Five Minutes More (6 page)

“You didn't. But it didn't matter. I nuked the hamburger to thaw it. I think it's all ready if you want to eat.”

“It all looks so good and it smells terrific, but I'm really not hungry. I'm sorry, D'Arcy. I'm just too tired to eat.”

“I could make you something else,” I say. “What about toast and tea?”

She rubs the back of her neck. “Thanks. But I think what I really need is just to soak in a hot tub and go to bed.”

“That's all right. I'll just save this, and we'll have it tomorrow.”

“Sure. Good night then.”

I watch her head upstairs. She did look tired. Really she did.

I fill a plate and take it into the living room. I switch through all the
TV
channels until I find something with a family in it. And then I sit back and eat my supper.

Sometimes I think we don't exist—Mom and I. I wonder where everyone went. Dad would decide on Saturday morning to have people for dinner, and in a few hours he'd be at the stove making paella, and there would be candles glowing everywhere and exotic drum music coming from the stereo that seemed to make everyone's heart beat faster. I don't know what happened to all those people who laughed and talked and ate in this house. Do they think death is like a disease they could catch just from being in the same room with us?

Monday morning as I come down the hill toward the school, I see Seth sitting on the low brick wall that wraps around the old part of the school. He sort of smiles when he sees me. Is he waiting for me? My feet start walking over, and I make myself keep going because it's the normal thing to do, even though I meant to duck inside the bottom door and hide out in the girls' bathroom until the first bell.

“I've got the list of extra-credit problems if you want to look at it,” Seth says, holding out some papers. He has blue eyes, I realize. It's the first time I've ever looked close enough at Seth to notice his eyes.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. I don't even look at the work; I just jam it in my backpack.

“And these are for you.” He's holding out what looks like two purple tea bags.

“What are those things for?” I say. “Are we supposed to figure out their volume or their surface area or something?”

Seth makes a face and grins at me. I think he's the only person at school who talks to my face and not some spot just past my right ear. Everyone else is all awkward and jumpy, almost like they're afraid of me. Like I have the smell of death on me and they might get it on them.

“No, they're for juggling. I thought maybe you'd like to try it.”

“No, no, no.” I shake my head at him. “I can't do stuff like that.”

“Yeah, you can. Watch me.” He slides down off the wall and holds one of the tea-bag things in each hand. “Look, it's easy,” he says. “Toss the beanbag in your right hand up and over into your left hand.”

“Uh, that's not juggling,” I say. “That's throwing. I can do that.”

I set my backpack on the wall and sit beside it.

“Exactly,” Seth says. “That's all juggling is, throwing things from one hand to the other. This time, when this bag starts heading down to my left hand, I'm going to throw the one in that hand over to my right hand.” And that's what he does. It looks easy.

“Here, try it,” he says, putting the two beanbags back in my hand.

The first bag makes a perfect arc in the air, but I'm still holding the other one. What do I do?

“Help!” I toss the bag at Seth. He catches it. I can see he's trying not to laugh.

“Go ahead and laugh,” I say. “I told you I can't juggle.”

“You didn't drop anything. That was good.”

“Show me again,” I say, flipping the second bag over to him.

He shakes his hair out of his face and starts tossing the beanbags back and forth from hand to hand. I try to watch both of his hands at the same time, but it gets too confusing.

“Spectacular finish coming,” Seth says. The bags arc twice as high this time. He catches them both and bows.

I clap wildly.

Seth's face gets red. He holds out the purple beanbags. “Here,” he says. “Just practice throwing one from your right hand to your left hand.”

I stuff them in the pocket of my fleece jacket. “I don't know about this,” I say. “I'm not coordinated. I'm not athletic. The first time we played baseball in gym in grade nine I hit the ball right over the fence.”

“That was a home run, D'Arcy. That's good.”

“Miss Bell yelled run. Everyone on my team yelled run. So I did. The wrong way around the bases.”

“No way.”

“Uh-huh.” I pull my pack onto one shoulder. “I still think it should have counted.”

“Juggling is easier,” Seth says, grabbing his own backpack off the ledge. “Can you make toast? Can you tie your shoes?”

“Yeah.” Somehow we start walking for the door, side by side.

“Then you can learn to juggle.”

I give him a
yeah right
look.

“One bag, right to left. Just try it.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” I hold up my hands like I'm about to surrender. “It can't be any worse than baseball was.”

We stop at the stairs just inside the building. I'm going up. Seth is going down. “I'll see you in math then,” he says.

Before I can say anything, the bell rings. Seth is swallowed up by the push of kids through the door, and I get swept up the stairs.

“Why am I taking history?” Marissa asks as we head down the main stairs after our last class.

“Because it's a required course,” I tell her. “Besides, you know how much you love listening to Mr. Bailey talk about life in the Middle Ages.”

Marissa crosses her eyes at me. “Yeah, isn't that when he was a teenager?” she says. “Hey, look.” She points toward our lockers. “Stud Puppy's waiting for you.”

Brendan is leaning on my locker. Marissa always calls him Stud Puppy. She says he's about as smart as a big dog. “Hi,” I say as we get level with him.

