We Only Know So Much (16 page)

thirty-three

P
riscilla has been asked to mind her grandfather for most of a day when everyone else has other plans. She agrees, probably because she just got out of bed and can’t think up an excuse quickly enough, and even though there are numerous requirements for the job, including helping him get around the house, making sure he doesn’t leave the house on his own when he spots a squirrel (the last time he did that, he came very close to falling into the goldfish pond), and changing his bedsheets and/or his adult diaper and/or his clothes. He’s somewhat able to do all these things on his own, but he has better and worse days.

Priscilla’s day is a worse day.

On Priscilla’s day, she and her grandfather sit down to play a round of Spite and Malice. The family had played several rounds the week before, and Theodore had won two rounds, as he often did. Today, Priscilla’s grandfather repeatedly tries to lay down cards completely out of sequence—a seven on top of a four, a nine on top of a jack, and so on. The first time or two, Priscilla just figures he’s distracted by a pretty bird or something, but as it happens again and again, her concern begins to grow. A few times, she tries explaining his mistakes.

No, Grampa, that’s a four, you can only play a five there.

Oh sure
, he’ll say. From where Priscilla’s sitting, it’s impossible to tell whether he actually gets it, or whether he minds even if he doesn’t. He seems unruffled. Eventually it becomes clear that they can’t really continue to play this way, around the same time that she begins to notice an especially gnarly smell coming from his direction.

Do you need to get changed, Grampa?

This is one of the only things Theodore ever makes any complaint about—it’s humiliating, and he doesn’t like to admit that he’s soiled himself, or that he needs help.

Mm.
He shrugs.
Maybe.

Priscilla wheels him toward the bathroom. He can get his pants down, easy enough to remove his suspenders from his shoulders, unzip and drop trou, but needs help getting the diaper off and his bottom cleaned.

Priscilla is not prepared for this. Like, not even. Nor is she prepared for this in herself: she steps up. She’s completely grossed out, don’t get us wrong, the smell is awful, there’s a giant shit in a giant diaper and it’s for sure the grossest thing she’s ever seen. She would rather do a lot of things besides pick that diaper up off the floor, wipe her grandfather’s ass, and see his droopy balls, which are nearly down by his knees, no lie. But in this moment, she actually kind of wants to cry. Like, for
him
. Like, what she wants to cry about is not how severely gross this moment is for her, or her fear of death or anything like that (which frankly she’s never understood, because if you’re dead aren’t you just
dead
and pretty obviously not worrying about much?). What she feels is genuine sadness for her grampa. That’s way new.

thirty-four

J
ean goes back to the support group one last time. She’s tried everything she can think of to stop her brain, and nothing’s worked. But the support group is the same as it was the last time. A bunch of mopey, touchy-feely types who believe in angels and think things happen for a reason. One has the audacity to say that she’s sure god gave her a parking space right out front of the building today because she was about to be late for group. Another woman actually says that she believes her mother died so that she could make room for her to
shine
.

What the hell are these people even talking about?
Shine
? The anger that’s risen in her lately, her odium for the dead-angel speak at her support group, has grown into a rotten bile. Jean can’t help herself.
You believe that?

Fair to say this comes under the heading of what the social worker calls
crosstalk
, a no-no. The group is supposed to be a place where you can share your feelings without judgment among people who understand. A
safe
place. That’s rich. Nothing’s safe.

Yes
, says the woman.
I do.
We’re not sure she really does, though we can see that she wants to.

God has a plan for you
, says the parking space lady.
A good one.

Jean, for a millisecond, wishes she believed that, shakes it off.
Evidence shows otherwise
is what she says.

More will be revealed.

Do you all really believe this is helping you?

The group is collectively stunned, for the most part, too stunned to speak.

Jean
, the social worker says.

No, seriously, what are you all hoping to get here?

Support, Jean, they’re here for support
, the social worker says.
Everyone feels the same way here.

Don’t tell me how I feel. Do you feel like the person you loved with your whole heart punched you in the face with a spiked boxing glove, while you were still wearing your glasses, and then told you everything you thought was true was a lie? And then handed the glove over to you so you could finish the job yourself? Because that’s how I feel.
Her chin trembles and her eyes well with tears for the first time since she started coming.

