Twelve?
My mother would know. She’s read all about antibiotic resistance. People are
too damn quick
to take drugs, and someday they’re going to be
mighty sorry
, and that’s not going to happen to her kids, not if she can help it. She writes all our prescriptions in a book that she keeps in her top desk drawer so she can put her finger on the information in two seconds. The nurse rephrases her question. “Do you recall taking any antibiotics in the past three years?” I say no.
After lugging myself home from the pharmacy, I come in the front door and Martin slides toward me on the floor like a seal at Sea World, his chest on a chair cushion. “Are you better?” he wants to know.
“No, but I will be,” I say, shaking the prescription bag.
His eyes widen. “I know what that is! Mummy had those!”
“Oh, Martin.” Tears come to my eyes.
Evan appears and sees me swallowing my emotion. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just strep, just a dumb cold,” I say, looking at Martin.
“You sure?”
I nod.
“You should rest, read your book.” Evan pats my arm, touching me for the first time since we shook hands two months ago.
“Yeah, tha— Wait, what’s Martin doing home?”
“Mini-day today.”
“Oh, God, right. Good thing you’re here.”
I slip into bed and fold my pillow in half behind me, just right for reading. Ántonia’s father has died. The new world was too much for him. His family is moving on, finding shelter in a place with “very little broken ground.” Work is their answer to the grief that keeps pounding to get in. No doubt that appealed to my mother, who considers action infinitely superior to analysis. Button up the kids, tidy the house, get dinner on and off the table by seven, that’s the ticket. Examine? Share? Feel?
I’d rather do time at Montgomery County Correctional
.
I nod off after a few pages and dream that I’m trying to tell my mom about Evan and the kids—explaining who is step, who is half, how each is holding up—until she finally understands, and I am so happy that we make sense to each other for once that I shower her with gifts, first a turtle and then a teapot.
At the end of my dream, Evan taps on my door. He has warm salt water. Martin follows behind him with pink construction paper. “I made you a card!”
“Thanks. Hey, Martin, before I forget, I saw your Ninja hat. It’s in the sofa, between the cushions.”
“Yeah, Keely!” Maybe he’s been missing it after all.
John comes home, and when Evan steps out into the hall to talk to him, I strain to hear the conversation. Their voices are low and soft. I’ve wanted to see them interact since the day I met Evan.
“I hear you’re sick,” John says, appearing in my doorway.
“Yeah, strep, but I started antibiotics, so I’ll be fine.”
“Let me get you some lozenges and ibuprofen,” John volunteers. “Ev will get you some more warm salt water.”
Ev
, he said. He called Evan
Ev
, like my dad calls me
Kel
.
“I still have some, thank you.”
“Very good. We’ll let you rest, then.”
Some families are at their best camping, others making lasagna or playing charades. Ántonia’s family blends together breaking land, driving cattle, harvesting crops. For my family, it was working the sidelines at lacrosse games and playing a card game called 99 that provided the ideal forum for trash talking. For the Tanners—and my mother—it’s managing illness. Filling prescriptions, treating symptoms and side effects, keeping the house quiet, these are things they’ve done together, and it shows. They know how to care-take, and in taking care they are able to do things they otherwise can’t: touch, collaborate, indulge. Even if, just like when I was young, all that gooey tenderness hardens as my temperature returns to normal, I saw it, I know it’s there.
John mentions, as he’s packing for another overnight, that he and the kids are planning a weekend away in a place called Avoca, which sounds
My mother would know. She’s read all about antibiotic resistance. People are
too damn quick
to take drugs, and someday they’re going to be
mighty sorry
, and that’s not going to happen to her kids, not if she can help it. She writes all our prescriptions in a book that she keeps in her top desk drawer so she can put her finger on the information in two seconds. The nurse rephrases her question. “Do you recall taking any antibiotics in the past three years?” I say no.
After lugging myself home from the pharmacy, I come in the front door and Martin slides toward me on the floor like a seal at Sea World, his chest on a chair cushion. “Are you better?” he wants to know.
“No, but I will be,” I say, shaking the prescription bag.
His eyes widen. “I know what that is! Mummy had those!”
“Oh, Martin.” Tears come to my eyes.
Evan appears and sees me swallowing my emotion. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just strep, just a dumb cold,” I say, looking at Martin.
“You sure?”
I nod.
“You should rest, read your book.” Evan pats my arm, touching me for the first time since we shook hands two months ago.
“Yeah, tha— Wait, what’s Martin doing home?”
“Mini-day today.”
“Oh, God, right. Good thing you’re here.”
I slip into bed and fold my pillow in half behind me, just right for reading. Ántonia’s father has died. The new world was too much for him. His family is moving on, finding shelter in a place with “very little broken ground.” Work is their answer to the grief that keeps pounding to get in. No doubt that appealed to my mother, who considers action infinitely superior to analysis. Button up the kids, tidy the house, get dinner on and off the table by seven, that’s the ticket. Examine? Share? Feel?
I’d rather do time at Montgomery County Correctional
.
I nod off after a few pages and dream that I’m trying to tell my mom about Evan and the kids—explaining who is step, who is half, how each is holding up—until she finally understands, and I am so happy that we make sense to each other for once that I shower her with gifts, first a turtle and then a teapot.
At the end of my dream, Evan taps on my door. He has warm salt water. Martin follows behind him with pink construction paper. “I made you a card!”
“Thanks. Hey, Martin, before I forget, I saw your Ninja hat. It’s in the sofa, between the cushions.”
“Yeah, Keely!” Maybe he’s been missing it after all.
John comes home, and when Evan steps out into the hall to talk to him, I strain to hear the conversation. Their voices are low and soft. I’ve wanted to see them interact since the day I met Evan.
“I hear you’re sick,” John says, appearing in my doorway.
“Yeah, strep, but I started antibiotics, so I’ll be fine.”
“Let me get you some lozenges and ibuprofen,” John volunteers. “Ev will get you some more warm salt water.”
Ev
, he said. He called Evan
Ev
, like my dad calls me
Kel
.
“I still have some, thank you.”
“Very good. We’ll let you rest, then.”
Some families are at their best camping, others making lasagna or playing charades. Ántonia’s family blends together breaking land, driving cattle, harvesting crops. For my family, it was working the sidelines at lacrosse games and playing a card game called 99 that provided the ideal forum for trash talking. For the Tanners—and my mother—it’s managing illness. Filling prescriptions, treating symptoms and side effects, keeping the house quiet, these are things they’ve done together, and it shows. They know how to care-take, and in taking care they are able to do things they otherwise can’t: touch, collaborate, indulge. Even if, just like when I was young, all that gooey tenderness hardens as my temperature returns to normal, I saw it, I know it’s there.
John mentions, as he’s packing for another overnight, that he and the kids are planning a weekend away in a place called Avoca, which sounds
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