The Trouble Is

Chapter 6: Lunchtime

We pull up at my house, and I can see one of the home health nurses waiting at the door with her handbag and keys. I jump out and run to the door, waving bye to Katie while saying hello to Tris.

Tris opens the door wide in greeting, letting me in as she heads out. "Doug's been out in the back yard all morning," she says. "I guess he's pretending to camp out or something. It'll be good for him when summer camp starts next week. It'll give him something a bit more structured to do in the mornings. I'll be back in an hour for the afternoon."

There are three nurses who come by and check on my mom. Tris is my favorite. She never asks me how I feel about anything. She just does whatever it is that nurses do and keeps her opinions about how I should be feeling or what I should be thinking to herself. Dad calls her Tactical Tris. She gets bored sometimes, just sitting around while Mom sleeps, so she helps out a bit around the house when my dad's at the office. Today must have been an easy day so far—there's Doug's peanut butter and jelly sandwich already cut into four neat triangles, sitting on a plate waiting for him, with a small cup of milk beside it.

I head out back to see what kind of cleanup job Doug is going to require before he eats. Some days he's covered in dirt by noon. Other days he's led a neighborhood mud fight or game of tag—whatever he can cook up. We keep a stack of old beach towels by the back door in case we have to hose him down.

The screen door slams shut behind me, and the first thing I notice is the quiet. It is completely quiet in the back yard. There are no whoops or howls or yells. There are no toy guns blaring and no little plastic army men lined up in the sandbox. Doug has hauled out the small chairs from the old kids' table in our garage and lined them up under the arms of the oak tree that shades a large portion of the yard. In front of the chairs sits the stepstool from the hall bathroom and an old music stand my dad had when he was in high school band.

I remember Katie telling me Doug was putting up a tent when she came in this morning. I see it now, but it's more of an awning than a tent. He's taken a flat sheet and tied it to some tree branches to provide some shade over the little wooden chairs. The ladder from the side of the house leans against the backside of the tree. I'm not quite sure how his scrawny little self managed to do all this, and I can't help but feel impressed. I watch him line up the chairs with an attention to detail that is familiar to me. It's the same motion I use when cleaning up after dinner. I line up all the chairs with the tiles. All the placemats sit squared off with the chairs and the edge of the table just so.

He is just so still, even in his movement. He's so contained. It's as if he isn't really here at all, or maybe his body is here but the rest of him is somewhere else.

"Hey, little man," I say as I approach. "Time for lunch."

He startles at the sound of my voice, looking up at me in surprise, I think. Or maybe it's something else; I'm not quite sure. I don't know what I've interrupted, but Doug alone is probably not a good thing right now. Tris is right: He needs some structure. I'm not sure he's going to get much of that from Skip. I'm actually not sure exactly what he's getting from our dad. Skip is going around in firm denial of the situation. He acts like some organic food and home healthcare will take care of everything. Mom has always been the one who explained things to Doug. I guess that's because she was the one who was always here after school with Doug. All that changed when she got sick. Skip took a leave of absence from his day job as a corporate lawyer when Mom started chemo. He only goes to the office one afternoon each week. Now, even though they are both here, there's a total diffusion of responsibility and it's been up to me to fill in the gap.

"It's time to wash up for lunch," I tell him again. "Get going and you can see Mom."

Our mother, Sara, is dying. She's had cancer off and on for a few years now, which equals most of Doug's life. Her best time of day is lunchtime, so that's when she spends time with Doug now that school is out for the summer. He runs to the kitchen sink, passes his hands through some water, wipes them on his pants, grabs his sandwich triangles, and runs upstairs to Mom's room. About sixty seconds later he runs back downstairs for his milk, returning more carefully this time.

I dig around in the refrigerator and find some leftover lasagna. I pop it into the microwave, and ninety seconds later lunch is served. The house is quiet while Doug talks to Mom. I turn up the baby monitor in the kitchen in case one of them calls for me while Tris is out, but I can't quite hear what they are talking about today. Sometimes he runs in and out, showing her whatever his latest fixation is at the time. One time he covered the bed with tons of little plastic insect things he had made with a Creepy Crawler oven. I tried to stop him—it was just gross. But Mom just said to let him be. I could hear their laughter throughout the house that day.

I take my lasagna and a glass of water to my room. There are just a few pages left to fill in my current spiral. There's actually just enough to get through the summer if it turns out to be typical. I flip through the pages, admiring the order, the lines, the history. I randomly stop flipping pages about a quarter of the way through.

List #27: —the TOP FIVE

1. Avoid being the first person to turn in a paper. Go with the herd.

2. Avoid sneezing or coughing.

3. Say "Here" at just the right moment during roll call. Not too fast, not too slow.

4. Arrive on time. The entire herd will stare down the last student in the door to the death.

5. Do not twitch when the whiteboard has those little streaks left after Mr. E. erases the solution.

God, I am just such a dweeb. I solemnly swear to myself that I am going to change my life this summer. That one is almost as bad as List #17: The List of Famous Lists and List Makers:

1. Picasso's handwritten list of artists recommended for some exhibition in the United States. (I learned this in history class last year.)

2. Moses's list of commandments. This should probably be number one.

3. Any single issue of Rolling Stone.

4. Johnny Cash. (I saw his museum in Nashville.)

5. Every teacher I've ever had.

I flip to the back of the spiral and start a fresh list.

List #91:

1. I will not be such a dweeb.

I stop there before I even add number two. Tons of Instagram-worthy ideas flow through my mind, such as travel to a foreign country, get a tattoo, kiss a boy under a shower of fireworks. But none of it seems realistic to me right now. I'm never going to go on a date to Paris, travel with a band, or swim with dolphins. I need to come up with some more-realistic promises to myself. I'm not even sure I can avoid my own dweeb-ness for the entire summer, but that stays on the list, regardless.

I must have drifted off a bit, because I startle to hear Doug's cup rattle in the sink, where he probably tossed it. Lunchtime is over. Skip will be back soon with cloth bags full of organic produce and hormone-free meat to put away. I load the dishwasher and clean up the remains of lunch on autopilot while I consider List #91. What I want to include is something about watching all the Disney movies in order, which Katie and I had vowed to do the summer before seventh grade. What I want to include is how I just want to play volleyball at the lake and eat snow cones every single day this summer.

What I want to include is that I will be confident when walking around in my bathing suit, that I will not line up chairs and cups and towels, and that I will not compare myself with every other girl at the beach. I think that if I can do even a portion of those things, then this summer has potential. There's some potentially amazing juju here. I really believe that there's something about this particular summer—something special. Maybe it's the freedom of Katie's car, or maybe it's the way Adam Dempsey looked at me those last few days of school. Whatever. I run back to my room, and an involuntary demon takes control. I write without thinking.

List #91: Summer Vows

1. I will not be such a dweeb.

2. I will do all within my power to make this summer last forever.

3. I will set myself free.

I think that sums it up.