Jean, why don’t you tell us what
you
have been hoping to get by coming here?
the social worker asks.

Okay, I’ll tell you exactly what I’ve been hoping for. I’ve been hoping that I would stop wondering what I should have done differently, what I could have done to prevent this, how if I were a better person, none of this . . . I’ve been hoping for it to bring my husband back so he can explain to me what happened. I’ve been hoping for it to bring my husband back so I can ask him what he could have been thinking about, what was so wrong that he wouldn’t tell me about, so wrong that he would steal himself from the people who loved him, that he would just leave the world, that he would leave me, why he would make me wonder what true love was all over again after I thought he’d taught me everything I knew about it, if someone could do this to someone they loved, I want it to bring my husband back so he can tell me why the fuck he would make me see what I saw. I want it to bring my husband back.
Jean notices, for a hair of a hair of a second, that when she says the word “husband” this last time, she’s actually thinking of her real, living husband. But she has no idea what to do with a thought like that, hasn’t had a thought like that since long before James came into the picture.
I want it to bring my husband back
, she says again, sniffling. The group nods.

We can explain it
, one woman says, timidly handing Jean a tissue.

Tell me
, Jean says. This should be good.

It wasn’t about you
, the woman says.

But it was.

Jean
, the social worker says.
No person has that kind of power over another. This didn’t happen because you weren’t a good person. Your husband made a terrible choice because of the way his brain worked, and no other reason.

Mmf
, Jean says. She shakes her head.
You don’t know. You don’t know what kind of person I am.
She shakes her head, wipes away tears with her sleeve.

He was mentally ill. You couldn’t have done anything even if he had told you. You told us before that some of his family members knew, right?

Yeah.

But they couldn’t help him, either.

But I should have been able to. He helped me.

It doesn’t work like that, though.

Jean sits with what the group has said for a few moments. She’s obviously not making herself clear. She understands parts of what they’re saying. In her head, she understands the meaning of the words “mental illness,” when said together in this way. But what it feels like to Jean is in battle with what actually makes real sense. James had given parts of her back to herself, she had thought, and when he left the way he left, he took those things with him. But these thoughts aren’t fully formed in her head, they’re just information fragments mixed with feelings that she isn’t able to get out of her mouth. It was about me. It was about me, Jean thinks. It had never been about her, not ever, not until James. It was about me.

thirty-five

T
heodore is sitting at the kitchen table considering some new rocks for his crèche when Mott comes in and licks him on the face. Theodore giggles and opens the door to let the dog out, but he doesn’t go, turns around to look at Theodore like he wants company. Well, sure he does. Theodore gets up from the table, hooks the leash that’s by the door onto Mott’s collar, fumbles with this a bit, it’s tricky, doesn’t want to stay open long enough to hook on to the loop—
Op! There it goes
—and heads out into the meadow with the dog. He’s still in his slippers, and before he makes it to the fish pond, one of those will be gone. No big deal. Oh, isn’t he a good boy, this dog! What a wonderful companion, it’s been just terrific having him around.
Let’s go see the fish, what do you say, Mott?
Theodore’s last trip to the fish pond hadn’t gone well, he doesn’t remember it that way, but so far no spills.

At the edge of the pond, he peers down.
Oh, they look hungry!
he says. We’re not sure what the fish are doing to indicate their hunger, but Theodore seems to.
We better give them something to eat
. He plunges his hand into a small covered tub beside the fish pond and pulls out a handful of flakes for the fish, tosses it in, and the fish quickly swim to the surface.
Oh! Oh that’s a good photo right there.
He’s got his camera with him, and he used to be a decent photographer, but at this point if he gets something that’s not entirely out of focus, or half out of the frame, it’s kind of just random, though very often there’s a certain abstract beauty to what emerges. Theodore lifts his camera, snaps a few photos of fish mouths at the surface, an orange-and-white Richter-esque blur. May as well head on down to the wildflower walk and see what’s going on over there.
Op! A vole!
Mott bounds after it, thankfully the leash drops out of Theodore’s loose grip rather than pull him to the ground. Theodore snaps a few more photos, though the vole is in none of them. Phooey. Of course, the vole makes it away from Mott safely, and the dog ambles back over to Theodore, who tells him not to
pull that funny stuff again
.

