. Sub them out. Cats for love, or cookies for a job or a college acceptance, a circus for whatever kind of success. Because we both know, whether we’ve yet to experience it or not, that for every ladder to love, there is that inevitable chute to loss. And the ladder to health and happiness eventually meets up with a chute that takes you right back down there to death. No matter what we may do to avoid it.

“For excitement, there is lethargy; for wealth, the risk of losing it all, going bankrupt, you see? But we play the game anyway. What else is there to do? So, we roll the dice and keep hoping.”

She unfolds the board, raises an eyebrow, and holds out the dice to me. “Go on. Home-team advantage. I’ll let you go first.”

“I did get out of bed earlier, so you know,” I say, shaking the dice. “I made some big commitment in my head. You know, take a walk, get some fresh air, act human? Don’t be a wuss or a loser.”

She nods. “Sounds like an ideal start.”

I spill the dice onto the board and she chuckles. I’ve rolled a 1 and a 2, which puts my guy at 3, on a square that has nothing. No chute or ladder, no drawing, no person, no nothing.

“Don’t fret. Baby steps, right?” she says, but she smiles like she’s more than a little pleased, then shamelessly rolls a 4 and gets a ladder up to square 14.

I roll a 5 and get nothing again, and by the time I’m at square 13, she’s at square 84, and I’m full-out laughing. And for every chute I hit after that, and slide down, I laugh harder. I can’t help it. The whole thing is hilarious and I can’t stop laughing for a change.