Mom said.
Behind her Beep was shaking his head
no no no
.
Mom looked terrible, with dark circles under her eyes and worry lines on her forehead and around her mouth, as if she’d gotten ten years older in the last month.
“In the morning, you’ve got a house tour. With clients,” I said. “If you don’t get some real sleep, you’ll scare them. You look like an experiment with raccoon DNA.” Mom was a realtor, and on Thursday mornings in Berkeley they have “brokers’ opens” where realtors tour the homes that are going to be open houses the next weekend. They can even drag their buyer-couples along, like Mom was supposed to do. She needed a good night’s sleep, which she wouldn’t get if she stayed in the hospital.
“What about your schoolwork?”
Good question. I nodded toward my backpack on the visitor’s chair. “I brought my books.” Not that the books would be doing the short-answer questions by themselves. “And a change of clothes.” I could shower in Beep’s hospital room bathroom before heading back across the Bay on BART in the morning for school.
“You have to be eighteen to stay overnight,” Mom said.
“No. I only have to
say
I’m eighteen, if they ask. I’ll tell them I look young for my age, and I’m sensitive about it.” Which would totally work. The pediatric unit was full of kids with heart defects and lung problems that made them look small for their ages.
I wasn’t sure why someone has to stay with Beep all night, because he was surrounded by a hospital full of doctors and nurses, but Mom was convinced that he’d get gobbled up by flesh-eating bacteria or something if one of us wasn’t there to press the call button. At least with me guarding him, Mom would be able to sleep, knowing I was on the lookout to make sure they hadn’t hauled Beep to the operating room for secret organ harvesting. (Organs full of cancer, probably not high on the must-have spare parts list. But common sense isn’t the border of Anxiety Momistan.)
It took twenty minutes of knocking down Mom’s objections, one by one, to get her to agree, and in the end, Beep still had to play the cancer card.
“Please, Mom,” he said. “Don’t make me use my one Make-A-Wish just to get a night to hang out with Kat.”
She paused, pressing her lips together, but I knew we had her. “Fine,” Mom said. “But you have to call if anything—anything at all—happens.”
I promised to text regular updates all evening. Then I physically walked Mom to the door, with my hand on her back, in case I had to literally push her out of the room.
“Whew,” Beep said, when we were finally alone. “Thanks.” His hair hadn’t fallen out yet from the chemo, but he had a buzz cut, so when what was left came out, it wouldn’t be in big clumps.
I plopped down on the guest chair, and let out a long breath. “You look good,” I said. “Like the world’s smallest U.S. Marine. It’s weird that you’re not doing sit-ups or something.”
Beep grinned. “I could do a sit-up. But I’m saving my energy for the dry heaves. They’re a better ab exercise. You should try them, to get in shape for soccer.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” On my current no-homework program, there wasn’t much point in conditioning for soccer—dry land, dry heaves, or otherwise—because I wouldn’t be eligible. “But maybe you should do a workout video. For cancer kids and bulimics: ‘From Sit-Ups to Spit-Ups: Dry Heaves As a Functional Exercise.’”
Beep laughed, which he always did at gross-out humor.
Beep turned off the TV, which had been silently broadcasting some show from the Cartoon Network on mute. “Better call Mom,” he said.
“For what?”
“Something ‘just happened.’ You know—I turned off the TV.”
I laughed. “Yeah. I should totally keep her updated. How’s it been, in Anxiety Momistan?”
“Gaah,” he said. “Insane.” He did an impression of Mom’s voice. “‘Honey, should I try to get
Behind her Beep was shaking his head
no no no
.
Mom looked terrible, with dark circles under her eyes and worry lines on her forehead and around her mouth, as if she’d gotten ten years older in the last month.
“In the morning, you’ve got a house tour. With clients,” I said. “If you don’t get some real sleep, you’ll scare them. You look like an experiment with raccoon DNA.” Mom was a realtor, and on Thursday mornings in Berkeley they have “brokers’ opens” where realtors tour the homes that are going to be open houses the next weekend. They can even drag their buyer-couples along, like Mom was supposed to do. She needed a good night’s sleep, which she wouldn’t get if she stayed in the hospital.
“What about your schoolwork?”
Good question. I nodded toward my backpack on the visitor’s chair. “I brought my books.” Not that the books would be doing the short-answer questions by themselves. “And a change of clothes.” I could shower in Beep’s hospital room bathroom before heading back across the Bay on BART in the morning for school.
“You have to be eighteen to stay overnight,” Mom said.
“No. I only have to
say
I’m eighteen, if they ask. I’ll tell them I look young for my age, and I’m sensitive about it.” Which would totally work. The pediatric unit was full of kids with heart defects and lung problems that made them look small for their ages.
I wasn’t sure why someone has to stay with Beep all night, because he was surrounded by a hospital full of doctors and nurses, but Mom was convinced that he’d get gobbled up by flesh-eating bacteria or something if one of us wasn’t there to press the call button. At least with me guarding him, Mom would be able to sleep, knowing I was on the lookout to make sure they hadn’t hauled Beep to the operating room for secret organ harvesting. (Organs full of cancer, probably not high on the must-have spare parts list. But common sense isn’t the border of Anxiety Momistan.)
It took twenty minutes of knocking down Mom’s objections, one by one, to get her to agree, and in the end, Beep still had to play the cancer card.
“Please, Mom,” he said. “Don’t make me use my one Make-A-Wish just to get a night to hang out with Kat.”
She paused, pressing her lips together, but I knew we had her. “Fine,” Mom said. “But you have to call if anything—anything at all—happens.”
I promised to text regular updates all evening. Then I physically walked Mom to the door, with my hand on her back, in case I had to literally push her out of the room.
“Whew,” Beep said, when we were finally alone. “Thanks.” His hair hadn’t fallen out yet from the chemo, but he had a buzz cut, so when what was left came out, it wouldn’t be in big clumps.
I plopped down on the guest chair, and let out a long breath. “You look good,” I said. “Like the world’s smallest U.S. Marine. It’s weird that you’re not doing sit-ups or something.”
Beep grinned. “I could do a sit-up. But I’m saving my energy for the dry heaves. They’re a better ab exercise. You should try them, to get in shape for soccer.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” On my current no-homework program, there wasn’t much point in conditioning for soccer—dry land, dry heaves, or otherwise—because I wouldn’t be eligible. “But maybe you should do a workout video. For cancer kids and bulimics: ‘From Sit-Ups to Spit-Ups: Dry Heaves As a Functional Exercise.’”
Beep laughed, which he always did at gross-out humor.
Beep turned off the TV, which had been silently broadcasting some show from the Cartoon Network on mute. “Better call Mom,” he said.
“For what?”
“Something ‘just happened.’ You know—I turned off the TV.”
I laughed. “Yeah. I should totally keep her updated. How’s it been, in Anxiety Momistan?”
“Gaah,” he said. “Insane.” He did an impression of Mom’s voice. “‘Honey, should I try to get
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