AUGUST 14, 1997

I wonder what it would be like to understand the world in the way Mama does. The door to the clinic swings open, footsteps shuffling across the floor, and I can hear the moment the nurse flops back down into her chair by the way it squeaks under her weight.

“I don’t think you understand,” I’m saying to Mama over the phone. “I feel like I’m dying.”

“You’re not dyin’,” she replies without a pause, because she’s always so, so sure. “And don’t even joke about that nonsense, God forbid it come true.”

“God forbid.” I keep looking down at my shoes, breathing through my nose, trying to ignore the spinning room. “I’m not joking, though, Mama. I don’t feel well.”

I really don’t. Maybe a little better than I did a half hour ago. A few minutes before I had to excuse myself from solving trig functions in Mrs. Connelly’s class, I remember looking up at the clock ticking above her desk and wondering how many more times the second hand would
tick by the minute hand, and the minute hand by the hour, over and over and over again, until everything was gone and we were all dead. Mrs. Connelly, just bug-eyed and nosy for no reason at all, had caught me staring and yelled at me to focus on my work, and then everyone laughed at me even though I was still caught up in thinking about clocks and time and death. I feel better now than I did then, I think, maybe by just a little bit.

The nurse’s chair squeaks behind me, a draft rushing into the clinic as she opens up a window. The weatherman had said something about a heatwave rolling in from Asheville, but the thought leaves my mind as quickly as it came. I let my head fall to the side, feeling dizzy, and the next breath feels like trying to breathe in mud. Mama’s saying something into the phone, her voice crackling through the receiver.

“Lord, help me—Levi, you’re sixteen.” Fifteen, for another three months. “Both me and you are too old for me to hafta pick you up in the middle of a school day because you think you’re not feelin’ well.”

Only part of that is true. I’m old enough to drive, and I would’ve gotten my license by now if we still had a second car. I could tell Mama got tired and a little sad, too, by looking at the old Mini Coop collecting dust in the driveway and decided to sell it to one of our neighbors while I was still in middle school. I think she thought it was haunted, with the way that it would creak and groan in the wind while it sat out waiting to be driven again. By the time I was old enough to work and help out with groceries and run errands across town, there was no car for me to do it with—and that’s when she realized how much of a mistake selling it was.

I usually bring up this story to her with a bit of irony, whenever we have conversations like these, but the hollow clump of dread growing in the pit of my stomach starts to twist and it wrings all the snark right out of me.

“I know,” I say instead, swallowing hard. The phone cord sags as I hunch over myself and I grip some of the loops to keep my fingers from shaking. “I know I’m too old, Mama, but I can’t help it. I just really need to go home.”

“Did the nurse take your temperature? Are you runnin’ a fever?”

It’s like talking to a wall. I do my best not to huff, because I know she’ll get on me about that if I do, and then there’ll be no hope of getting anywhere with her. My stomach twists again, like something inside is trying to get out, and I let myself say anything at all just to drown out the awful, awful noise of that clock across the room.

“Yes, Mama, she took it already, that was the first thing she did, I know it’s not that.”

“Then what coulda possibly possessed you into callin’ me in the middle of my work day? Second week of school and we’re already doin’ this again—I only get so many free calls during work.”

I look up at the ceiling, annoyed, blinking against the sudden pressure behind my eyes. We were learning about asbestos in chemistry class the other day, how scientists discovered only a few years ago that breathing in silica messes up the lungs and even causes cancer. One of the boys sitting next to me had pretended to start coughing up blood and poor Mr. Miller couldn’t get the class to focus again because everyone was cracking up so hard—everyone including me, even after most of the class had settled down, because it felt so weird and fun to laugh at something so real and awful.

Mama wouldn’t understand any of that, though, because I’m going insane. That’s the only explanation, really. She could never even come close to understanding anything going on in my head, in the same way that I can’t understand how she doesn’t realize that I’m dying right
now, and she is too, and missing out on half a day of work or school won’t mean anything when we’re dead and gone and off to heaven.

“Levi? You still there, baby?”

“Yes, Mama, I’m still here.”

“I’m runnin’ outta time on this line, so you gotta tell me now if somethin’s really wrong.”