The wildflower walk provides all kinds of discoveries. Critters, flowers, rocks.
Forget-me-nots! Oh, those were a favorite of Laura’s, Mott. Oh, these would have pleased her tremendously.
Theodore snaps a few more photos, streaky cerulean swooshes. He spends not a few minutes examining and rejecting rocks before pocketing one to bring back for his crèche.
Ooh, this one has a bit of lichen on it, that’s pretty
. He’s about to pick up a small greenish rock and put it in his pocket when he discovers it’s actually a toad.
Op!
He chuckles, not sure how he couldn’t tell a rock from a toad. He snaps a few more photos but it’s gone. Oh wait, there it is! He snaps one last photo as it jumps out of the frame, an unidentifiable green streak.

Theodore will obtain a few scrapes on his feet and arms from uncut branches, but will return to the house with the dog and no one will be the wiser. Oh, this has been so marvelous, Theodore thinks. What a wonderful companion Mott is.
Tomorrow I’m going to mail my paper off, Mott. Would you like to come with me to the post office? Well, sure you would, sure you would.
He pats Mott on the head. The meaning of
tomorrow
as relates to Theodore’s current world has variables; in his mind it still means the day after the current day (though it may help to know that the current meaning of
yesterday
, to Theodore, is now sometimes
any
day prior to the current day), but when said aloud to family members, it can mean anything on the scale from later today to never, way more likely toward the never end of the line.

By the time he returns home, he’ll have snapped a hundred and forty-eight photos, parts of hemlocks and bittersweet, leaves, rocks, a fat little wren in a bush. That one is almost in focus, though not quite centered in the frame.
These are fine
, Theodore thinks.
Just fine.

When Jean asks Theodore about the scrapes, he says
Oh, I don’t know. Someplace. S’fine
.

thirty-six

O
tis is in his room, preparing for the field trip. His jelly beans, for the time being, are displayed on a Scrabble tile holder, but he does still plan on creating something more permanent. Probably they shouldn’t just sit out in the open air like that. He doesn’t have any ideas or thoughts about what the shelf life of a jelly bean is, packaged or otherwise, but doesn’t want them collecting dust or bugs or anything else gross he can’t think of. He’s seen some clear little bead boxes about an inch in diameter in his mother’s craft stuff that might work.

He has chosen this moment to eat one of the pomegranate beans so he can have two flavors to discuss with Caterina. The pomegranate, unsurprisingly, isn’t a whole lot better than the birthday cake; kind of tart, not what you’d expect of a red bean, knowing how good cherry and strawberry are, but thinking about it, the pomegranate bean has that marbled-y look to it that can go either way, like chili mango, which is straight-up nasty, or tutti-frutti, which is outstanding as jelly bean flavors go. If Caterina would one day share a tutti-frutti bean that would be a magnificent day indeed, but Otis will not make room for the thought that’s about to creep in, that Caterina may have shared these beans with him because they were bad, and, or, that if that were true, that she was making some statement about what she thought of Otis by giving him the bad beans, and, or, that she only gave them to him because he happened to be there. He grabs an image of the moment when they looked at each other. The memory of this moment makes many things possible in Otis’s mind, and convinces him that Caterina’s intentions toward him, with or without beans, is only good.

Otis makes a list of subjects to talk to Caterina about on the apple-picking trip:

1. Bad flavors of jelly beans (birthday cake, pomegranate, and, he assumes, jalapeño)

2. Apples

3. Crossword puzzles

4. Bugs: Where does she stand?

5. Robots

6. Math: What subjects does she like? (Otis actually already knows the answer to this, Caterina likes art, and reading and spelling, but he will ask her anyway.)

