Chapter 5

<<Routine is the mind killer. Routine is the little death that brings total obliteration, #DUNE’ism,>> Hairy tweets.

I’m more nervous crutching toward my mom’s hospital room than I was in AAA Limited’s creepy parking lot. I don’t like seeing her sick. To be honest, I don’t like being near sick people. A few years ago this kid developed cancer and had the whole nine yards of hair loss and chalky white skin. Suddenly I didn’t know what to say, even though we’d been friends up until then.

I knew he wasn’t contagious but it frightened me. Who can afford to get cancer? Maybe it’s because everyone always says cancer is something you battle or fight, and I had trouble saying what everyone else was saying. You can beat this. Miracles happen every day. It’s not my experience with my mom’s illness. Sure she struggles, but she struggles to be happy, to do the laundry, to keep the accounting books up to date. To suggest it’s a war is to suggest that the people who die just didn’t try hard enough or used the wrong tactics. If that’s the case, my mom’s currently in full retreat.

I skid out on a puddle of I-don’t-want-to-know and take the corner to the psych unit. A nurse buzzes me through the locked doors and I’m in. Rooms line a blue hallway lit by life-sucking fluorescent lights. At the nursing station ahead, voices rise in an argument. They belong to two men in patient gowns, the hems bobbing dangerously at mid-thigh.

“I am,” a bearded white dude says.

“No, my son, I am.” This guy’s bearded too, but with dark, almost black, skin. He raises his hand as if in blessing.

“The Son of God can’t be blessed,” white guy says.

“True, my son.”

“Stop calling me son, you’re not God.”

“Of course I am not god; I’m His Son, blessings—”

“Nurse, tell this man that he can’t be Jesus. I am Messiah.”

The nurse behind the station glass is pretending she doesn’t hear, but I can see her trying not to laugh. As I crutch closer I spot two larger men in white outfits near the exit. I veer away and leave the dueling Jesuses to their turning of cheeks.

My mom has a slight build. The multiple sclerosis has made walking difficult, which in turn has atrophied her legs so that all she can manage is to stand for short periods, but she was never stout. And she doesn’t fill out much of the bed sheets.

Last night she wasn’t responsive at all, so I nearly fall over when she turns her head as I enter.

“Mom,” I say, dropping to my knees, bringing my face level with hers. My joy is short lived; she stares right past me. But I also know she’s lost some vision, so a sliver of optimistic-Jan thinks maybe she just can’t see well.

“Mom?” I try again.

Nope. What we have here is a major depression.

“It’s a good result.” Peter’s gravelly voice rumbles across the bed. “She’s even taking some food. They won’t have to put in a feeding tube.”

I clench shut my eyes to restrain tears.

“I’m glad you’re getting better, Mom,” I say.

“How are you doing, Janus?”

“The doctor treating you okay, Mommy?” I ignore Peter, still angry with him for suggesting I let Assured Destruction go and still suspicious of his relationship with my mother and the help he’s offering me. “Anything you want from home?” As I say it I realize I should have brought some fresh clothes, maybe some makeup, at least her favorite lipstick. Her lips are parted, bloodless, and lined. “I’ll bring some things tomorrow, I promise.”

“Dr. Reddy says she will be getting the ECT three times a week and should be feeling better in two or three weeks,” Peter continues. “The medications will take a couple of weeks to kick into high gear.”

I shudder and press my hand against my mom’s cheek, resting my chin on the bed so that her breath whispers over my face. The ensuing silence is wonderful, being with my mom, letting my mind go blank, alone with her, blocking out Peter and the noises of other people in the hospital.

The image of the gun resurfaces again. I clench my eyes, but it only serves to sharpen the image. I can feel it now too. Heavy in my hands.

Someone coughs in the bed behind the hospital drape, and then a radio turns on with the weather report. It’s cold and will grow colder overnight. I shake myself free of the intrusive memory.

“I need to man the cash, Mom,” I explain—that and hospital parking is fleecing me and everything right now seems to depend on cash.

“Jan, you don’t need to,” Peter says. It’s become his refrain and I’ve begun to believe that Assured Destruction is the only thing that stands between my mother and death, between me and total abandonment. Losing the war. I will not let Assured Destruction go.

He must see it in my eyes.

“You can’t do it all,” he says.

Janus is strong. I will prove him wrong.

“I’m tracking down old customers,” I reply.

He shoots to his feet. “Not a good idea.”

Oh, to have laser beams for eyes; unfortunately his head doesn’t burst into flames.

“Why? Every problem can be solved with the right tools,” I say. “A crowbar, for instance, can pry open a lock. Right?” My eyes narrow, and I try to gauge if he caught the reference to Darkslinger.

“Well, Christmas is coming,” he says. “Why don’t we have it at my place?”

I’m so startled by the change of subject, I just shake my head. “Whatever.” Then I give my mom a final hug and crutch away.

One thing is true: I do have a lot to handle, and the only solution is routine. Janus may be strong, but she doesn’t do routine well.

As I make my way back to the van, I work out my plan to beat-Pete.

Two hours for homework, six hours for school. Three hours at the cash, during which I can update Shadownet and Darkslinger. Each night I’ll set up one room for the international students and learn a little Mandarin, say one hour there. Seven hours of sleep. One hour to visit my mom and two hours at the soup kitchen. It would help if recent events didn’t keep flashing through my head. But even if I throw in some time to eat, commute, and play with Jonny, I’ve maybe an hour or two to find a way to save Assured Destruction. Peter seems to think my plan to visit old customers is a bad idea. So guess what? I’ll focus on that.