Flyboy Action Figure Comes With Gasmask | Page 8

you ready?" he asked me, his hand just lying there. "I mean... we can..."
"No, I'm ready," I said.
His hand moved back, and I watched it go about its work for a while until it came to rest on the steering wheel. I didn't want to look out the window at the wash of movement, for obscure reasons, and looked down at the man on the newspaper instead. He was a lottery winner, the caption said, and I could see why Dad wouldn't want to read about something like that at a time like this.
Dad made a sound like he was clearing his throat, but it might have been half a cough. I waited, but he didn't say anything. I asked, "How long have you known?"
"She found out this morning. Your mom called you, but you weren't in."
I was glad I hadn't known before. The bus ride would have been hell. Instead of looking forward to a nice meal and maybe a bath, I would have been picturing my mother's funeral.
We rolled up to the house. I looked at it, bright and normal, and couldn't think of anything. I got out before he parked in the garage and stood there twisting the paper into a thick roll. He emerged from the garage and we went in together.
Lisa sat there, flipping through a fashion magazine, her black hair lank and listless. "Hi," she said, fairly normally. I could see she had been crying, though.
*I should have tried harder. I should have* made *her stop smoking.*
"You should be helping your mother," Dad said, starting to get a little mad.
"She said she was fine."
I realized that Mom was cooking. I was horrified. I went into the kitchen. She was pulling a roast out of the oven.
"Hello, Rye, supper'll be on in five minutes. You're just in time."
She looked normal, which was more than I could say about Dad or Lisa. "Mom, you shouldn't be exerting yourself. I mean, Dad said..." My voice hitched and I knew that it would crack if I pushed it on.
Mom looked at me with a sad smile, as if I was the one suffering, and held my hand. I thought again about all the times we tried together to get her to stop smoking and started to cry.
"Oh," she said, hugging me. "Don't."
Lisa burst out crying and hugged the two of us. Dad stood nearby, a stubby glass in one hand.
When Mom spoke again, her voice was thick. "I feel fine. You don't think I want to eat your father's cooking, do you?"
Lisa laughed at this, a little hysterical. "Like... remember the charcoal burgers?" We all laughed a little at that infamous moment in Slint family history, and even Dad's grim face cracked a little.
Mom gave us one last squeeze and said, "Let me finish dinner. Can you get those veggies sliced, Lisa?"
Lisa feigned reluctance, her face puffy with tears, then opened up the knife drawer.
Dad and I moved out into the living room. I wanted to ask him about the tumour but I knew Mom would hear, and I should really ask her. It was hers, after all.
"How'd your midterms go?" said Dad, sitting on one side of the couch.
I took the other side. "Not bad. Haven't got the results back yet, but the only one I'm worried about is bio."
"The bug course... yep, one of the things you learn is," Dad paused to turn towards me and make sure I was listening. I already knew what he was gonna say. "... that some subjects are very interesting, but you don't want to actually study them." I had expressed this sentiment a few months ago, worded slightly differently, and now it was being laid before me as a new-found pearl of wisdom. I simply smiled and nodded, because if I said anything, he'd say: *No! Huh, maybe you're right -- you knew what you were talking about! Got your noggin from yer dad* . I reminded myself how rare it was to have a father that actually *listened* .
"And work?" I returned.
"Not bad, pretty good..." School -- check, work -- check. It was a ritual that could have been hollow, but it had the creamy filling of genuine caring. "They said there shouldn't be a problem getting some time off to be with your mom."
It was amazing how her sickness could even change the school/work conversation, the most routine of routines. I realized that every discussion we'd have from now on would contain this knowledge just below the surface.
*How long?* I thought. *How long would it take?* *How long did she have?*
My thoughts must have been on my face, because Dad put a hand on my shoulder. I caught a whiff of whisky as he leaned towards me, and his squeeze was a bit too hard. He sighed,