The Trouble Is

Chapter 9: Preemptive-Strike Day

The alarm screams at eight on Monday morning. Skip is checking in at the office this morning, so I'm running point until Tris gets here. I hammer the clock into submission as Doug throws my bedroom door open and does a Michael Phelps launch onto my bed. I guess he didn't make it through the night at Chris's after all. The mountain of bedding muffles his little-boy laughter to a tolerable decibel. Good God, I need coffee. Now.

"What's up with you today?" I ask as I pull him onto the pillow beside me.

"Library day with Chris," he says. "His mom's taking us to the park after. We're doing a picnic. I hope we have PB&J. I only like PB&J now, and the not-organic kind of peanut butter; the not-organic kind is smoother. I hate chunks, don't you? And I want to do the boats at the park. Got some quarters? I need three for me and three for Chris. For the boats."

He speaks rapid fire and never seems to need a breath. He always has a funky little raw sound to his voice, as if he's been screaming in his sleep all night or is a life-long smoker. It's a confusing sound—part excited little boy, part geriatric rock 'n' roll star.

"Look in that jar on my dresser, little man, and take what you need," I say as I reach over to tickle him a bit. I just want to hear the sound of that little-boy giggle one more time. It's almost as good as coffee. He flails about as if all motor control is lost, and I marvel at his ability to be happy despite all that is happening around him. Maybe he doesn't really get it, I think. Maybe he doesn't know what cancer means. Does he even understand what it means to die? I don't know. I know I may never sort out all that, so I just shake my head precise times as if I'm shaking an Etch A Sketch.

"Get up, get up," he says, laughing as he skips across to the dresser. "Mom says you have to fix me chocolate-chip pancakes."

"Mom's up?" I ask all nonchalant.

"Yep," he replies. "Dad's taking her somewhere. Maybe the store, like Wal-Mart or something. I don't know."

Looks like Dad is not checking in at the office. There's no way my mom is going to the store—any store. And she's promising him chocolate-chip pancakes a la me. Something's up. I drag myself up and throw on a pair of running shorts under my oversized t-shirt. By the time my hair is up in a loose ponytail, Doug's already in the kitchen pulling out bowls and measuring cups. I can hear the banging as I walk into the kitchen. Mom is standing at the sink, drinking a cup of tea as Dad ties a neon, tie-dye scarf around her head.

Her head is tiny now, without its cap of thick auburn hair. Sometimes she wears a little cotton beanie like those newborn babies do in the hospital nursery, as if a thin layer of cotton could protect against the risks of the everyday world. I prefer the wild scarves; the beanie makes me unbelievably sad. I say nothing as I begin to measure the flour one-two-three times, crack an egg tap-tap-tap, and turn on the stovetop click-click-click. Maybe if I don't ask, they won't explain. I can just imagine them shopping or walking in the park or having brunch somewhere with little sparkling mimosas and designer muffins topped with delicate fruit slices.

That particular little fantasy ends as Dad clears his throat and speaks in that tightly controlled voice he uses when he's either worried or trying to control his temper.

"We're just headed in for a quick blood count," he says. It's the worried voice. I whisk pancake batter clockwise for five counts, then counterclockwise for five counts.

Mom tugs at her sleeves to make sure her bruised arms are completely covered. She hands me a mug of hot coffee with milk in a cup from a long-forgotten trip to Walt Disney World.

"Be right back," she says as she pushes Doug's hair out of his eyes. "Anne's in charge. You get twenty-five chocolate chips for the batter. That's all: just twenty-five. Make sure you brush your teeth. Use your manners with Mrs. C. and Chris, Doug. They'll be here by ten, so be ready. You OK, Anne?"