When I walk in the back door, there is no eBay tab open on the screen of my mom’s MacBook. She has not sat in front of it for days. The computer rests on the butcher-block kitchen counter projecting nothing but the sorry image of an outer space abyss on her home screen. The kitchen itself feels almost as cold as space. The oven is sterile from lack of use. I can’t smell garlic roasting on the stove because there isn't any. Brian Lehrer is not talking to me through the radio. It has been shut off. No one is there to ask me how my day went or for me to gossip about the neighbors’ eyesore of a home renovation, which I can hear construction workers hammering away at. I run upstairs into my dad’s office.
“Where is Mom?” I ask.
“She had to stay another night in the hospital, but uh I was thinking we could go see her after dinner.”
“Ok,” I reply.
I make dinner. I put broccoli on a sheet pan and drown it in olive oil, then put it in the oven at 425 the way my mom showed me. It does not turn golden brown but instead shrivels and sags like the skin of old, freckled ladies covered in tanning oil on the beach. I take a sweet potato and assault it with a fork. On a plate I sentence it to seven minutes in the microwave, college-kid style. The microwave buzzes loudly, its radiation waves exterminating any remaining particles of life that mope on its sterile plate. When I open the door, the potato sits limp and steaming. I cut it in half and cover its flesh, still glowing, with butter and salt.
My dad and I eat, sitting across from each other at the dining room table since my mom is not there to take the other head. The house is still cold. Every time a gust of wind blows, the old lead glass windows rattle in their frames. My ears are still vacant from the dapper voice of Brian Lehrer. We pick at burnt broccoli and talk casually about college and the news without ever making eye contact for more than a few seconds. The meal concludes shortly—we both push our chairs out rather abruptly and try to find something to stay busy with. He washes the dishes as I fiddle with the thermostat. The house is still freezing.
When we walk into the hospital, no one greets us. No one shows us to the elevator. We have been here before. Floor 3 NACU. One step through the sterile doors I see a pale woman propped up in one of those beds with two tubes coming out of her nostrils. Her eyes are buckling under the weight of the huge puffy bags they hold. Her chest caves in beneath the rumply hospital gown. I realize she is my mother.
“Well, what on earth happened to you?” I ask with forced enthusiasm, sounding giddy at seeing her in such a sickly state. The muscles surrounding my mother's mouth contract slightly because she is trying to smile.
“Hi, Sweetie,” is all she says. We chatter with the doctor, about home and how she is feeling. We talk about Halloween.
“You better not wear one of those horrible slutty costumes!” my mom exclaims with strained brightness. Her glassy eyes resist the weight of the puffy bags beneath them for a second.
“Well, you can’t stop me if you're in the hospital,” I snap back. We laugh and continue to chatter for a few more minutes. The car ride home is cold. Winter is coming and I can feel it. I shudder as the icy leather seats press against my legs. It is so late the roads are almost completely empty.
“Turn the heat up higher!” I am annoyed with my father. He isn’t as sensitive to the cold as I am. Almost oblivious to it. I think about how I can drive my mom’s nice car around until she is better. And eat whatever I choose for dinner. And wear the most ridiculous Halloween costumes. And no one will be there to ask me where I am going on the weekends, which is good. I can probably spend as many nights as I care to at my best friend's house.
When I get home, I bundle myself in sweaters and socks, turn on Brian Lehrer, and brush my teeth so hard I can’t taste the burnt broccoli on my tongue.