Otis figures that these subjects will be more than enough to get the ball rolling, and hopefully lead to other conversations. Also, he has used some of the money his dad gave him for a small package of Jelly Bellies to share with Caterina; he has some remarkable good sense in guessing that giving her a present of Jelly Bellies would be too much of a statement (not that he doesn’t want to make that statement, but he senses her overall hesitation in who she befriends, and doesn’t want to do anything to scare her away), but supposes that sharing his own could take them to the next level, could say, without having to say,
Now that we’re sharing beans, would you like to be my lover?
Also in Otis’s backpack: pencils, random colored markers, a three-ring binder, a tin robot that’s one of his favorites, the lunch his mom has fixed him; in the side pocket, six dollars and change left over from the ten his dad gave him; on the left side, a copy of one of his older crossword puzzles from before he started putting her in them; on the right, some printouts of paper robots he likes to cut out and glue together.

At school, Otis makes a critical mistake in boarding the chartered school bus; he gets on first, before Caterina, but realizes too late that he should have prepared a seating plan. His last-minute plan is to sit close to the front and block anyone but Caterina from sitting next to him, and then to slide over and make room just as Caterina approaches his seat. This isn’t exactly how it goes down, but a small miracle happens anyway: she sits across the aisle from him. It’s a small miracle because Otis knows Bethany’s not far behind on the line and also because there’s still potential for someone to try to shove in on his side, too. Mostly, though, the rest of the kids shove down to the end of the bus, and though Bethany does indeed sit next to Caterina, Caterina makes her take the window seat.

And then this: Caterina turns to Otis and speaks. She begins a conversation. This day is already exceeding expectations. What Caterina says almost doesn’t even register with Otis, so surprised is he that she has spoken first.

I don’t want to sit next to the window in case the bus crashes.

What is this? This fearful confession is opening a door Otis was not expecting. What do you say to this? Otis does not know. He runs through his list of topics and cannot figure out how to tie possible bus crashes in to any of them. He will have to think of something on the spot. Time is moving forward. How long has it been? In reality, about ten seconds, in Otis’s mind, the sun is beginning to set. Say something, anything.

Is that better? In a crash? Sitting in the middle?

I think so.

Studying her face closely, Otis sees that Caterina looks extremely worried about the possibility of the bus crashing. She hasn’t yet mentioned to Otis that she has just seen the movie
Speed
on TV. Caterina’s parents, inattentive in a whole different set of ways to the ones Otis has experienced, have neglected to vet her viewing choices, so over time she has seen numerous films and television programs far more inappropriate than
Speed
, among them
Nip/Tuck
, but for whatever reason
Speed
is the one that has affected her, the one that has reached into her and hit something. Otis knows, now that Caterina has shared her deepest fear with him, that he can share his, too. He knows exactly what to say to begin their marathon, daylong conversation.

Do you ever think that you’ll kill yourself?

Caterina does not understand the question. She has, of course, not thought at all about killing herself, though she has, at least indirectly, thought about being killed, as in a bus crash.

I don’t think so. Why, do you?

No. But my mother said that’s what lovers do.

Again, we can only be thankful that in Caterina’s mind the word “lovers” is coming out to mean “people who love” and nothing more. And, in fact, that is more or less how Otis has come to understand it. He loves Caterina, and although he doesn’t know if she loves him, his hope that it’s possible puts her in the category of people who might possibly kill themselves.

On purpose, you mean?

I guess
, Otis says. He has yet to draw any conclusions about the whys or hows of it.

Caterina takes a moment to consider it.
No. If I killed myself it would only be on accident.

This is the best news Otis has ever heard. The best news ever.

Do you like crossword puzzles?

Caterina has no stance on crossword puzzles.
I don’t know.
She shrugs.
I like spelling.

Of course! Otis thinks. Crossword puzzles are
all about
spelling. He could say something to this effect, but all that comes out is
Oh!
Finally he explains that he makes crossword puzzles and takes out his folder to show her. She nods. Her nod is hard to interpret, but one thing he can see for sure is that the worried face she had a few minutes earlier is gone. Otis has successfully gotten his future lover’s attention off of buses crashing, has determined that she is not suicidal.

This alone makes it the best day of Otis’s life.