Max Booth III - We Need to Do Something

“Your big fat belly,” Bobby whispers, a faint trace of humor lingering in his tone.

Mom nods. “Like a watermelon.”

Bobby lets out a soft laugh.

“And I couldn’t walk any more, it hurt so bad, you were kicking me so much, so I had to sit on the floor right there in the frozen food aisle, and Sissy had to go find someone to help us.”

“Did they call an ambulance?”

“They sure did. So we waited for it to arrive and this very nice, young cashier sat with me holding my hand telling me everything was going to be okay, that I just had to be strong and wait a little bit longer and nothing bad would happen and everything would work out, just like now, baby, just how I’m holding you and telling you the same thing because it’s the truth, baby, you know that, right? It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.”

A fresh wave of tears stream down Mom’s face as she chokes back sobs and continues.

“And I asked the cashier, the young lady, I asked her how she could know it was going to be okay, and she looked down at me and smiled this wonderful bright smile and do you know what she told me, baby? She told me she knew it was all going to be okay because it had to be. You get it? It was going to be okay because it couldn’t possibly be any other way. That we just had to believe it would be okay and act brave and strong and it would all work out, and you know what, baby? She was right. She helped me act brave and strong and we waited for the ambulance to arrive and they pulled you out of me right there in the frozen food aisle and I saw your beautiful little face in the paramedic’s arms and I knew in that moment that I should have never doubted my love for you and that I would never ever doubt it again and I haven’t, I never have, and that’s why I know you’re going to be okay and Sissy’s going to be okay and everything’s going to be okay so we just have to hang on a little bit longer and someone will come, I know it, someone will come and they’ll move the tree and open the door and everybody will be waiting outside to make sure we’re okay and life will be better, I promise you, sweet beautiful baby, I promise with every ounce of my soul everything is going to be okay, you just have to trust me, okay, baby? You have to trust.”

She cries and rocks Bobby in her arms and his eyes are half-open but he’s no longer breathing, and we all know it, we’ve known it for several minutes now, but that doesn’t stop her from rocking him, from holding him tighter and spitting tears and mucus from her mouth as all of the world’s agony blossoms into its final form.

“Fuck this,” Dad says, and rips open the box of alcohol wipes and shoves several in his mouth. He chews them like gum, sucking up their juices and spitting them out once they’re dry. His face twists with agony but still he throws another handful of wipes in his mouth. Pacing the bathroom. Chewing. Sucking. Spitting. I don’t know if those will actually get him drunk and I doubt he knows, either. But goddammit, he’s going to try.

Bobby hasn’t left the tub. The blanket’s wrapped around his body, hiding his flesh from view. Mom sits on the floor just outside the tub, back leaning against the porcelain, jaw against chest, eyes closed. Once I thought this tub would serve as my own grave. How foolish I had been. Perhaps soon enough, we will all follow my brother into the unknown.

I keep waiting for him to jump up and shout, Gotcha! Anything to confirm he’s pulling some kind of prank. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s pretended to be dead or kidnapped for a laugh. I remember once he said something particularly asshole-ish to me, so I punched him in the stomach and he doubled over and collapsed to the floor. Rolled his eyes back and lolled his tongue out and everything. Got completely still, wouldn’t move or acknowledge our demands for him to knock it off. Finally, after Mom started to really freak out, he sat up and apologized, said he was just trying to scare us.

Well, if that’s all he’s doing now, he’s definitely succeeding.

We’re scared, all right.

We’re fucking terrified.

How can a kid go from making butt jokes one second, then… then… then…

Oh my god. How can this be real?

Dad remains atop the toilet, face buried in his hands, knees on his thighs.

I stand in the center of the bathroom, unsure which parent to focus on. None of us can stop crying. I need them both to hear what I have to say but I don’t want to tell it to either of them. How am I supposed to explain something I barely understand? How sure am I my memories are even real? How long have we been in this fucking bathroom? It’s impossible to separate facts from fictions. Maybe Amy never existed. Maybe the black magic rituals were invented inside a brain rotting with slow, impending death.

No.

It happened.

I know it was real. Otherwise, nothing else is real, either. This bathroom. My family. These thoughts. I might as well be throwing a temper tantrum in some mental asylum, confined by a straitjacket drenched in my own slobber.

“This is all my fault,” I finally whisper to the room.

Slowly, both my parents lift their heads. Eyes black from sleep deprivation. Skin loose around their faces. They just stare at me for a moment, as if they’re not sure I even spoke.

“What?” Mom says.

“I said this is all my fault.”

“What’s all your fault, honey?”

I pause, unsure how to answer such a complex question, then point at the bathroom door, followed by the bathtub.

“What are you talking about?” she says.

“This all happened because of me.”

“No it didn’t, honey. C’mon. Don’t think like that. It’s nobody’s fault.”

“No. Listen. You aren’t listening. You never listen.”

“Okay.”

“Last night.” I shake my head. “No. Not last night. Not anymore. The night it started. When was that? That night… that night… Amy and I… we did something bad. We did something real bad.”

No one responds. I have their attention now.

“There’s a website we go to sometimes.”

“What kind of website?” Dad asks. He’s still chewing those alcohol wipes. The sound’s sickening and I can’t stand to hear it.

“Please don’t get mad,” I tell them.

“Mel, what the hell are you talking about?”

“It was like a subreddit thing. Like, for the occult. People all around sharing… I don’t know, books they’ve found.”

“Books?”

“Like, old books. PDFs, blogs, Google docs. Everything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying, this subreddit, what they had. I guess… spells, basically. Like, I don’t know, rituals.”

“What the fuck is a subreddit? ” Dad asks, but I ignore him. Despite our current predicament of being trapped in a bathroom, there is still not enough time to thoroughly explain Reddit to my father in a way that he will understand.

“I don’t understand, honey,” Mom says.

“Amy was sick, okay? Like… really, truly sick.”

“What do you mean? What was wrong with her? Was it cancer? Did she have cancer?”

Shit, how the hell am I supposed to explain this? Especially after everything that’s happened. It’ll sound like I’m speaking in a foreign language ( speaking in tongues ). I inhale and exhale deep breaths several times before continuing. “We thought, maybe, there was something inside her. Something… bad, like… like a spirit. Or… or a demon.” I hate how silly it sounds coming out of my mouth. It makes me feel like a little kid.

Dad lets out a loud laugh. “Mel, what the fuck are you babbling about?”