It feels like it always comes down to time. The line falls quiet, enough that the ticking is back in my ears and my heels feel like they could dig dents into the floor. I should just say it—Mama even just said that I could. I could break down in tears right here over the phone and tell her about how my stomach feels like it’s being wrung like a wet towel, like someone’s reached in my body and is trying to pull my guts right out of me. I could tell her that I can’t look at clocks anymore without thinking I’m going to die, and that it’s been this bad for months now, no matter how many times I pray about it at church or before supper or in panicked little rushes whenever I hide away in the bathroom to try and catch my breath; I could tell her that I overhear her conversations with Pastor Daniel every week, how worried she sounds, how he keeps suggesting I spend more time with the men's ministry to “make up for lost time;” I could tell her that I’m shaky and cold all the time, and it feels awful, and that maybe that doctor was right when he said “things like this can be genetic” and “we should check for warning signs” and “do you remember how old his father was when he first started to—”

“Levi?” Mama asks again, sounding small, sounding genuinely unsure for maybe the first time in her life, and it’s like all the thoughts in my mind of worrying her anymore disappear at once.

“Sorry, Mama. I think—I think I’m fine now. I’ll just wait it out.”

I press my knuckles into my eyes hard enough that I see bursts of white. This always happens, whenever we have conversations like these—it’s like my heart’s in my throat, and one of these days I’m just going to drop dead right in the middle of school because I choked on my panic and never actually said any of what was on my mind.

“Well, alright then,” Mama says, after a pause. I wonder what she’s thinking, if she’s really as reassured as she sounds. “I’ve gotta go now, but I’ll pray for you durin’ my lunch break just in case. Be good at school.”

​

“Yeah, okay.”

“Manners.”

“Yes, Mama, I will.”

“Good. I’ll see you at home, baby,” she says back, and I can hear her smiling through the phone as she lets the call die.

The nurse takes my temperature again when I hang up, probably just to be nice. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, the snot starting to drip down my nose, but I refuse to cry because I know if I do, they’ll make me go to the guidance counselor again and she was even more useless than the nurse. I let myself be led away from the phone at the front desk, behind the tall blue curtains in the corner where all the beds are.

“I’ll let you stay ‘til lunch, if you wanna lie down,” the nurse says, smiling like I’m some sick little kid dying in the hospital. There’s lipstick across one of her yellow teeth, and the grossness of that bright red smear distracts me long enough that I don't
think myself into another spiral. Stumbling over to a cot, the sheets feel like hay against my skin, like every possible nerve in my body is firing off at once, and I let myself go limp against the mattress. The lump in my throat stays heavy. The clock by the nurse’s desk
continues to tick.

It’s only once I’ve settled down on my back that I notice that there’s another person sitting in the cot across from mine, a boy I recognize from my year. I remember him pushing me into the mud during a game in gym class. My stomach sinks even further at the
thought of him overhearing that phone conversation. I’m praying he doesn’t say anything. There are few words I can imagine coming out of his mouth that won’t make me burst into tears and then everything will actually be just as terrible as I imagine it in my head.

​

The boy smacks his lips and lets out a huff and I wait expecting the worst.

“That’s a sick jersey you got on.” His voice is rough, like it hurts him to speak—I wonder if he smokes, because the only time I’ve ever heard someone with a voice that hoarse are the addicts that sometimes pop into Wednesday bible study to get out of rehab. “You root for ‘em?”

“Who?” I ask the ceiling, letting out the breath trapped in my throat. I’m still a bit surprised he’s not just outright making fun of me.

“The Hornets,” the boy says, the blur of him in my peripheral coming closer into focus. “Prints like those ain’t cheap.”

The words click together in my mind right as he points a finger toward me. I flop my chin down to my chest, looking out at the blocky purple and teal design on my shirt.

“Oh. It was a gift.” It’s from Pastor Daniel, but that feels weird to add. To be honest, I haven’t watched the NBA since the All-Star Game, and I only got halfway through—it had fallen on a Sunday and a school night and Mama had already been so bent out of shape by something one of the choir girls said to her after church service that the sight of me lazing in front of the TV all afternoon, still in my collared shirt and dress pants, sent her into a sudden frenzy. Apparently, some Hornets starter went on a blitz in the second half, but I only ever heard about it in bits of conversation at lunch the next day. “From what I remember, they aren’t any good.”

“They ain’t.” Spit sprays from the boy’s mouth as he replies. I don’t cringe because it’s rude, but it’s a near thing. “My daddy bets big money on ‘em now, ever since they got Glen Rice. He thinks they’re gonna get the chip this year, beat out Jordan an’ everyone.”

I can’t help but snort. “No one’s gonna beat Jordan.”

“That’s what I told ‘im, but he don’t listen. Our ‘lectricity was out three weeks ‘cause he bet the bill down the drain.”

I gape at the ceiling. “Really?”

“On my mama.” He huffs out a laugh. “Wherever she is. Honestly, the only reason I come to school is so I have AC. And to mess around in gym, I guess.”

I finally turn my head to look at this boy dead on. It all sounds like a sad story, but he’s grinning at his shoes as he speaks. There’s an icepack pushed against one of his knees, water melting down his banged-up leg and swirling into the blood of criss-crossing cuts. I feel out of place next to him, awkward and fussy but otherwise physically healthy in my sweat-soaked hoodie and ironed jeans—only one of us should really be here right now.

