Teeth(51)

She has to open the door. She has to fix this because I think she’s the only one who can. I don’t know how, but there has to be a way; she has to tell them she killed them or tell me I killed them because holy mother of f*ck I need those motherf*ckers because I cannot lose both of my boys and even if Dylan isn’t really mine Teeth really is and I know that now and I cannot lose both of them when everyone has been telling me for five months that I have to stay here, that I don’t have a choice, that I’m trapped on a f*cking island by the f*cking water and I can’t leave, and I have to stay here, I have to save Teeth a million times and I have to hug Dylan, I have to love Dylan even though he’s f*cked and always has been and I don’t know him, and I’m never going to know him, and I’m never going to know me because everyone in the world who even sees me is f*cking dying, and I will never know me until I’m done knowing people who know me, and I will never ever be free.

“Answer the f*cking door!”

The door swings open and there’s Ms. Delaney.

I wipe my cheeks off as fast as I can.

And I have no idea what to say. With the possible exception of the fishermen, I’ve never been in front of an adult I respect less, and this time, I can’t be polite. I don’t know if I’m ever going to be polite again.

“You’re going to kill him,” I say. “You and Diana, you’re killing him.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“He’s your son,” I say. “He’s your f*cking son. He’s family.”

“You had no right coming into our lives,” she said. “God knows if my daughter is ever going to be all right.”

“He’s your son!”

Her hand grips the doorway. “You do not know nearly enough to barge into our bus—”

“I know him!”

“So do I.” And then, holy shit, she has me by the collar. “So do I. I know that boy. My little boy who could barely move. My boy who grew scales and cried in his sleep every night to go home.”

I stare at her. I’m breathing so hard that my chest keeps nearly touching hers.

“He was a fish,” she says. “Where would you have put a fish?” She lets go of me. “And you have a lot to learn about family, Rudy.”

“He can’t breathe in there. How can you pretend he belongs there?”

She looks away.

I’m getting my voice back. “He has lungs and a heart and he . . . he is just telling himself over and over again that he is all fish because that’s what you wanted him to be.”

“I don’t regret what I did. A teenager in my doorway is not going to change that.”

Then why does she cry every week on the day he was born? But she knows that. I don’t need to say it.

“He’s my best friend,” I say.

“Considering the state of my daughter, I’d say it’s better for everyone if your friends are removed from you.” She glowers at me. “And you will now kindly remove yourself from my doorway.”

I take a few deep breaths and back up without turning around. My head feels like it might fall off.

“By the way,” she says as I’m going. “Give your brother my best.” And she shuts the door.



My parents’ room is dark and silent, but I can see the heap of my mother underneath the sheets. I’m still shaking and I can hear Dylan chattering on his rocking horse. I close the door. And then everything drains out of me and this quiet takes its place, heavy and hot. I don’t know how my parents’ room is always so warm, though I don’t think I’ve been in here more than once or twice.

“Mom,” I say.

She doesn’t move, but she isn’t asleep. I can tell by the way she breathes.

A loud wave hits a rock, and the house creaks. How did we get stuck in such a shitty house? The whole place feels closer to falling apart with every single day.

But I guess we’ll probably move back home soon. Which doesn’t make me feel anything in the whole world.

I sit down on the bed, next to her stomach. She turns her head on the pillow to look at me. She has the same color eyes as Dylan, but hers are a lot thinner.

“Hey,” she whispers. Her eyelashes are matted together.

“Hey.”

She exhales for a long time.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her, because it seems like the only thing to say, and I need to say something that will make her sit up. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, they feel mean, like I’m saying it just to hurt her. I’ve never been able to lie to my mother, and I don’t like the squeezing in my stomach that tells me I’m doing it now.

But she doesn’t laugh at me or start crying, both of which I was afraid might happen. She takes my hand and says, “I love you, baby.” She runs her thumb over my knuckles.

Her fingers are smaller than mine, thin and soft. I touch her engagement ring. I’ve always liked it. I used to try it on, which I guess is weird. Even when I was a kid, it only fit on my pinky. The diamond is shaped like a tear. She always says that when I propose to someone, I shouldn’t use a round diamond. Round diamonds are bad luck, she says.

She has spots on the back of her hands from when she was younger and she didn’t wear sunscreen.