You still eat breakfast when someone dies, especially if they die like my sister. I think that’s weird. I would have liked everything to stop. But Mom is knocking lightly on my bedroom door, telling me breakfast is on the table and we need to be at the church by ten. Mom’s voice is barely there, and she walks like someone is standing on her shoulders.
I’m up already. I’m even in my suit. I found it last night in the attic and slept in it. It smells like my sister because she wore it last, for Halloween two years ago. There’s a buzzing sound in my very hot head. It’s going to get me through today. If I concentrate on it and look at it with my mind, then my whole body will buzz and I won’t feel anything that is happening.
I pass Dad in the hall on the way to breakfast. He grabs my arm and turns me around.
He looks like he’s searching for something on my face. I search his and see that there are lines cut into his cheeks and around his eyes and mouth. Old-man lines.
“That suit’s a little snug on you . . .”
I look down at the suit and realize he’s right. I haven’t worn this suit in three years. The pants reach my calves and the jacket stops somewhere around my stomach.
“I think you can fit into one of my old suits. You want to come in and try?”
I have a feeling I’m being “handled,” the way Dad leads me into Mom’s bedroom. I didn’t feel crazy when I woke up this morning, but peeling off the suit, I wonder if maybe I’m losing my mind.
The only suit of Dad’s left in the closet is the retro one he wore when he married Mom. I put it on and let him tie the tie for me. Dad tells me the tie is red because Mom carried red roses down the aisle.
Breakfast is endless. I feel like every pore of my skin is absorbing what’s happening. Every clink of a fork against a plate, every scrape of the chair as Dad gets up for seconds and then thirds. Every tear that falls off of Mom’s face and lands in her eggs. I’m sucking it all in, my skin is eating it all. None of us has said a word. It is deafening. I’ve never had thoughts like this before. I want to tell my parents that I’m not right. I open my mouth and say, “I’m not right.”
Dad sips his juice, and Mom scrapes butter against her toast.
“I’m not right!” I say again, louder. Dad looks at me.
“What are you wrong about, honey?” Mom asks in her whisper-voice.
“No, not like that. I’m just not right.”
Mom cocks her head to the side, reaches her hand across the table, and puts it on my forehead.
“You’re burning up.”
I press my forehead against her hand, wondering what it feels like on her palm. She keeps her hand there until Dad comes back with the aspirin.
“Take these. They’ll help.”
I swallow the pills and immediately regret it. I decide that having a fever is the best way to go through today. I want the filter of the fever to get me through. I want this to be a fever dream. I lie down on the couch and listen to Mom whisper into Dad’s neck that she can’t do this. It’s too much and she can’t do it.
The aspirin helps. I fall asleep and dream about hollow-sounding giants that shrink to the size of beans. When I open my eyes, the house is dark and the grandfather clock is chiming that it’s four. I’ve slept through the wake.
“Hey, Donnie.”
I know that voice. I roll over and in the darkness see Amanda sitting in Mom’s rocker. I guess somebody must have told her. I wouldn’t have told her.
“You were sick so I said I’d stay here with you.” She’s leaning forward; I can see her hair has grown longer.
“You should leave.” I hear myself say it.
She covers her face with her hands and I can hear her cry into her fingers. I don’t care. I roll back over so I’m facing the couch cushions.
“I said you should leave.” I keep my voice hard, I try to bite her with it.
“Your mom asked me to stay for a couple days.” Her voice is just tired, there’s no bite to it. I don’t let myself feel bad, I just keep my back to her and listen to her walk up the stairs to Karen’s room.