The nurse comes back around the curtains to tell us that there’s only five minutes left in the period. I don’t check the clock, for once. The boy doesn’t either, instead turning to look at me. It feels like we’ve entered some sort of strange middle place. We’re just looking at each other, sizing the other up. I sniffle out of instinct and find that the lump in my throat has disappeared.

“Your dad sounds like a real jerk,” I say, after a moment passes. It crosses my mind that Mama would paint my back porch red if she heard me talking like this to a stranger, but somehow it feels appropriate right now.

“Don’t they all?” The boy sucks his teeth as he slides off his cot, leaning down past his bloody knees into a long stretch. “I’d rather him be a jerk here, than six feet under.”

There’s not much I can say in response to that, nothing that would help either of us. I watch the boy stretch for another minute before he lets out a sigh and steps toward the door. I watch him from my cot, like a baby bird watching another leave the nest. I’ve only known this
boy for a few minutes and I’m already a little in awe. I wonder what it would be like, to understand the world in the same way that he does.

The door to the clinic swings open, the boy standing in the frame.

“Say hi to your mama for me,” he says, grinning over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

The rest of the school day passes by in a dizzying blur. I’m mostly sick off of the rush of my earlier panic, and the nurse gives me a note to sit out of gym, so I spend the last three periods pretending to read a book and scribbling nonsense into my notebook to pretend that I’m paying
attention during class. A headache swells right in the middle of my forehead and by the end of the day it takes all my effort to keep from gasping out each breath. One of the girls in homeroom starts drawing a picture of her dog on the chalkboard in the front during bus call, humming and smiling to herself as she sketches out silky fur and a shiny collar and big, beady eyes. I watch from the cradle of my arms on my desk as a small crowd grows around her.

“What’s its name?” Mrs. Connelly asks the girl, pushing her own glasses up the bridge of a fat nose that she never seems to be able to keep out of kids’ business.

“Peppa,” the girl says, giggling. I’m not sure what she finds so funny. “She’s about to turn fourteen, but my Pa swears she’ll make it to twenty.”

“I bet your Pa still believes in the Tooth Fairy, too,” someone jeers from across the room, but for once I’m too worn out to laugh along with everyone else.

​

A storm rolls into town on my ride home. I watch with my head pressed against the bus window as the clouds grow thick and dark, the shadows blotting out the sun as the sudden swell of wind and rain threaten to tip the bus.

“We’re all gonna die,” a boy yells from a seat in the back, and the rest of the bus breaks out in laughter. The driver looks up into the rearview mirror and says something sharp that barely anyone hears and no one pays attention to. I just watch the rain, the trails of it racing down the road in the direction of home.

My house is dark when I step through the front door, soaked through my clothes. I scrub my shoes against the doormat and hang my coat on the rack. Lightning flashes through the blinds. My head threatens to roll right off of my shoulders as I stumble down the hall to my room. I have just enough energy to change into pajamas before my body all but gives out. I lie down on my mattress and focus on the sound of the wind outside—a low, steady howl like some wild animal. It reminds me a bit of Old Yeller. I roll onto my side, feeling cold and shivery underneath my sheets, and do my best not to think about rabies and feral dogs and what it would be like to finally be put out of my own misery.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next time I open my eyes, it’s dark outside and the only light in my room is from the hallway shining through the little gap under my door. There are shadows shifting through the light, the sound of Mama’s slippers shuffling
around.

“Levi, are you awake?” her voice calls from the hallway. “Dinner’s ready.”

I don’t say anything, lying still for a moment. My mouth feels dry. I run my tongue over the ridges of my teeth.

“Levi?” I hear my door handle rattling as she tries to come in.

“Sorry, Mama, I’m just dozing,” I wheeze out, stumbling out of bed before she gets mad.

“What have I told you about locking this door? Come out and eat before dinner gets cold.”

It’s still storming outside, but the kitchen is warm with light and the smell of spices. Chicken and rice for dinner—Mama knows it’s my favorite. I pad over to the sink and fill a glass with water, taking a few slow sips as I make eye contact with Jesus. I wonder if every Southern household has the same portrait hanging above their kitchen counter. Mama’s already settling down with her plate. I take the seat across from her, leaving the head of the table empty as always.

“How was school, baby?” Mama asks, casual, as she takes a sip of water.

The lump in my throat comes back so quick it could choke. It’s just like that, with those simple words I think about the clock in Mrs. Connelly’s room, the clock ticking in our kitchen now. Every single living thing on the planet, dead and gone. I think about Dad, what little I can remember of him, what little I can imagine of wherever he is now. I think about the boy in the clinic and his banged-up knees, how bold he was despite all the crap in his life, his deadbeat dad.

