Nobody does.
Mallory vrooms the engine again. “Nice to meet you, Gina,” she says in her anchorwoman’s voice.
“I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty,” Mom says with eyes on me only. “We’re going someplace really special, my favorite restaurant just for you, Ben. So wear a coat and tie.”
W HEN MOM WAS READY for a move, I knew her symptoms. I had a head start on you and Lyle, since it was all the same stuff as Before. The afternoon naps and long walks, the waking up or coming home at dinnertime with eyes red-simmered from tears. Or she’d go out shopping for hours and return with a foot massager or new wineglasses or an atlas. Weird stuff. Same patterns that made me mad and careful both. I didn’t want to topple her mood by asking her about it, but I didn’t want her to think I couldn’t tell she was restless and straining to go someplace new, someplace where her old problems wouldn’t find her.
One afternoon, I’d caught her staring out the kitchen window with eyes more hopeless than they should have been from a view of recycling bags and tomato vines.
It’s so difficult, she sniffled when I made myself ask her what was wrong. I guess I’m just a difficult woman. I guess there’s just no pleasing me some days. …
You used to say that Before, I reminded her. Every time, before a move, you would say that to Dad.
Maybe you’re right and maybe you’re wrong, she answered, kind of absent-minded, like right or wrong didn’t even matter.
And Dad followed you wherever you went.
Frank’s a follower by nature. I wish Lyle—
Lyle’s lived here a long time. He won’t go anywhere else, I said. And me neither, almost tacked on, except for I couldn’t. Instead I asked her if she wanted to get back with Dad.
No, no, Mom answered. What’s past is final. It’s only lately I wonder how right I am for here. There’s got to be more than some little nothing nowhere town, some little nothing nowhere life.
Well, count me out, I almost said, trying again. But the words were too Aquaman soft for the power of the feeling trapped inside me. What I said was, Guess I’ll go up and do my homework.
In chapter five, “Relax, Recall, Respond,” of Lyle’s book, there’s a diagram of a person with arrows labeling the abdominal muscles and diaphragm and trachea. If you want to get your words out right, Lyle’s book explains, then all these parts of your body have to be unrestricted.
In the bathroom mirror or on the bus, I practiced unrestricting myself, preparing for Mom.
Lyle’s house has a backyard and a waffle maker. My room is the exact right color blue, I told my reflection. I watched my teeth and tongue and the movements of my lips and I practiced saying whatever came to mind. I’m in my third year at the same school. My fort’s here, in the branches of the same tree where I carved BEN. It’s my secret fort, where I stash my compass and the naked lady coasters I took from King Plaza.
Besides, Lyle’s not going anywhere. Not. Going. Anywhere.
Relax, recall, respond. It’s all about keeping yourself in charge of your thoughts and throat when the tension turns high. Lyle’s main point is that you can’t squeeze up or you’ll run out of air. That breathing is everything.
So I was ready for her, that night when she came into my bedroom to give me her piece. She sat at the foot of my bed and rested a heavy hand on my leg and began to talk like she was telling me some baby bedtime story, a story about leaving for a while, just her and me, getting out of this little town to see the world. I kept my palms flat over my abdomen and measured the slow fill and drain of my breath.
When she was through, I sat up.
Mom, you’ll have to go alone. The words growled deep from the cave inside me. Because I’m staying with Lyle. I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anyplace else, and now it’s my home. It’s where I’m from.
Ben, please. There’s not a chance I’d ever leave without you. You’re
Mallory vrooms the engine again. “Nice to meet you, Gina,” she says in her anchorwoman’s voice.
“I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty,” Mom says with eyes on me only. “We’re going someplace really special, my favorite restaurant just for you, Ben. So wear a coat and tie.”
W HEN MOM WAS READY for a move, I knew her symptoms. I had a head start on you and Lyle, since it was all the same stuff as Before. The afternoon naps and long walks, the waking up or coming home at dinnertime with eyes red-simmered from tears. Or she’d go out shopping for hours and return with a foot massager or new wineglasses or an atlas. Weird stuff. Same patterns that made me mad and careful both. I didn’t want to topple her mood by asking her about it, but I didn’t want her to think I couldn’t tell she was restless and straining to go someplace new, someplace where her old problems wouldn’t find her.
One afternoon, I’d caught her staring out the kitchen window with eyes more hopeless than they should have been from a view of recycling bags and tomato vines.
It’s so difficult, she sniffled when I made myself ask her what was wrong. I guess I’m just a difficult woman. I guess there’s just no pleasing me some days. …
You used to say that Before, I reminded her. Every time, before a move, you would say that to Dad.
Maybe you’re right and maybe you’re wrong, she answered, kind of absent-minded, like right or wrong didn’t even matter.
And Dad followed you wherever you went.
Frank’s a follower by nature. I wish Lyle—
Lyle’s lived here a long time. He won’t go anywhere else, I said. And me neither, almost tacked on, except for I couldn’t. Instead I asked her if she wanted to get back with Dad.
No, no, Mom answered. What’s past is final. It’s only lately I wonder how right I am for here. There’s got to be more than some little nothing nowhere town, some little nothing nowhere life.
Well, count me out, I almost said, trying again. But the words were too Aquaman soft for the power of the feeling trapped inside me. What I said was, Guess I’ll go up and do my homework.
In chapter five, “Relax, Recall, Respond,” of Lyle’s book, there’s a diagram of a person with arrows labeling the abdominal muscles and diaphragm and trachea. If you want to get your words out right, Lyle’s book explains, then all these parts of your body have to be unrestricted.
In the bathroom mirror or on the bus, I practiced unrestricting myself, preparing for Mom.
Lyle’s house has a backyard and a waffle maker. My room is the exact right color blue, I told my reflection. I watched my teeth and tongue and the movements of my lips and I practiced saying whatever came to mind. I’m in my third year at the same school. My fort’s here, in the branches of the same tree where I carved BEN. It’s my secret fort, where I stash my compass and the naked lady coasters I took from King Plaza.
Besides, Lyle’s not going anywhere. Not. Going. Anywhere.
Relax, recall, respond. It’s all about keeping yourself in charge of your thoughts and throat when the tension turns high. Lyle’s main point is that you can’t squeeze up or you’ll run out of air. That breathing is everything.
So I was ready for her, that night when she came into my bedroom to give me her piece. She sat at the foot of my bed and rested a heavy hand on my leg and began to talk like she was telling me some baby bedtime story, a story about leaving for a while, just her and me, getting out of this little town to see the world. I kept my palms flat over my abdomen and measured the slow fill and drain of my breath.
When she was through, I sat up.
Mom, you’ll have to go alone. The words growled deep from the cave inside me. Because I’m staying with Lyle. I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anyplace else, and now it’s my home. It’s where I’m from.
Ben, please. There’s not a chance I’d ever leave without you. You’re
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