“What are you talking about? Of course it’s me. Jamal, who else would I be?”

“Dad, I’m going to stop talking to you. Please, stop talking to me. I can’t . . . I can’t do this . . . please. Not now.”

“Just look at me, son. Just look. One look . . .”

And I give in and he grins wide enough I can see his gold molar, bottom row, right side. “See,” he says. “Not so hard, right? Not so—”

He starts to fade, flicker.

“Not so. N-n-n. Not s-s-s-so.”

He smiles harder, and then he’s fainter, a dissipating cloud. Until only his outline is left. Like if he’d lie down on paper and you traced him, and then you cut out the outside of the shape and then you cut out the inside, too, and all that was left was your thin line. This Dad shape.

And then that’s gone too.

My head falls against steering wheel, and there’s a sharp horn blare.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because I can’t do this.

Why did I think I could do this?

Any of this?

And then a chime is repeating itself. My driver’s side door is open, because Whit is standing there, looking in at me.

“It’s okay,” she says.

And I can’t stop my body from quivering.

From shaking.

“J,” she says, taking a step toward me. “I’ll take you.”

I try to say okay. Thank you. But my brain is still loading its language programming apparently, because it translates into a low grunt.

I slide over to the passenger seat.

Actually, I contort my body over.

And the car leaps backward, and I lower all four windows, the wind slapping everything as the neighborhood slips by faster, faster.

Because I don’t want to talk about it.

Because I know Whit will feel obligated.

Because I’m tired of talking to ghosts.

Because that’s what we’re on our way to do.

63

Ms. B fumbles with the latch, her hands trembling.

“I told them not to call you,” she says. Her voice is thin, eyes pink. “I’m sorry, Jamal. You should be at home with Whit.” She looks past me. “Is that her in the car? She knows she can come in.”

I shake my head. “She’s nauseated. And she said she didn’t want to have her head in the toilet when Q comes back to life.”

We force a laugh and I follow her into the kitchen.

“I know this sounds crazy but . . . I’m not sure I can watch.” She shivers. “I mean, I’m a nurse. I’ve seen a lot of wild stuff, but this is my son . . . what if it does hurt? What if he doesn’t . . . what if it doesn’t work? Maybe this was a mistake. I should call it off. Is it too late to . . .”

“Ms. B, do you have any tea?”

She looks at me wide-eyed.