I’d rather him be a jerk here than six feet under.

The clock in the kitchen is an old one, so the sound is loud—tick, tick, ticking in my ears, like some little bug wedging into my brain. I squeeze my water glass once, twice. The lump in my throat softens, and I find just enough room to let words out.

“Mama, I think—I think I need to go see that doctor again.”

“Oh, not this again, please,” she sighs, pressing a hand to a temple like she was expecting it, like it physically pains her to listen to anything that comes out of my mouth.

“Mama, please—”

“Levi, we already had this conversation before. I don’t know why I keep havin’ to repeat myself.”

Something hot and bitter twists in my gut. I blink at her, setting my jaw so I don’t say anything that will get me in trouble. “Because it feels like you’re not listening to me.”

“Lord, help me. Help us. Give us Your strength.” She’s still not listening to me, even now. “Is this just because I didn’t pick you up from school today? Now you’re tryin’ to get back at me?”

I feel it coming back now, the lump in my throat from earlier. The wind howls outside, humming and barking like an old dog. I close my eyes and imagine myself running away with it.

“Lord, help me. Levi, you know why I don’ want you goin’ to that doctor again, right?”

I don’t. I really, really don’t.

“Yes, Mama, I know why.”

“I had a friend at church once,” she continues anyway, “back when you were barely even walkin’ yet. She was a precious lil’ thing, sang in the choir, helped out in the children's section. Just a normal girl, everyone thought. Turned out her daddy was touchin’ her at home, every night for years. I remember, she came into Bible study one Wednesday, screamin’ and cryin’, beggin’ for the Lord to forgive her of her sins and deliver her from evil. It was like she was possessed. She ran back out all mad before anyone could get to her and almost got hit in the street by a semi. I heard it took three cops to calm her down and get her to the psych ward.

“The doctor there gave her three different prescriptions, I heard, all of ‘em at once, and told her to keep usin’ ‘em even if they don’ work. They sent her down a dark path. Too much stress all at once on that poor girl, too young. Two months after she started usin’, she drove
all the way up to Raleigh by herself, went up the highest buildin’ in the city, and threw herself off it. Pastor Daniel was the one who showed me the newspaper headline, only a few days after we had lost your daddy. It nearly sent me out of my skin.”

I stare at her, watching the way her eyes fade off in thought. I’m not sure what to say.

“How do you know it was the doctor’s fault?”

Mama’s brow furrows, as she’s pulled back from whatever memory she was stuck in, and she lets out a little huff. “Because I do. Have you ever heard anyone else from our congregation goin’ mad like that?”

To be fair, I didn’t even really know what mental illness or anxiety or depression was until about two weeks ago, when I was sitting in a clinic waiting room crying my eyes out while Mama argued with the doctor about how normal her child was.

“No, Mama, I haven’t.”

“Exactly.” She nods, picking up her fork like that settled everything. “Pastor Daniel knows what he’s talkin’ about, because he said the exact same thing to your daddy when this was happenin’ with him. I know it’s hard, but I promise, you just gotta keep prayin’.”

Lightning flashes again outside, like a spark lighting in my mind. I’m finally beginning to realize that Mama and I are growing into very different people.

“You remember Psalms thirty-four, seventeen?” she asks, reaching out to hold my hand.

I do—it’s engraved on her wedding band. I don’t say anything in response.

“‘The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them—He delivers them from all their troubles.’” Mama sighs, like it calms her spirit just to say it, like everything is right in her world as long as the Lord or Pastor Daniel is by her. “Thank you, Father, for all You’ve done. I pray that You continue to watch over us and see us through every trial in this life until we meet You again in heaven. Amen.”

Amen. To her, that’s all there is to it. The clock above us ticks past six—always ticking, always there. Mama’s palm feels warm, unlike mine. My other hand clenches into the tablecloth and then releases. I need to relax, but I don’t know how. There’s a storm inside my mind.

It’s starting to make sense to me what I’m feeling now. I feel tired. I just want to close my eyes and drop my head onto the table and leave it there. I just want it to be quiet. I really can’t imagine any answer that the doctor or Mama or Pastor Daniel could give that gets me any closer than that.

I do think about Dad, though—I think about him watching from somewhere above, probably calm and relieved without a worry in the world. Maybe that’s what real rest feels like. Dead and gone.

My eyes trail up to Jesus on the wall, the shadows of raindrops from the window marking His face like tears.

“Thank you, father,” I say, after a pause. I smile a little, too, to feel the pull of muscle in my cheeks and remind myself that I’m still human. Mama, clueless, just smiles back.