“Get me that blanket, will you?” He points to the woolen plaid shawl on the sofa, and I drape it around him. His shoulders feel smaller than they used to. “Thank you.”

“I’m gonna heat up this soup Mom left, okay?”

He nods and I pretend to have at least a modicum of kitchen skills. The stove clicks on way too eagerly, and I watch for little bubbles to appear in the green split pea soup, like a potion or a swamp with a bunch of dying fish. Every so often I look over at him next to the fake fireplace, where we turn the illusion of coziness on and off with a clicker. His head is drooping. He’s falling asleep.

“Dinner’s ready, Dad,” I call into the silence so silent it hurts my ear canal.

He jolts awake and wheels himself to the table, rubbing his eyes. “I must have dozed off,” he says, gripping the table as soon as he can reach it, and pulling himself forward. I take two ceramic bowls from the cabinet, then think better of it and grab two plastic ones instead.

“It’s um, oh, whaddayacall it?” he mumbles as I set everything down on the table. Word retrieval. Another thing to go.

“Split pea.” I pour some into his bowl. “Have a taste.”

He takes the spoon from me. “I got it,” he says, and immediately spills some on his shirt. This is the sort of thing I’m always trying to avoid, but why? The worst that happens is there’s a mess to clean up, and aren’t we always cleaning something all the time? I jump up and get a wet paper towel.

“There’s someone outside,” my dad says, suddenly wheeling to the window and peering through the curtain. At first I think he’s in that other universe again, but then I hear tires in the driveway.

“Must be the aide!” I do an about-face and charge for the door. Sweet, sweet freedom.

I turn the outside light on and peek through the window by the door. With my hand to it, I can feel the chill of the night and its freedoms. I squint at the walkway, where a pair of sneakers is visible. They are not the white marshmallowish clogs the aides wear. They are boy sneakers. The figure comes into view, and that’s when I realize it’s not the aide. It’s Gene.

10

Days ’til prom: Still 51

IN FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT SITUATIONS, I’M THE SORT OF ANIMAL THAT neither fights nor flights. Instead I shut down and sweat enough to solve the global water crisis, if only I could figure out how to harness my potential.

“Be right back,” I call to my dad, throwing his blue puffy mail carrier jacket on. By the time I crack open the door, Gene is already up the stairs and on the porch, his face holding a smile for me.

“Hey,” he starts tentatively, but I dart behind the door and slam it shut. Uh-oh. “Cham?”