The Trouble Is

Chapter 16: Speaking of God

The next morning begins with the sound of Doug's voice. I can hear him clearly through the wall. He's in the family room saying something. It sounds foreign. It's like he's repeating something over and over in another language. I grab a sweatshirt to cover my tank and pull on some yoga pants. The house smells like fresh-baked grainy things and strong coffee. Skip's at the kitchen table dipping some kind of hard muffin in honey.

"What's that sound?" I ask as I pour coffee into my favorite cup from the many that my mom has given me.

Mom says inspiration can be found in the most mundane activity such as pouring coffee. It's up to us to do the things that ignite. She's always plotted ways to embed pithy little reminders within ordinary life. This cup says "Britney Spears survived 2007; you can make it through today" in a fancy script. I find this to be an excellent point.

Skip wolfs down the last of his muffin before answering. "Hebrew, I think," he says as he swallows. "Maybe Aramaic. Do people speak that for real? Or are they just guessing at what it must have sounded like?"

"Huh?" I ask. "Let me rephrase that, because . . . ?" I have no interest in the history of the spoken language. I just want to know why Doug is speaking some Dead Sea Scrolls language, regardless of what language it turns out to be.

"Because he had that iTunes gift card from your grandmother," Skip says as though it's no big deal at all. He's still not really answering my question. Or maybe he doesn't understand it. Nah—he hears me, and I know he can understand. He's just avoiding the real questions. My brother is running around building a church or a cult or at least a congregation and learning dead or almost-dead languages. And that's just OK?

"So what are you doing about that?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" He has a mouth full of dry muffin. Gross.

"I mean what are you doing about Doug?" I just can't believe I'm having to spell this out to him. "I'm not a shrink, but this can't be helpful, can it?"

"He needs to process what is happening here," Skip says defensively. "I'm letting him process. I am encouraging him to just breathe."

I look at him, sitting there all surrounded by muffin crumbs and natural-farming pamphlets. He hasn't shaved in a day or so, and I'm pretty sure he's wearing the same t-shirt he had on yesterday. I want to shake him or yell at him. But there's no point. He's in his own space now. I think he's probably going to be moving in there for a while and building his own little nest with just enough room for his particular brand of crazy. I leave him there with his grains, and I grab a blueberry Pop-Tart before going to talk to Doug.

Doug is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. He's pushed aside the coffee table and spread out his old Sesame Street blanket on the floor. The blanket is kind of strange in its perfection: aligned with the room and pulled tight without a single bump or wrinkle. He sits in the middle of it, back straight, head high. He's wearing Skip's big headphones. You know the kind—they make him look like a skinny radio operator on a submarine gone rogue. He is adorably quirky, I think. But this, this is moving too far to the left of center to be good. He's listening carefully, eyes closed, then bursting into speech. I can't understand a word of it. I slowly hit the pause button on the old iPod.

"Hey," he says as he opens his eyes. His smile is just beautiful. "You are here."

"Yes, buddy," I reply. "I'm here. So, what's going on? How was the night under the bed?"

"I'm learning Hebrew, Annie," he says. He sounds so sincere, so solemn. I feel my head wanting to shake back and forth, side to side, rapid fire like a cartoon character. I briefly wonder what that sound is called that is always played during that little shake. I'll have to Google that later, I think.

I shake my head for real this time, forcing myself to focus. I sit across from him, crossing my legs to mirror his.

"Tell me about what you've been doing, D," I say. "I want to hear all about what it's like to be Doug this summer. Likes, dislikes, dreams, wishes—the whole world that is Doug."

He pulls the headphones down around his wiry little neck and gives me a little smile. It's a bit freaky.

"Annie," he says from some still place within his tiny frame. His voice sounds a little deeper than normal. "Annie, how are you?"

"I'm fine D," I reply. "But I want to talk about you."

"OK," he says emphatically. "But first, listen to this," he adds as he hands me the headphones.

I slide them onto my ears, widening them to fit as Doug hits play. The voice flowing into my head is gentle. It says "Gemilut chasadim, acts of loving kindness,  gemilut chasadim."

"That's Hebrew?" I ask.

Doug nods and holds his hands out for the headphones.

I haven't read many parenting or psychology books (actually, I've never read any), but I know enough to know that it's important to tread lightly.

"Are you thinking about becoming Jewish?" I ask. "Or are you just experimenting?"

He thinks about this in that solemn way he has for serious topics. It's worth noting that the last time I saw this expression, we were debating how and where to bury his goldfish and whether fish have souls. We are light years away from burying the goldfish now.

"You know we're not Jewish, right Doug?" I say as gently as I can.

He nods his head a few times in agreement or understanding or something, then just presses play again as he shuts his eyes in concentration. Or maybe he's shutting me out. Either way, I'm not really sure how to handle this. I know all about the many phases of boyhood as lectured by Skip. However, he never said anything about this particular phase. There's also nothing in the folklore of Big Sisterhood that tells you how to handle religion tasting over summer break. Besides, I've probably got more questions than Doug does about this whole God thing right now. So, since it's a God thing, I decide to leave it in God's hands unless things take a turn too far into crazy town.