Death & Dying
—Tenemos que irnos de aquí. No podemos hacer nada. Ya hay gente ayudándolos y llamando a la policía. Lo único que podemos hacer es buscarnos un problema.
Titubeé.
—¡Dale! ¡Vamos!
Comencé a mover el carro. Tenía un ojo en la carretera y otro en el espejo retrovisor tratando de ver el accidente. Vi luces rojas intermitentes en la distancia. Por un momento quité el pie del acelerador. Entonces lo pisé hasta el fondo, gané en velocidad e hice una izquierda.
Yes, that is the problem. That's the only problem. I want my mom back. I want her to knock at my bedroom door and come walking in. I want her to tell me to get my homework done. I want to go with her for a walk in the canyon, up the old logging trails where every step on the thick forest floor is a new adventure. Sometimes I get so, so mad at her for doing this to me.
The spirits were moaning, a low sound that seemed to be calling the storm toward the beach where Adrien came to a halt, pushing to stay erect in the wind. She was sure the spirits were calling something specific—a short phrase, several words, repeated like the lightning that snaked in the sky. Another sheer burst of white and Adrien stepped forward into the wild lake, the call of the spirit girls, the energy of their brains dying across the sky. Into some understood sameness.
"No, Layne," Mom said in a tight voice. Her eyes met mine again. "Not the bull riding. You know how I feel about that."
I knew all right. We'd been through this scene so many times it was like living in an instant replay. But this time I fought back. "Yeah, and you know how I feel about it too."
"I don't care how you feel," Mom shot back. "All I know is that I watched a bull kill my husband and there's no way I'll risk watching one kill my son."
"I'm afraid I have bad news, Brendan. It's leukemia."
It goes right by me. I don't even hear it. I'm so prepared to hear anything else—a virus, mono, meningitis, even avian flu—that it's only when my mom gasps that my mind backs up, rewinds the tape, and I actually hear what he just said.
Leukemia.
I'm going to die.
It can't be.
It must be someone else.
Will it hurt?
Leukemia is for pathetic-looking bald kids with big eyes. Leukemia is for wasted bodies lying in hospital beds. Not me. Is there treatment? Is there a cure?
I'm going to die.
"He's impossible, Marta," she says. "Absolutely impossible. Doesn't have any friends. Sleeps all day. Watches TV all night. Never showers. Refuses to cut his hair. Pushes his dirty dishes under the bed or stuffs them in drawers with his dirty underwear. I'm at my wit's end."
I want to leap into the kitchen and say, "Hey! It's only two o'clock. I'm up. I've had a shower. I'm dressed. And I never put dirty things—dishes or underwear—in drawers. I leave them on the floor. And when were you in my room anyway?" I have standards. Low ones, but still.
