my window, a handsome gardener prunes the boxwood. It’s warm out, and he’s stripped to a thin white T-shirt, which allows me to enjoy his ripped physique. A few years ago, I’d have leaned out and asked for a sprig of something, or even asked if he needed any help. (When I was a kid, Jack and I used to spend a lot of time in the garden with Mom, planting and weeding and mulching.) But now I can’t even be bothered to return the gardener’s smile. I’m too busy thinking about Ethan. About the incident.
It happened at night. I get restless at night, one of many joyous side effects of “the disease.” I was in the living room, trying to figure out how to use the Xbox when I heard his little footsteps behind me.
“Let’s make fongoo.”
“Fongoo” was a loose derivative of fondue, and it was our word for melting candy bars on the stove and then dipping cookies, marshmallows, or whatever else we had handy into the melted goo. I said yes for several reasons: One, I love fongoo. Two, I’m not his mother—it is not my job to worry about his teeth or his lack of sleep. Three, my life is hurtling toward a point where I’m not going to know myself anymore, and while I do know myself, I sure as hell want to be making fongoo with my nephew.
We’d finished the fongoo and were playing Xbox when we smelled the burning. Ethan and I locked eyes.
“Shi—oot!” I said. “The fongoo.”
I bolted for the kitchen, cursing. Burning the house down would do nothing to assure Jack I was a competent adult. I threw the door open, ready to reach for the fire extinguisher, but instead of finding it, I found the bathroom. I turned, opened another door. A cupboard filled with towels. I spun again. Where, in God’s name, was the kitchen?
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. I knew all I had to do was stay calm and wait for a few moments, and everything would come back to me. But the burning smell was getting stronger, and I couldn’t see Ethan anywhere. And I couldn’t even find my way out of the fucking bathroom!
That was when I heard Ethan scream.
According to Jack, after I ran in the opposite direction, Ethan tore into the kitchen and tried to take the saucepan off the stove. The handle was red-hot. He’d whipped his hand off so fast, he toppled the saucepan, splattering the burning chocolate onto his cheek. The worst part, except for hurting Ethan, was that it confirmed they were right about me. I can’t be trusted with my nephew. I can’t be left alone, even for a second.
“Knock knock.”
I roll my head toward the door, which is eternally open, thanks to the skinny helper lady, who has an unnatural obsession with fresh air. Every time I try to close it, she appears like a magical air fairy—fresh air, fresh air, FRESH AIR! But this time when I look, Eric is there with a huge lion of a dog by his side. I feel my insides pull together to form an internal shield.
“Hey,” he says. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.” I address the dog since I can’t seem to look anywhere else.
“Everyone being nice to you?”
“Yep.”
It’s a German Shepherd. Its teeth are yellow and shiny with saliva; its mouth is curved into that smile-snarl that dogs always wear to keep you on guard. Am I happy? Am I angry? Come a little closer and find out.
“Oh,” Eric says. “Are you afraid of dogs?”
I try to put on a brave face, but I obviously fail, because Eric sends the dog out. On his way into my room he pauses at a watercolor of a leaf that Jack must have hung on my wall. It belonged to my mother.
“This is lovely,” he says.
“Keep it,” I say.
He frowns at me. “You know you don’t have to just sit in your room all day. There’s a bus that goes into town twice a day. Some folks like to go to a shopping center or to a movie.”
I sit up. “I’m allowed to do that?”
“Sure. Trish, one of our staff, is escorting the bus group today.”
I sink back into my bed.
“Or there are board games in the parlor,” he says. “We try and encourage residents to congregate in there when they’re home. We find that people feel isolated when they spend all their time cooped up in their rooms.”