M. Buehrlen: The 57 Lives of Alex Wayfare

He was the peace-keeper of our household, always trying to shield Mom from school-related problems and take care of them himself. Not that she wouldn’t want to know about them, but Dad figured they would distract her from her work. This time, however, he needed to “inform her of the escalated situation.” That faint smile meant he was sorry, but it had to be done.

He dropped his arm and jostled his keys in his palm. “What are we going to do with you, Allie Bean?” He clamped the keys in his fist and heaved open the driver-side door.

Time to face the judge.

Inside, I smelled nutmeg and cinnamon, which meant there was one of Gran’s pumpkin pies cooling on the butcher block island in the kitchen. The tinny sound of Pops’ radio floated in on a cool breeze from the back porch, and I knew he was out there, sitting in his rocker, listening to his favorite sports program. Any other day I would’ve gone out to join him. Gran would’ve brought us hot cider, and we would’ve nagged her every five minutes, asking when the pie would be ready. Pops might have gotten a swat on the shoulder with a wooden spoon. I would’ve laughed. And Gran would’ve broken down and given us a slice. Still warm. With fresh whipped cream melting on top.

Then I would’ve helped Dad with dinner, helped my youngest sister, Claire, with her homework, then read some of TS Eliot to Audrey until she fell asleep. For the past two months, she’d been falling asleep before dark. Every part of her body was tired. Even her fingernails, she said.

But this time I went straight upstairs to my bedroom to await my trial. I had a good hour before Mom got home to work my stomach into several twisted knots of guilt.

I hated letting her down. Even more than I hated Mr Lipscomb. And I’d been letting her down an awful lot lately.

I hefted myself up each squeaky step to the attic, my feet feeling heavier than usual. The staircase on the second floor led right up into the middle of my room, which spanned the entire top floor of the house. It was more of a workshop than a bedroom really, though I did have a small twin bed in the far corner, a dresser, and a wardrobe. The ceiling was A-framed, sloping down almost to the floor, but each side had a bank of windows extending out from the slanted roof so you didn’t have to crouch like you did in other attics. The ceiling and walls were covered in old architectural drawings and machining schematics, as well as a few watercolors Audrey painted for me, and a poster of a 1963 Corvette Sting Ray.

Silver, with a red v-stripe on the hood.

I totally planned to own one someday.

Three drafting tables Dad salvaged from an old factory stood strategically placed around the room, each covered in a heap of random parts, wire spools, and trays of tools. If I had it my way, my room would be in a constant state of organized chaos, but Gran insisted on tidying while I was at school. I could tell she’d been there that day because a path was paved through my boxes of spare electronics, and the faint scent of her lemon verbena perfume still hung in the air. Dancing with dust motes.

I dropped my backpack on my oval rope rug and crossed the room to my workbench. I flipped the switch to one of Audrey’s glass insulator lamps and stared at a project I’d been working on for Craig, a kid in my Biology class. For a hundred bucks, I was supposed to modify his DVD player into a smartphone dock and wire it to stream internet movies to his TV.

I didn’t ask which kinds of movies he’d be streaming. A hundred bucks was a hundred bucks.

I cranked open the casement window next to my bench and got to work. The scent of burning leaves curled in and wrapped around my shoulders. The whir of distant leaf blowers and the rhythmic whoosh of cars passing by lulled me into a sort of hazy stupor while I worked. Every now and then leaves scuttled across the pavement in a gust of wind.

I heard the front door open and close when Mom got home, but I kept my nose down. I didn’t even stop when the smell of lasagna baking in the oven made my stomach tumble and growl.

I simply worked.

And waited for the gavel.

MOM

It was dark outside and the crickets were chirruping by the time Mom climbed the steps to the attic. She carried a plate of lasagna and salad with both hands. Her long, pencil-straight chestnut hair was tied back at the base of her neck, but a few sleek strands had fallen out. They brushed her cheeks. Her glasses hung from a chain around her neck. The great shadow of disappointment stood behind her, hands in his pockets, head hung low, a little to the right.

She slid the dinner plate in front of me, sort of like a peace offering, then sat on my bed and folded her bare feet under her long legs. The mattress coils squeaked. She frowned down at the quilt Gran made for me and traced the stitching with her slender fingers. The shadow traced it too.

We sat in silence for a long while, the light from Audrey’s lamp casting a blue prism across Mom’s hair. We sat until steam no longer rose from my dinner.

Finally Mom spoke. Her voice was thin. Tired. “I can’t help but wonder if you’re trying to punish me, Bean.”

Her words were so unlike anything I expected that I swiveled around to face her full on. “What do you mean? Why would I want to punish you?” I sounded more like a child than I meant to.

Her eyes remained fixed on the quilt. “For working so much. For not being here.” She swallowed. “For not finding a cure.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and in an instant I was at her side. I folded her in my arms. Her shoulders shuddered. I felt her warm tears slip down my neck.

Is that what she thought? That I got in trouble to get her attention? That I resented her for slaving away day and night, searching for Audrey’s cure? How could she think I was that selfish? If I was the best cancer researcher at the AIDA Institute, I’d slave away too. Gran said it was Mom’s destiny, and I believed it. If anyone could find a cure for Audrey, it was Mom. And I would support her every step of the way. Even if that meant giving her up to her research.

I thought she knew that.

She pulled away to wipe her nose with the back of her hand. The blue prism swam in her eyes. “It’s just, you’ve been acting out so much lately. And getting suspended? That goes on your record.” She shook her head and sniffed. “It makes me wonder if I had been here for you – if you could’ve talked to me – you wouldn’t have taken your frustration out on your teacher.”

I looked down at my feet. They were so heavy the floorboards groaned beneath them.

It killed me that she thought it was her fault.

The thing was, I had wanted to tell her about my visions for years, tell her they weren’t just daydreams, but I didn’t want her to think I was crazy.

I didn’t want her to feel she had to find a cure for me too.

THE DIAGNOSIS

After I’ve told Dr Farrow everything, after I’ve drained myself until I’m nothing but a collapsed vessel on her couch, she removes her glasses. She sets her notepad and pencil aside.

“So. Alex. Here’s what I see.” She leans forward with folded hands. Her nails are glossy and cream-colored. They match her pumps. “I don’t believe your visions are a product of an attention seeking disorder, like I originally thought when I looked at your file. Your ongoing attempts to isolate yourself from social situations rule that out. A social phobia of some sort crossed my mind, because those can trigger psychotic episodes in extreme cases. But you’re perfectly capable of going out in public, going to school, talking to strangers like me without a drop of sweat or anxiety. The only time you demonstrated anxiety during this session was right before you told me about your visions. Your palms became sweaty. You were fidgety. You held your breath. But that’s a typical reaction when one is about to divulge a secret they’ve been holding onto for so long.”