“Hi, big guy,” Marissa says, reaching up to mess his hair. I shoot her a warning look, but Brendan doesn't care that she's making fun of him.

“Why aren't you at practice?” I say.

“Cancelled. They're doing something to the floor in the gym, and the track's too wet outside. So I can drive you home.” He looks at Marissa. “You want a ride?”

“I already have one,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows, which I think is supposed to look sexy. She shoves books into her locker, pulls others out and finally grabs her jacket. “Call me later,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away.

I grab my own stuff and pull on my jacket. Brendan slips his arm around me as we head down the hall, turning my face against his shoulder. He leans down and tickles my ear with his tongue.

“Hey, stop that,” I say. “You're going to get us caught.”

Mr. Connell, the vice-principal, doesn't approve of PDAs in the halls. That's what he calls public displays of affection.

“There's no one around,” Brendan says. He doesn't worry about things like that. He's Mr. Hotshot Basketball Star, so the rules aren't quite the same for him.

In the car I let Brendan talk, and the words just slide all around me. I hear maybe every fifth or sixth one. As we turn onto my street, I catch a whole sentence.

“...don't have to be there until six. So we have a couple of hours all to ourselves.” Before I can say anything, he swings into the driveway. “Shit!” he exclaims.

My mom's car is in front of the garage. I let out the breath that I didn't realize I was holding. “There's still a lot of paperwork,” I say. “She doesn't stay at work the whole day.”

“I never see you,” Brendan says. I know that's not exactly what he means.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I better go in. I'll call you later.”

“Okay.”

“I'm sorry,” I say again as I get out of the car. But as I watch him drive away, all I feel is relief.

I'm coming from the bathroom, my wet hair cold on the back of my neck. My eyes slide past the half-open bedroom door without really looking, and I take two or three more steps before it registers that something's different.

I back up, nudge the door all the way open with my foot. The quilt is gone from the bed, all those different shades of green replaced by a dull gray polar fleece blanket. The quilt had been an anniversary present for my mother. I remember my dad telling us about the old ladies who had done the quilting. One of them had been a hundred and one and had flirted like crazy with him.

Where is it? Where did she put it?

I haven't been inside my parents' room—my mother's room—since it happened. I take a step across the floor. Then another.

It isn't right. My dad's clothes should be falling off the chair in the corner by the window. His comb and his watch should be on the dresser. Why aren't his shoes in the middle of the floor, like he just stepped out of them and kept walking? Where's the stack of books next to his side of the bed?

I'm breathing very fast but I can't seem to get any air. I jam my knuckles in my mouth and bite until it hurts. I bite until I can breathe right again.

My father's dresser is empty. I yank out every drawer but nothing of his is left behind. I jerk the closet doors open. Mom's clothes are hanging on one side but the other side is empty. Not even a hanger.

Where is everything? When did she do this?

There is nothing of my father's left in this room. His shoes are gone from the closet floor. The hat with the earflaps he brought back from Alaska is missing from the shelf. And his Indiana Jones hat is gone too.

Why? Why?

I sit in the closet, my back against the wall. If she really loved him, how could she pack up all his things just like that? I feel as though someone's fist is jammed up inside my chest. It's hard to breathe. It's hard to swallow. I don't even know I'm crying until the tears drip onto my hands.

I wait until after supper the next night to ask my mother about Dad's things. We're in the kitchen. Mom is putting stuff in the fridge, and I'm flattening the pizza box.

“What did you do with Dad's stuff?” I ask.

Her back's turned. She stiffens and pulls her arms in against her body. She doesn't turn around. “What do you mean?”

“I mean his clothes, his books, everything. Where is it?” I smash the corners of the box lid flat.

I'm waiting for her to ask me how I know it's all gone, but she doesn't. She straightens up and turns to face me.

“I gave his clothes to the Salvation Army and his books and other things to the shelter.”

“So some old drunk on the street is walking around puking on Dad's clothes?” My hands are twisting the cardboard lid, crushing it. I drop it on the floor.

“I gave your father's things to people who could use them.” She speaks slowly like I've suddenly gone stupid.

“You threw them away!” The words burst out.

She flinches and closes her eyes for a second. “None of those things were doing any good here.”

“You don't even care. You want to make it look like he was never here,” I shout. “Are you going to take me to the Salvation Army next, Mom?”

“Don't do this,” Mom says, shaking her head. Her whole body sags. The refrigerator door hangs open.

“Why? You keep doing things and you don't even ask me.”

“None of it was good for anything.”

“You didn't even ask me!” I scream the words.

I don't want to be in the same room as her anymore. As I shove past her, my elbow bangs the refrigerator door. The bottles inside rattle like chattering teeth. I kick the door, putting all my anger into it. The door bangs shut, and I am out of the room. Behind me I hear my mother calling my name, but I don't answer.

We're working on quadratic equations in groups of three or four with our desks pulled together when Ms. Henry from the office comes to the classroom door. “D'Arcy, you're wanted in the office,” Mr. Kelly says from the doorway.