The night when they took Karen to the hospital and I got in a fight with the clock seems like it was forever ago. Amanda’s been in Chicago for a week already. My family seems like we are plowing through time, trying to get our distance from what happened, even if we never talk about that night or the fact that Karen’s in counseling or that Dad never comes home or that I’m flunking three subjects and am home every day after school and all weekend. No one at school knew what happened, and even though I opened my mouth the next day at lunch to tell the story, Chris looked at me and said, “Shut up.” It’s amazing, the way him saying that made my mouth clamp shut, like it was connected to a remote control in his hand.
Karen and Mom have been fighting and making up every other day. One day they’re screaming at each other, and the next Karen’s practically in Mom’s lap while she makes tiny braids in Karen’s hair. It’s like there’s a hiccup in the way time works, and they can only live the same two days over and over again.
It’s been different the past couple days, though, the way Mom’s been watching Karen. It’s because when Amanda was over last week, and Mom asked if they were going to eat dinner, Karen said, “I ate at Amanda’s already.” And Amanda looked right at Mom and said, “No, you didn’t.” Karen made some excuse and dragged Amanda out of the kitchen.
Mom and Karen have been circling each other all night. I think, Tigers. Grrr. Mom watches Karen closely, and Karen pretends not to notice. I watch them both and wait for something to happen. I think Mom is having some sort of out-of-body experience. She walks around like she doesn’t recognize our house or her family, and what she does see puts dark shadows on her face.
“Mom, come on. Just check it off.” This is humiliating. My math teacher found out I forged my math midterm progress report, which said that I’m failing, which I am, and now Mom checks my math homework every night.
“Hold on. You didn’t finish this one,” she says, tapping her pen on the last problem.
“That’s the extra credit. You get credit just for trying,” I say. It’s a lie. It’s not extra credit, it’s just a problem that sucks. She falls for it, sort of. She signs the page and says, “Finish the extra credit, okay?”
I wait till she’s back to watching Karen across the table before I say, “Fine.” Then she glances at me like she’s surprised I’m standing there.
“Karen,” she says, “do you want some ice cream?”
Karen shakes her head and finishes drawing a straight line across the graph she’s working on.
“I’ll have ice cream,” I say, still standing next to Mom. I’m too mad to leave like she wants me to.
“Your brother’s having ice cream,” Mom says, not looking at me.
“So?” Karen says.
“Maybe some fruit?” Mom asks. I can tell this is leading nowhere good. I sit down at the table.
Karen looks up from her graph.
“Mom, what are you doing? You’re just sitting there. Don’t you have something to do?”
It is kind of weird. Mom’s just sitting at the kitchen table in her robe and wet hair from her nightly shower, watching Karen. I know Karen can feel it, even if she’s looking at her homework. What I don’t understand is why Karen doesn’t say anything, why she doesn’t scream, “Stop staring at me!”
“Mom, why are you staring at Karen?” I ask, still mad about the homework.
Both Karen and Mom whip their heads around to look at me. They exchange a look, and Karen gives Mom a small, pleading shake of her head and I think, Oh shit, what Hi I do? I pressed the bad button, the one that makes terrible things happen. You can’t unexplode a bomb.
Mom sighs and reaches into her robe pocket and brings out a folded pamphlet.
“I just think,” she says to Karen, “that maybe you should . . .” She pushes the pamphlet across the table.
“What?” Karen says, knocking it to the floor. I can see it says Kennedy Inpatient Treatment Center. “What do you think I should do, Mom, what?”
“You know what, Karen. I’ve been watching you . . .”
“Oh, really, I haven’t noticed.”
“And I just think that it would help. So does your counselor. They do good work, it’s a good place, Karen.”
“You talked to Marie about this? You planned this with her? She’s my counselor, Mom! You have no right to talk to her! I’m not going, Mom.” Karen’s face has gone white and still. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Then prove me wrong. Go there and they’ll send you right back with a note pinned to your shirt that says, ’There’s nothing wrong with this one.’”
“I’m not going.”
“Karen, I’ve called your school. They know you’ll be out for two weeks. Your dad and I are going to drive you to the . . . place, tomorrow.”
“You told Dad?” Karen yells. “Why did you tell him? I’m not going anywhere with him!”
“What’s wrong with Karen?” I ask, feeling sick.
“Nothing,” Karen says. “Mom’s just being an asshole.”
I whisper, “Whoa,” and get up from the table. It’s too big, what’s happening. There’s no room for me.
From my room I hear the rest of the fight. What’s weird is that even though they’re both trying to yell, it gets caught in their throats. So it comes out with no force. Here’s the argument:
Karen: What, were you just not going to tell me? Were you just going to throw me in the trunk and hope I didn’t asphyxiate on the way there? You’re so stupid, Mom. You think I didn’t know you were planning this. I found the pamphlet in your room. I knew what you were doing. You don’t have anything better to do than watch me eat. Even Marie says you have no life outside of Donnie and me. I feel sorry for you. I’m embarrassed for you because there’s nothing wrong with me and you’re just a bored housewife inventing things that are wrong with your kids because you have nothing better to do. Why does Dad have to come? I don’t want him to come! Who else knows? I’d better be back for Christmas, because you said Amanda could come and visit. You’re jealous I have a best friend and all you have is Aunt Jannie and she never even visits anymore. Why are you doing this to me? Who else did you tell? What are you going to tell Donnie? Don’t tell him anything, I don’t want him to know anything. I bet you hope he gets another ear infection because you love it when he’s sick because then you get to act like a real mom. Why don’t you just pop some more pills into him, he can’t get more screwed up than he already is. This is seriously messed up, Mom, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. It’s not going to change anything because I’m fine, there’s nothing wrong with me and I hate you and I won’t forgive you for this, ever.
Mom: Of course I was going to tell you! I just couldn’t find the right time. Don’t be ridiculous, I would never lock you in a trunk. I don’t see how I’m an idiot when you’re the one who thinks I won’t notice that as soon as I turn my head, your dinner magically disappears from your plate. Funny how I always find it in your trash can later. You didn’t think I knew about that, did you? You are in way over your head, young lady. You have taken this entirely too far and you can be as nasty as you want to be to me but it won’t change the fact that tomorrow morning you are getting in that car with your father and me. He’s your father, that’s why he has to come. You’ll be there as long as you need to be and if you want to be home in time to see Amanda at Christmas, then it’s up to you to get yourself well. This isn’t about Donnie. This is about you. You can hate me all you want to, Karen, but you are going to get yourself out of whatever phase it is that you’re in. I want you well. I just want you well again.
“Donnie, I’m leaving.” I know she’s leaving. I’ve been up since really early this morning, waiting to see if she would say goodbye before she left. I open my bedroom door. She’s been crying and she’s wearing her jacket.
I don’t know how to answer so I say, “I know.”
“Go out on the steps if they start in on each other. I left you candy in the tin.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“You can’t call me up there. But call Amanda in Chicago if. . . if it gets bad here, all right?”
I nod. She gives me a quick, fierce hug. I didn’t realize she’d gotten so small. I pull back and look at her, my hands on her sides.
“Shut up,” she says, and walks down the stairs.