Лиза Макманн - Gone

Cabel is quiet for a long time. Then he shrugs. When he speaks, his voice is measured, almost clinical, as if he is talking to a shrink. “It was the best possible outcome, under the circumstances.”

The fan blows a knee-level path from the TV to the coffee table, catching the two pairs of bare legs on the couch in the middle of its run. Janie shivers slightly when the air hits her sweatdampened skin. She thinks of Henry Feingold, the stranger, presumably her father. Dying. And for the third time in twenty-four hours, Janie wishes it were someone else.

She leans her head against Cabel’s shoulder and slips her arm behind his. He turns, slides her onto his lap, and they hold on tightly to each other.

Because there’s no one else.

She’s so conflicted.

Janie imagines life without people. Without him. Broken heart, loneliness, but able to see, to feel. To live. To be, in peace. Not always looking over her shoulder for the next dream attack.

And she imagines life with him. Blind, gnarled, but loved . . . at least while things are still good.

And always knowing what struggles he’s dealing with through his dreams. Does she really want to see that, as years go by? Does she really want to be this incredible burden to such an awesome guy?

She still doesn’t know which scenario wins.

But she’s thinking.

Maybe broken hearts can mend more easily than broken hands and eyes.

9:41 a.m.

It’s too hot to sit like that for long.

Cabe stretches. “You going to wake her up? Head down to the hospital again?”

“God, I hope not.”

“Janie.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“At least it’s air-conditioned there.”

“So’s your car. Wanna go make out in the driveway instead?”

Cabel laughs. “Maybe after dark. In fact, hell yes, after dark. But seriously, Janie. I think you need to talk to your mom.”

Janie sighs and rolls her eyes. “I suppose.”

9:49 a.m.

She taps softly on her mother’s bedroom door.

Glances at Cabel.

To Janie, this room doesn’t feel like a part of the house. It’s more just a door to another world, a portal to sorrow, from which Dorothea appears and disappears at random. Rarely does she even catch a glimpse inside unless her mother is coming or going.

She waits. Enters, bracing herself against a possible dream. But Janie’s mother isn’t dreaming at the moment. Janie lets out a breath and looks around.

Filtered sunlight squeezes into the room through the worn patches of the window drape. The furnishings are spare but what’s there is messy. Paper plates, bottles, and glasses are on the floor next to the bed. It’s hot and stuffy. Stale.

In the bed, Janie’s mother sleeps on her back, the thin nightgown gripping her bony figure.

“Mom,” Janie whispers.

There’s no response.

Janie feels self-conscious. She shifts on the balls of her feet. The floor creaks. “Mother,” she says, louder this time.

Janie’s mother grunts and looks up, squinting. Hoists herself with effort on her elbow. “Issit the phone?” she mumbles.

“No, I . . . it’s almost ten o’clock and I was just wondering—”

“Don’t you got school?”

Janie’s jaw drops. You’ve got to be kidding me. She takes a deep breath, considers blowing up at her mother, reminding her of the graduation she didn’t attend, and the fact that it’s summer, but decides now is not the time. The words rush out before Dorothea can interrupt again. “No, ah, no school today. I’m wondering what the deal is with Henry and if you have to go to the hospital again or what. I don’t want to—”

At the mention of Henry, Janie’s mother sucks in a loud breath. “Oh, my God,” she says, moaning, as if she just remembered what happened. She rolls over and shakily gets to her feet.

Shuffles past Janie, out of the bedroom. Janie follows.

“Mom?” Janie doesn’t know what to do. As they turn toward the kitchen, Janie gives Cabel a helpless look and he shrugs. “Mother.”

Dorothea pulls orange juice from the fridge, ice and vodka from the freezer, and pours herself some breakfast. “What?” she asks, sniffling.

“Is this Henry guy my father?”

“Of course he’s your father. I’m no whore.”

Cabel makes a muffled noise from the other room.

“Okay, so he’s dying?”

Janie’s mother takes a long drink from the glass. “That’s what they say.”

“Well, was he in an accident or is it a disease or what?”

Dorothea shrugs and waves her hand loosely. “His brain exploded. Or a tumor. Something.”

Janie sighs. “Do you need me to go with you to the hospital again today?”

For the first time in the conversation, Janie’s mother looks Janie in the eye. “Again? You didn’t go with me yesterday.”

“I got there as soon as I could, Ma.”

Janie’s mother drains the glass and shudders. She stands at the counter, one hand holding the empty glass, the other holding the bottle of cheap vodka, and she stares at it. She sets both glass and bottle down hard and closes her eyes. A tear escapes and runs down her cheek.

Janie rolls her eyes. “You going to the hospital or not? I’m”—she grows bold—“I’m not sitting around all day waiting.”

“Go do whatever you want, like you always do, you little tramp,” Dorothea says. “I’m not going back there anyways.” She shuffles unsteadily past Janie, down the hall and into her room, closing the door once more behind her.

Janie lets out a breath and moves back into the living room where Cabel sits, a witness to it all.

“Okay,” she says. “Now what?”

Cabel looks peeved. He shakes his head. “Well, what do you think you should do?”

“I’m not going back to see him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Me? Of course not. It’s totally up to you if you want to see the guy.”

“Right. Good.”

“I mean, he’s a deadbeat dad. Never done a thing for you. Who knows, maybe he has another family. Think of how awkward that would be if you just showed up and they were all there. . . .”

Cabel trails off.

“Yeah, God, I never thought of that.”

“I’m trying to think if there were any Feingolds at Fieldridge High. Maybe you have half-siblings, you know?”

“There’s that one guy, Josh, that freshman who played varsity basketball,” Janie says.

“That’s Feinstein.”

“Oh.”

And then there is a moment, a pause, as Cabel waits for Janie.

“So, Feingold, that’s Jewish, right?” she asks.

“Does that change anything if it is?”

“No. I mean, wow. It’s interesting, anyway. I never really thought about my roots, you know?

History. Ancestors. Wow.” Janie’s lost in thought.

Cabel nods. “Ah, well. You’ll never know, I guess.”

Janie freezes and then looks at Cabel.

Winds up and slugs him in the arm.

Hard.

“Ugh!” she says. “You loser.”

Cabel laughs, rubbing his arm. “Dang! What’d I do this time?”

Janie seethes, half-jokingly. She shakes her head. “You made me give a shit.”

“Come on,” he says. “You cared before. Didn’t you ever wonder who your father was?”

Janie thinks about the recurring dream her mother has—the kaleidoscope one where Dorothea and the hippie guy hold hands, floating. She’d wondered more than once who her father was.

Wonders now if that was Henry in the dream.

“He’s probably some suit with two-point-two kids and a dog and a house by U of M.” Janie looks around her crap-hole of a house. Her crap-hole life, playing mom to an alcoholic twice her age.

Knowing that without Dorothea’s welfare check and Janie’s income to supplement it, they are just one step away from being homeless. But Janie doesn’t want to think about that.