My Invitation to Adelaide's House

"I'm not driving you to Cassis and that's final," my mother says. It is Saturday evening and I have just told her about the letter.

"But I have been invited!" I say, and my voice is already in the red zone.

"Never mind. You can give that woman a phone call to ask about her mother, but we are not going there."

I feel a meltdown rising, along with my temperature.

"Why not?"

My mother answers but I can't tell what she is saying. The way her head is shaking makes me know she hasn't put an answer into the air after my question. I try to put the anger I'm feeling into the soles of my feet, but it's not working—the anger is too big to fit there.

"Walnut was the first of my series of gerbils!" I say, trying to hold onto the words before everything goes white. "After Walnut came June, and after June came Charlotte, and after Charlotte came Hammy. And last fall, before I turned nineteen, I got my fifth gerbil, Harold Pinter. Now Harold Pinter is sharing the nest with Samuel Beckett and I hope neither of them is dead! "

As soon as I say this, I begin to worry that Harold Pinter is eating Samuel Beckett and I want to telephone Shauna, but my mother says it's too early in the morning there for me to call.

"The reason I should call is that if there is not enough fresh water or food in the tank, parent gerbils will consume their babies. Similarly, if there is not enough substance for nest building, or if the mother is stressed, or if Shauna or her husband touches Samuel Beckett and leaves their scent on him so that he is not recognized by Harold Pinter, it could be dangerous. Gerbillus perpallidus, the pallid gerbil, is part of the kingdom Animalia, the phylum Chordata, the class Mammalia, the order Rodentia, the superfamily Muroidea, the family Muridae, the subfamily Gerbillinae, and the genus Gerbillus. Due to their threat to native ecosystems, it is illegal to have gerbils as pets in California— and so we must never move there."

"Taylor, stop the gerbil talk!" says my mother. But I can't stop.

"And without adequate food and water, there can be serious health concerns in addition to cannibalism, including the eating of bedding material, stomach ulcers, dehydration, and starvation. It is conceivable that, if not cared for properly, Harold Pinter and Samuel Beckett could starve to death. What if their new environment causes epilepsy and they commence to have seizures?"

My mother starts to speak but I can't hear her. The silence pounds in my ears and it erases everything but my own hands, which I watch as they grip each other and don't let go.

When the world comes back into focus, I stumble up to my room and pick up Jean-Paul Sartre's little gray book. I reread my favorite passage, about how each person is in charge of their world and responsible for their situation. I think that is wrong. I am responsible for nothing. I am waiting for no one and responsible for nothing. These words circle around and around in my brain until all I hear is vowels.

When I start hearing consonants again I think about running all the way to Cassis but that wouldn't be a good idea. I have run away before, when we spent last summer at Waskesiu Lake, and all that happened is that I was late for my job the next morning. Running away was a bad choice then and it would be a bad choice now. Instead of running, I grab a cloth and start to scrub the desk in my room, and then I go on to scrub the walls. Obsessive cleaning is something I am trying to stop myself doing, so as soon as I can, I open my laptop and start to type. This makes use of my hands, but not all of my brain. Sassafras. Iced tea. Chocolate pain. ACEGIJL. Pi =3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701938521105559644622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511