WEEK 38

Hail Mary pass intercepted
on the twenty-yard line,
run back for a touchdown.
Mom: 7
Timothy: 0
She already knew about Cincinnati!
She knew about it before I did.
I guess I should have known.
I mean, Mom’s no dummy.
There’s just no money to do it.
The travel costs alone . . .
she said.
Then to herself,
super quiet,
The travel costs alone.
And her eyes drifted over to the wall,
the picture of the whole family
in the hospital
on the night Levi was born
and did not die.
We are not playing a fair game, you know?
When even Hail Mary passes get you nowhere.
Not a fair game at all.

By the way,
Mom says those are for other people,
the carnivals that raise money
to pay bills and stuff.
Look at us! We’re great!
Mom sweeps her arms out wide
like we live at Disney World.
And she laughs
with no actual laughter in her voice
just air forcing its way through her teeth
like leaves being blown against a trash can,
an empty rattle,
a terrible sound.

The kitchen table is like a weird, flat tree
only instead of growing leaves
it grows paper.
Stacks and stacks of paper.
Mom will move a stack
but it’s replaced by another stack.
On one stack today, I saw
INTAKE
on the top of a page.
Everything was filled out.
You know what INTAKE means?
It means to take someone in.
She’s filled out the form for the facility.
If I rip off that leaf will it grow back, too?
If I cut down the whole tree
can I just make everything disappear?

José drums on the dash
his fingers tapping a complicated beat.
He’s telling me about all the turtle car things.
The clutch
the carburetor
the brake pads
the whatchamajigger that goes in the whosacallit.
I’m happy the turtle car is looking so good.
I’m happy his dad is letting him help more.
I’m happy about all of it.
Except for one thing.
I’d be way happier if
sitting next to me
was Isa
instead of José
and she wasn’t talking about anything
at all.

So many boxes by the front door
like building blocks
stacked to make
a very lame fort.
I started unpacking them
counting the supplies
putting them away,
a job that is supposed to be Mary’s now.
But Mary said,
Wait.
Stop.
What are you doing?
I said,
Unpacking.
Counting.
Putting away.
She said,
But we’re sending those back.
I said,
Why in the world would we do that?
She made her mouth into a thin frown-smile,
You know why.
And it hit me
like all of the boxes had landed on my head.
If Levi goes to the facility
we won’t need monthly supplies.
I unpacked
every
last
box.

Mom left fingerprints on my arms.
I’m looking at them right now.
Purple ovals on each bicep.
One for every hour of sleep she’s had
in the past four days.
All I said was
I won’t let you do it,
and she just flipped out.
You think this is what I want?
Her teeth were together so tight
the words were like quiet growls.
You think ANY of this is part of a plan?
Every day is a lava-riddled path, Timothy.
Every day I have to choose a step
and decide what hurts less—
which, of a million terrible choices,
is the least terrible.
Do you understand that, T-man?
Don’t call me T-man.
I just want to be able to sleep, Timothy.
She started to cry.
She squeezed my arms so hard.
I just want only family in the house.
I just want to be able to drive you and Levi
to the movies
like regular people.
But mostly, T-man? Mostly I want sleep.
Her hands popped off my arms.
Her forehead fell onto my shoulder
and she hiccup-cried
and I wondered
is she shrinking?
Or am I growing?