23. Closed

“Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Just outside.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

It could be any exchange between any mother and son on a late Friday night. Any exchange where the mother stands outside the door to the locked bathroom wondering what’s going on. Any exchange where the teen is in trouble but desperate not to give it away.

But instead of being drunk as a skunk or high as a kite, I’m trying to clean up a bloodied shoe and sock and foot.

The wound isn’t as bad as it looks.

Thank God for my Adidas. Bet the marketers would like to know that they can also help fend off devilish dogs.

There are five cuts in the middle of my toe, all looking like dog bites.

Not some bullish, crazy demon dog, Chris. Just a dog.

The blood is coming out fast and furious. I’ve already used up a roll of toilet paper, and I’ve already flushed four times.

Making Mom surely wonder what my deal is.

“Are you sick?” she asks.

That clichéd image of the teen hiding something from his parents suddenly irks me.

What am I hiding?

And why am I hiding it from her?

“I’m not sick,” I say.

But in a sense I am sick. I’m sick of being on my own and keeping things to myself and living and breathing behind a wall. Or a closed door or a closed room or a closed life.

If things are going to change, I have to let someone in.

I get off the toilet seat and unlock the door. Mom is there in her robe, looking notably out of it but nevertheless concerned.

She gasps when she sees my foot.

“It’s better than it looks,” I say. “It’s just a dog bite.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What happened?”

I give her a quick synopsis of what happened, including the bit about the wall. I leave out things such as the dog smelling like sulfur and being the size of a bull.

I also leave out how I left things with the dog.

I don’t even know how I left things.

“We have to get you to a doctor.”

“No.”

“Yes, right now. You don’t know the dog. We need to get you a rabies shot.”

“Mom—we can’t.”

“What do you mean we can’t?”

“We don’t have money for that.”

“We have as much money for you as we need, Chris.”

I stare at her, not understanding what she means.

A part of me thinks, If that’s the case, let’s go shopping, starting with the nearest Apple store.

“Mom, it’s fine, really. Where are we going to go at nine on a Friday night?”

“We’ll find a doctor. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She’s probably thinking, I need to put some clothes on. Then, as she’s walking down the stairs, And I need to put some coffee on.