My dad leaned down to look into my face. “Is that so?”
I nodded and didn’t say anything. I wasn’t feeling well, but from roughly two minutes ago, I had started feeling a whole lot worse.
My mom was humming again but louder now, faster. Her back was to both of us as she chopped, the knife flashing down, and then she gasped. The smell of blood rushed out into the room and she crossed to the sink, running her cut finger under the faucet.
I put both hands over my nose and mouth, feeling the room slosh in and out like the tide.
Without saying anything, my dad went to the cupboard above the refrigerator and took down a box of Band-Aids.
They stood facing each other at the sink, and then she offered him her hand. My dad dried the skin with a paper towel and applied the Band-Aid. She was always cutting her fingers or bumping her arms and legs. I’d never heard of her having any kind of accident when she was in surgery, but at home, she was constantly running into things, like she forgot that they took up space in the world and so did she.
When her finger was bandaged, my dad stepped back and let go of her wrist. On the stove, the potatoes had started to burn and they smelled like toast.
“Thank you,” she said.
He kissed her on the forehead and then walked out. My mom just stood at the sink, gazing out the window. After a second, she reached over and turned off the burner.
I smeared my hand over my face and took a breath. The smell of blood drifted lazily, filling the kitchen. There was a dim, pulsing ache that came and went behind my left eye. “I think I’m going to go back to bed.”
In my room, I yanked off my T-shirt and pulled the shades down. Then I lay down with my face to the wall and pulled the covers over my head.
I woke up with a bad jolt. It was dark. My phone was buzzing on my bedside table, and I rolled over. In the gloom, I could see the shapes of bass and amp and furniture. I wanted to go back to sleep. The phone just kept buzzing.
Finally, I reached over and answered it. “Yeah?”
“Whoa, don’t sound so excited.” It was Roswell.
“Sorry. I was sleeping.”
“So, Stephanie’s having that party tonight, and there’s maybe going to be one at Mason’s. You want me to come get you?”
I rolled onto my back and squeezed my eyes shut. “I don’t think so.”
Roswell sighed. “Come on, you don’t want to miss this. ’Tis the season for girls to dress like hookers. We’ll catch up with the twins, get a little socially lubricated. I have this feeling that Alice is particularly looking forward to your company.”
