Where You Are. J.H. Trumble

sure the baby was even his. Like the fact that she miscarried my baby sister in a hospital room during one of my dad’s many admissions, this time for pneumonia; she was almost five months pregnant.

      Like the fact that Dad took his metal box of narcotics into the closet one night almost a year ago, and Mom didn’t try to stop him.

      I don’t want to know these things, but I do.

      I hang the siphon tubing back on its hook in the garage and return with a garden hose. An adapter is already attached to the bathroom sink.

      I think Dad is asleep, or at least drugged to the gills, until he croaks, “Don’t forget to condition the water.”

      Like I could.

      I’m just wiping off the hood and the outside of the tank when I hear the garage door go up. I store the chemicals in the cabinet below and flip off the light under the hood.

      “Leave the light on,” Aunt Whitney says.

      My mistake. Dad doesn’t like the dark. It’s too much like being dead, I guess. He quit sleeping at night years ago, instead staying up and messing around on his computer until the sun came up, and then going to bed and leaving Mom to get me off to school or whatever. I turn the light back on.

      In the kitchen, Mom is clearing the right side of the sink of soggy waffles and dirty dishes. She glances up at me, then runs her forearm across her brow and sighs heavily. “I swear those children were raised by wolves.” I smile as she shuts off the water and dries her hands. She pulls the knife out of the peanut butter jar and shakes her head. I screw the lid on as she drops the knife into the sink and opens the dishwasher.

      “Sorry, Mom,” I say, helping her unload the dishes. “I would have cleaned up for you, but Dad wanted me to clean the fish tank.”

      She stops and looks at me for a moment, then musses my hair. “How was your day? Did the kids like ‘Jingle Bells’?” She withdraws her hand and looks a little guilty for touching me. It’s an echo from my touch-me-not days in junior high. I regret now making that stand.

      Did the kids like “Jingle Bells”? Her question actually makes me laugh, just a little. “ ‘Jingle Bells’ was a total bust,” I tell her, “but otherwise it was okay. I stayed after school and made up my calculus test. I made a one hundred, sort of.”

      “Sort of?”

      “Yeah. Mr. McNelis helped me through it.”

      She smiles and hands me the silverware basket. “Since when do you need help with a calculus test?”

      I don’t respond, but I can feel her watching me as I sort everything into the plastic tray in the drawer. She takes the basket from me and hugs it to her chest. “I’m so sorry you have to go through all this.”

      “It’s okay, Mom. I’m sorry the rug rats keep trashing the house.”

      She smiles.

      “Where did you go?”

      “The families we adopted picked up their holiday bags today. I was going to miss it, but they were shorthanded and since your aunt Whitney was here—is that pee on the floor?”

      “Apple juice,” I say, grabbing the earlier abandoned paper towels. “At least I hope it’s apple juice.”

      Mom sighs and rubs her eyes. “What else happened while I was gone?”

      You don’t want to know.

      Later, I haul the Scotch pine and the boxes of decorations into the house, and as we decorate the tree together, I fill her in anyway.

      I can’t sleep. Even though the volume is fairly low, I can still hear the TV in my parents’ room. And then there’s another noise, like Dad is fumbling around for something on his bedside table. It’s always this way. I don’t know how Mom gets any sleep.

      It’s been two days since Dad had his last MRI, since his neurologist confirmed what we all suspected—the cancer is out of control. Dad pushed for more chemo, more radiation, bone-rattling, anything. When the doctor told him no, he’d gotten irate, and when Mom tried to calm him down, he’d turned on her. She called me at school, and Ms. Lincoln sent me home early. Aunt Whitney and Aunt Olivia were already here, crying with Dad in his room, assuring him they would take care of him. And Mom, she was furiously cleaning the baseboards in the kitchen.

      He’s going to die at home. It’s what he wants. A hospice nurse is coming tomorrow. Aunt Whitney says they’ll do whatever they have to to keep him comfortable until the end.

      I wonder if there’s a hospice for the family.

      A goddammit sets my heart pounding. The clock reads two AM. I lie still and listen and piece together what happened.

      Mom, yelling: “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

      Dad, crying: “I’m sorry.”

      Mom, more calmly: “Just stop. I’ll get it. I’ll get it. Why didn’t you ask for help?”

      Dad: Incoherent.

      Mom: “Oh, for God’s sake. Please. Just lie down. I’ll—”

      Dad: “Leave me the fuck alone!”

      Mom: Nothing.

      I hear the hallway closet door open, then close, the kitchen faucet turn on, then shut off. A few minutes later the steam cleaner is roaring in their room. And then I get it—Dad has knocked over his urinal again.

      When it shuts off, I get up. “I’ll put it away, Mom,” I tell her, taking the steam cleaner from her in the hallway. “Go back to bed.”

      She’s on the verge of tears as she bends over to wrap the power cord around the hooks. “It’s okay, baby. I’m already up. You’ve got school tomorrow. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

      I let her take the steam cleaner back from me. “I’m sorry,” I say.

      She smiles wanly and shoos me back to my room.

      I don’t sleep a lot, but I do sleep. In the morning it’s not my alarm that wakes me; it’s Dad clanging this infernal bell Aunt Olivia gave him to summon us when he needs something. Aunt Whitney took his power scooter away weeks ago; yesterday she put his wheelchair in the garage so he won’t attempt to use it alone. I don’t really understand why they’re trying to protect him anymore. A concussion seems like a pretty attractive alternative at this point. He’s used the bell only a couple of times, but I have a feeling that’s just changed.

      When he’s still clanging it a minute later, I get up and pad into the room to see what he needs. The running shower explains why Mom didn’t heed his call.

      The carpet is wet under my feet, and I’m suddenly reminded of last night. “What do you need, Dad?”

      He pinches his face up when he speaks. “I need you to help me with the urinal.”

      At least he asked, but I don’t want to do this. I really don’t.

      He unsuccessfully tries to untangle himself from the sheet, and eventually I have to help him. With his good hand, he grips the side rail that Mom had me install a year ago, but he doesn’t have the strength to pull himself up. I grab his other arm at the elbow and help him into a sitting position. When he’s stable, I swing his legs around to the side of the bed. He’s nude under the sheet, his skin an odd color, slack, bruised, his useless left leg thinner than the other by half and completely lacking in definition. I support him, then avert my eyes as he releases the rail and positions the urinal. It takes a while for him to get started.

      When he’s done, he hands the plastic container to me. He’s got the handle, so I’m forced to take it by the main body before I can make the switch. It’s warm, and the instant aversion I feel makes my skin crawl. He reaches for a tissue to catch the drip, then hands me that too. I help him back into bed, then dump the foaming urine and the tissue in my bathroom toilet, resisting the