ISA
Merrit’s forehead is pressed against the glass. He stares out the window as the city goes by. It’s weird to see him not on his phone. For some reason, he’s angry with it today.
The bus stops. A bunch of students get on at Central Park West. Merrit glances at them, his gaze lingering on a girl with a thick cascade of blue-black hair. I rub his back but I’m not sure he can feel my hand through his winter coat. It’s going to be seventy today. I reminded him of this as we were leaving but Merrit didn’t want to return and find it packed away in some box, perhaps shipped to the storage facility instead of to the new apartment. I can empathize. I’m carrying a duffel even though I’m just taking him to his doctor’s appointment. My pointe shoe box with Alex’s poems is inside.
Merrit ignores me when I ask about the World Series of Poker—he watched it for hours last night on his laptop. He shakes his head when I suggest stopping for pizza.
As we approach Broadway, I rise to my feet. I reach for his elbow, but Merrit shrugs me off, looking all annoyed. He doesn’t understand why his baby sister has to chaperone him. But if you don’t show up to your appointments, if you disappear for hours and don’t tell anyone where you’ve been . . . well, you have no choice. I offered to help after school, what with the movers around. Mom’s a mess and Dad’s managing everything. I don’t mind missing one afternoon of dance. Dad gave me a huge hug, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “Thank you.” Mom didn’t even respond when I said we were going to take public transportation. Taxis are just too expensive.
Merrit stumbles off the bus. He veers in front of it to cross the street. I yank him back just as a car screeches by.
“You didn’t even look!” I accuse.
Merrit scrutinizes the drain, shaking his hands up and down in his pockets, jiggling the coins inside.
The light changes. I tug him through the crosswalk, then down the steps into the subway, toward the front of the tracks, where there will be fewer people waiting.
Merrit’s jiggling change again, his shoulders vibrating. A lady with a Century 21 bag glances at us.
“I wasn’t watching poker last night,” he says. It’s jarring after his long silence. “Not all night at least. I was watching Superman. The one from 1978. You’ve seen it, right?”
I nod, too shocked to speak. He hasn’t spoken more than single words to anyone in days. Superman is one of Dad’s favorites. He used to make us all watch it together on his birthday. He’d recite the lines along with the actors. “I’m here to fight for truth and justice and the American way.” He even got Mom to play along, calling out to her, “Easy, miss. I’ve got you,” and laughing when she’d reply, “You—you’ve got me?! Who’s got you?”
Merrit grimaces. “Yeah, duh. Of course you’ve seen it. Anyway, I was thinking about what happened to the actor who played Superman. I mean, imagine being a superhero—sure he didn’t have x-ray vision and he couldn’t fly in real life—but he was this tall, good-looking guy who was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood. So imagine being that guy and then having an accident and being paralyzed. And then dying. He was only Dad’s age when he died, did you know that?”
I shake my head. I’m not sure whether to be happy or nervous that Merrit’s talking so much.
Merrit drags the toe of his shoe along the bumps edging the yellow line. “What does that mean about us, about our society, when the man who embodied Superman is squashed so easily? Like a mosquito.”
I hope Merrit is referring to how the actor died so young, and not to the accident. It’s not as if life ends just because you get a diagnosis or because you can’t do something you used to be able to do. I’m about to ask when Merrit loops his hand around one of the tiled columns. He swings out over the tracks.
My heart jolts. “Merrit.” By some miracle, my voice stays calm. “Merrit, what are you doing?”
Merrit peers down into the wide cavity filled with trash and rats and long pieces of metal conducting high voltage. He sways back and forth, holding on with his long arm.
“Merrit, you’re making me nervous. Please step back.”
A train is coming. Its horn blares out a long and angry warning.
My brother turns his head to find me. His eyes are lit with a wild gleam. “I think the message is that we’re all mosquitos. Any of us can be squashed in a flash.” He swings again. My heart ticks madly. I’m about to scream Merrit’s name when he propels himself away from the track. He trips toward me, laughing.
The train slows to a stop in front of us. Merrit’s pointing at me, his smile broad and exaggerated.
“Your expression . . .” He lets out a bark of laughter.
I smack him. Hard. “That’s not funny,” I growl. I can still feel the beat of my heart on my tongue.
“Sure it is.” He raises a hand to his reddening cheek. I’ve never slapped anyone before, and I’m shaking now.
I grab Merrit’s coat, dragging him onto the train with me. I don’t let go until we’re in the doctor’s office, even though Merrit’s eyes are shooting daggers at me. After I tell the doctor what happened, after I say I don’t know if Merrit was clowning around or if he really was thinking of jumping onto the tracks, I sit in the waiting room, wiping tears with my sleeve. The bag with Alex’s poems is on my lap. I can’t even open it.