Read Online Tell Me Something Real by Calla Devlin - Free Book Online Page B

bills, smoothing out creases, taking my job as banker way too seriously. “It’s nothing. Just something stupid that we say.”
    â€œIt’s bullshit.”
    I want him to look away, at his thick stack of properties or line of hotels. At the wall. At anything but me.
    â€œI mean it,” he says. “First, it’s not true, and second, who says something like that?”
    I don’t know what to say. They’re just facts in our family, as clear as the fact that Dad is an architect and I’m a pianist and Mom is sick. Small and identifying details. Nothing more. Nothing to debate or get upset about.
    â€œVanessa?”
    My eyes remain on the board. “It’s nothing,” I say. “Don’t make a big deal about it.”
    â€œAdrienne looks like she could breathe fire. You are niceand you’re quiet in a good way. You actually listen to people. I’ve never met anyone who listens like you do.”
    â€œCan we please keep playing?” I ask.
    â€œYeah, in a minute. Did you hear me?”
    I nod. Of course I want him to say these things about me, but not this way, not in comparison to my sisters, not in response to something utterly and completely stupid that slipped out of my mouth. “I just want to play, though.”
    He exhales, and I can’t tell if he is annoyed with me. “Can I say one more thing?”
    â€œSure,” I say.
    â€œYou’re the beautiful one.”
    I close my eyes, just for a second, and snatch the dice, tossing them with conviction. Double ones.
    He leans close. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
    I’m about to land on Reading Railroad, one of my favorites. “Snake eyes,” I say.
    â€œI mean it,” he says.
    I tear my eyes from the game, mustering enough courage to look at him, to see exactly how much he means it. I wasn’t fishing for compliments or putting myself down. I was just talking. Babcock conversation. Nothing more. But when our eyes meet, I understand that he knows I’m not playing games. He sees me . It’s clear by his smile and the way he looks into my face, surprising and foreign and, although I didn’t know it until that second, necessary. He nudges my foot, tapping until I smile. I force myself to not look away.

    Mom is a different person with Barb around, as though our houseguest possesses supernatural healing powers. After a couple of weeks with the Dunnes, Mom now rises with the rest of us, and although she looks pale and weak—sometimes not getting dressed for a couple of days—she sits in the kitchen with Barb for hours at a time. Barb seems to steady Mom’s moods, too. She takes better care of Mom than we ever could, and Mom hasn’t snapped at us once since Barb and Caleb arrived. They talk exclusively of cancer, detailing various ailments, their language consisting of phrases like “cell’s reproductive cycles” and “white blood count.” Their conversations are constant, and they have a feverish energy between them, as though their discussions might lead to a cure. Barb says she’s fascinated with Mom’s leukemia, and Mom absorbs the remark like a flower does the sun.
    We settle into a new rhythm crossing the border; with Barb behind the wheel, our excursions are speedy and efficient. She manages the short trips to see doctors and receive test results, as well as the overnights when Mom and Caleb rest as Laetrile drips into their veins. We go for tests and infusions and to build up the arsenals of vitamins and supplements. Sometimes I stay at home with my sisters, just the three of us again, free to take Mom’s car anywhere. Other times, Barb takes Mom alone. Her treatment is more frequent and rigorous. We don’t speak of her prognosis. Barb believes positivity is essential to recovery. We don’t dare remind herthat there is nothing positive about terminal cancer.
    When I attend summer music camp,