that,” Glen says.
“He’s depressed,” I say.
“I understand that. He can be depressed with a haircut. He can be depressed loading the dishwasher.”
That night I arrive home and there is a pizza box on the kitchen counter. From the den I hear a sound; it is Max’s deep goofy chortle, so long unheard. Smiling, I take a slice of pizza from the box and go into the den. “Hey, Mom, look,” Max says, and Kiernan stands up, puts his arms around me, and squeezes, hard. “I missed you guys,” he says.
I’ve missed him, too. He draws the solar system on Max’s cast, then makes a black-and-white photograph of it; in the center there is a star, and on the photo he handcolors the star a deep, deep yellow, so that it glows amid the monochrome. Max hangs the photo on the wall of his room, above his bed. I ignore the fact that Ruby’s return is approaching and put the list of therapist’s names I’ve gotten in the desk drawer.
Kiernan is driving a rusty clunker with a burgundy matte paint job that he says belongs to his uncle. He is mowing lawns in the early mornings, just after the dew has burned off but before the sun is too high. “It’s really good money,” he says, selling himself to me with a peculiar edge, as if he’s looking for work.
He and Max are a pair, both thin and mop-headed, almost like brothers from the back. This makes me nervous, that and the fact that while Max is still mostly quiet, Kiernan can’t stop talking. But after a while I recognize something about his behavior. It is a little like the way I was when I was home with an infant and would go out to a party. I was crazed by human contact, chatting relentlesslyconscious that before long I would be back in my cage. I realize that Kiernan has no one to talk to.
“Senior year,” says Glen at dinner one steamy August night.
“Really!” Kiernan says. “Talk about the end of an era. And you, dude. High school! It’s the first day of the rest of your life.”
“I want this cast off,” Max says.
“Think positive! You can make it happen! It’s all about attitude!” Kiernan sounds like an inspirational speaker. Glen looks at me across the platter of spareribs. The doctor has said Max will likely have to keep the cast on until the end of September. He’s eating spareribs awkwardly with his one good hand, and I mentally remind myself not to make them again until he can use both hands. Kiernan is eating almost nothing. He’s like one of those young religious aesthetes I used to encounter in some of my comparative-literature readings, all limbs and eyes and fervor. If he were a medieval monk, he would be flaying himself before bed every night.
“You need to talk to him,” Glen says quietly as we finish the dishes. “Ruby will be home next week.” There is the faint rumble of deep voices in the next room; Kiernan and Max are watching television together.
“You can’t speak for yourself?”
“Mary Beth,” Glen says. “You know I won’t say what you want me to say. You know you want to do this yourself. You live for these mother moments.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say. I hate this. I hate it. He’s such a nice kid. He’s been like a part of our family.” I think of all those early evenings, Ruby reading her work aloud, Kiernan sprawled on the couch listening, shaking his head at the end, saying, “That is so good, Rubes. Do you know how good that is?” I remember the two of them eating sandwiches on a quilt in the yard, lying on their backs afterward and dreamily naming the constellations. Lastyear Kiernan gave Ruby a star for her birthday She has a certificate. I wonder where it is.
A part of our family I think again, as Kiernan helps me with the garbage and puts a hand out to stop me at the end of the drive.
“I need a big, big favor,” he blurts out. “Can I live here this year?”
I’m stunned. It must be apparent in my face, because he continues, the words tumbling from his mouth so quickly that I can
“He’s depressed,” I say.
“I understand that. He can be depressed with a haircut. He can be depressed loading the dishwasher.”
That night I arrive home and there is a pizza box on the kitchen counter. From the den I hear a sound; it is Max’s deep goofy chortle, so long unheard. Smiling, I take a slice of pizza from the box and go into the den. “Hey, Mom, look,” Max says, and Kiernan stands up, puts his arms around me, and squeezes, hard. “I missed you guys,” he says.
I’ve missed him, too. He draws the solar system on Max’s cast, then makes a black-and-white photograph of it; in the center there is a star, and on the photo he handcolors the star a deep, deep yellow, so that it glows amid the monochrome. Max hangs the photo on the wall of his room, above his bed. I ignore the fact that Ruby’s return is approaching and put the list of therapist’s names I’ve gotten in the desk drawer.
Kiernan is driving a rusty clunker with a burgundy matte paint job that he says belongs to his uncle. He is mowing lawns in the early mornings, just after the dew has burned off but before the sun is too high. “It’s really good money,” he says, selling himself to me with a peculiar edge, as if he’s looking for work.
He and Max are a pair, both thin and mop-headed, almost like brothers from the back. This makes me nervous, that and the fact that while Max is still mostly quiet, Kiernan can’t stop talking. But after a while I recognize something about his behavior. It is a little like the way I was when I was home with an infant and would go out to a party. I was crazed by human contact, chatting relentlesslyconscious that before long I would be back in my cage. I realize that Kiernan has no one to talk to.
“Senior year,” says Glen at dinner one steamy August night.
“Really!” Kiernan says. “Talk about the end of an era. And you, dude. High school! It’s the first day of the rest of your life.”
“I want this cast off,” Max says.
“Think positive! You can make it happen! It’s all about attitude!” Kiernan sounds like an inspirational speaker. Glen looks at me across the platter of spareribs. The doctor has said Max will likely have to keep the cast on until the end of September. He’s eating spareribs awkwardly with his one good hand, and I mentally remind myself not to make them again until he can use both hands. Kiernan is eating almost nothing. He’s like one of those young religious aesthetes I used to encounter in some of my comparative-literature readings, all limbs and eyes and fervor. If he were a medieval monk, he would be flaying himself before bed every night.
“You need to talk to him,” Glen says quietly as we finish the dishes. “Ruby will be home next week.” There is the faint rumble of deep voices in the next room; Kiernan and Max are watching television together.
“You can’t speak for yourself?”
“Mary Beth,” Glen says. “You know I won’t say what you want me to say. You know you want to do this yourself. You live for these mother moments.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say. I hate this. I hate it. He’s such a nice kid. He’s been like a part of our family.” I think of all those early evenings, Ruby reading her work aloud, Kiernan sprawled on the couch listening, shaking his head at the end, saying, “That is so good, Rubes. Do you know how good that is?” I remember the two of them eating sandwiches on a quilt in the yard, lying on their backs afterward and dreamily naming the constellations. Lastyear Kiernan gave Ruby a star for her birthday She has a certificate. I wonder where it is.
A part of our family I think again, as Kiernan helps me with the garbage and puts a hand out to stop me at the end of the drive.
“I need a big, big favor,” he blurts out. “Can I live here this year?”
I’m stunned. It must be apparent in my face, because he continues, the words tumbling from his mouth so quickly that I can
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