Page 47 of We Are Okay

chapter fifteen

JULY AND AUGUST

IT WAS A SUMMER OF STAYING OUT LATE,a summer of wandering. It was no longer a given that I’d be home for dinner, as though Gramps and I were practicing for our near futures without each other. Some nights early on he left food out for me. Once or twice I called to tell him I’d bring leftovers from something Javier made. Slowly, the dinners tapered off altogether. I feared he wasn’t eating, but he wouldn’t admit to it when I asked him. One day I went to the basement to do the laundry and found one of his socks was stuffed with bloody handkerchiefs. Seven of them. I laid them out one by one and used the tricks he taught me. I waited by the washer for its full cycle, hoping it would work. All seven came out clean, but my throat stayed tight, my stomach ached.

I folded them, one by one, in little squares. I carriedthem upstairs on the top of the pile. Gramps was in the dining room when I got there, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

He eyed the folded laundry.

“How’ve you been feeling, Gramps?”

He cleared his throat.

“So-so,” he said.

“Have you been to the doctor?”

He snorted—my suggestion was ridiculous—and I remembered a time in junior high when I came home from health class and talked to him about the dangers of smoking.

“This conversation is very American,” he’d said.

“We live in America.”

“That we do, Sailor. That we do. But wherever in the world we live, something’s gonna get us in the end. Something gets us every time.”

I hadn’t known then how to argue his point.

I should have tried harder.

“You never touch this stuff,” he said now, holding up the bottle of whiskey. “Right?”

I shook my head.

“Besides that one time, I mean,” he said.

“That was the only time.”

“Good,” he said. “Good.” He twisted the top back onto the bottle and picked up his glass. “You have a couple minutes? I have some things to show you.”

“Sure.”

He gestured toward the dining table where some papers were spread out. He said, “Sit with me.”

In front of me were documents from my soon-to-be college, thanking us for our payment in full for the first two semesters. There was an envelope with my social security card and my birth certificate. I didn’t know he had them. “And this,” he said, “is the information for your new bank account. It looks like a lot of money. Itisa lot of money. But it will run out. After you’re gone, no more four-dollar coffee. This is food and bus-fare money. Textbooks and simple clothing.”

My heart pounded. My eyes burned. He was all I had.

“Here is your new ATM card. The code is four-oh-seven-three. Write that down somewhere.”

“I can just use my normal card,” I said. “From the account I share with you.” I looked again at the dollar amount on the statement. It was more money than I had ever seen belong to us. “I don’t need all this.”

“You do,” he said. Then he paused and cleared his throat. “You will.”

“But all I care about is having you.”

He leaned back in his chair. Took off his glasses. Cleaned them. Put them back on.

“Sailor.”