Beck watches him go, sips his water, and frowns. “I wish we could do something for him.”
I take a bite. It’s tough for duck, but all things considered, I don’t regret my order. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—the kid is homeless. What’s his endgame?”
To say I haven’t considered this would only be a half-truth. I’ve considered Walt’s endgame, just as I’ve considered Beck’s and my own. But until now, I’ve only let myself consider the fantasy. In the movie of my life, Beck and Walt and I form our own weird little family, where love and honesty trump all. We take Uncle Phil and drive coast to coast, picking up odd jobs where we can find them, flipping a burger here, mowing a lawn there. We stay in remote mountainside villages, and at night, we drink in pubs, rubbing elbows with innkeepers and artisans, local farmers and woodsmen, simple folk, folk of value, the kind of folk you read about in tales. Folk. Not people. Fucking folk. And if, in time, Beck falls madly in love with me, so be it. That won’t change anything (save the sleeping arrangements). Our love for each other would only increase our love for Walt. Under our roof, he would have fresh Mountain Dew aplenty. Under our roof, he would never miss a Cubs game. Under our roof, we would laugh and love and live our mother-effing lives. Under our roof . . .
The realities, I’ve spent far less time considering.
“I wonder if I could get him to Chicago,” says Beck.
I stop mid-bite. “Really?”
“What do you suggest? We just drop him back off in the woods?”
I swallow the bite, suddenly tasteless. “I’m not suggesting that. God, that’s—why would you even think I’d suggest that?”
Beck runs a hand through his hair. “Listen. Ultimately, you’re trying to . . . I don’t know . . . figure out home, right? What about his home?”
I say nothing.
“Mim?”
Walt rejoins the table, his plate piled high. “Hey, hey,” he says, tucking in.
I feel Beck watching me. “Mim,” he whispers.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, pushing my plate away.
Minutes later, the waitress comes by with the check. It’s on a little tray with a handful of fortune cookies.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
I pull a twenty and a ten out of Kathy’s ever-dwindling coffee can, toss the money on the table, and slide out of the booth, pulling my bag behind me.
“Mim, wait,” says Beck.
I don’t answer. I can’t. All I can do is put one foot in front of the other, faster now, head down, trying not to faint, trying not to cry, trying not to vomit, just trying to breathe—God, just to breathe.
September 4—late morning
Dear Isabel,
Some Reasons come up and bite you in the ass when you’re least expecting it. This one is odd, because while I can’t quite trace how it’s a Reason, I know it is. It’s like that tiny middle piece of a puzzle, the one you know is important, if only you could find the corners first. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but this Reason feels like that tiny middle piece.
Reason #8 is the tradition of Kung Pao Mondays.
Before the divorce, the move, the shit and the fan, Monday was my favorite day of the week. Mom and I would hop in her beat-up Malibu, crank Elvis, and roll down to Evergreen Asian Diner, proud purveyors of the best Kung Pao chicken this side of the Great Wall.
One Monday, Mom told me about the time she hitchhiked from Glasgow to Dover and almost fell into the river Thames. I listened like a sponge, pretending not to have heard this one before, just happy to soak in the magic of Mondays. She finished the story, and together, we laughed the bamboo shoots off the roof. (In the history of History, no one has laughed like my mother, so fiery and thoroughly youthful.)
She cracked a fortune cookie against the side of our table like an egg, then unrolled the tiny vanilla-scented paper. I waited patiently for the celestial kitsch: the doors to freedom and the dearest wishes and the true loves revealed by moonlight. But her fortune wasn’t nearly as fortuitous as all that.
Just then, staring at the paper, Mom did three things.
First, she stopped laughing. It was tragic, really, to watch it evaporate like that.
Second, she sipped her beer and held the fortune across the table. “Read it, Mim,” she whispered. She never called me by my nickname. From her lips, it sounded strange and guttural, like a foreigner mispronouncing some simple word. I looked at her fortune, flipped it over, flipped it again. There was nothing written on it. No words of wisdom or dire predictions, just . . . nothing. A blank strip of paper.
The third thing she did was cry.
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
Darling of Celestial Kitsch
31
Liquid Good-byes
I SHUT MY journal with a pop and climb down off the hood of the truck. Across the parking lot, Beck and Walt exit the restaurant, and immediately, I can tell something is off. Beck has his arm around Walt, who appears to be walking gingerly.
“What happened?” I ask as they approach the truck.
Beck opens the door, helps Walt get inside. “Midway through his last plate, he just stopped. Said he was all wrong.”
“I’m all wrong!” groans Walt from inside the truck.
“See?” says Beck.
I climb in on the passenger side while Beck hops behind the wheel. “What’s wrong, buddy?”
“My head, my stomach, all of me. I’m all wrong.”
Up close, his face is pale and clammy. I put my hand on his forehead for a few seconds. “Shit. He’s burning up.”