Catalyst

  “Clear.”

  Electricity rips through the little bones, the pint boxes of blood, the Mikey.

  Teri howls.

  Nothing, no line, no pulse, no spike.

  “Clear!”

  We can’t catch him. Mikey’s heart is gone, shut down and cold. Teri rocks from side to side, a boulder teetering on the edge of the cliff. I hold her shoulders, slippery, desperate, to keep her from crashing. She howls louder than an ambulance, louder than a thousand screaming crows, eyes rolled back in her head so she doesn’t have to watch the worst of everything, this end.

  They inject something in the soft skin inside her elbow, the crook of her arm where she balanced her son’s sweaty head. I understand now. She keeps telling me: “He’s my son, my son, my baby, my boy.”

  Part 3

  Gas

  “Organic substances exist as molecules with covalent bonds holding the individual atoms together.”

  —ARCO Everything You Need to Score

  High on AP Chemistry, 3rd Edition

  8.0

  Photoelectrons

  SAFETY TIP: Some chemicals deserve special attention because of potential instability.

  The TV news crews arrive as Mikey is being carried out of the house. The lights from the cameras give me a sunburn. Teri is escorted to the back of the ambulance and helped up the step by two EMTs. They want her to lie down, but she refuses. She lifts Mikey’s body from the second stretcher and cradles him in her lap. The camera operators adjust their lenses for the close-up and I think I have to scream. Someone is grabbing my arms, but the light is so bright, I can’t tell who it is.

  Teri turns slightly and her hair falls forward, shielding her face and Mikey from the eyes and the lenses and the lights. The EMTs hop in the back and the ambulance driver closes the door. The cameras turn and follow the ambulance as it rolls down the driveway, then pulls out onto the road, red lights flashing. There is no siren.

  “Are you okay?” Mitch whispers in my ear. “Do you want to go home?”

  The camera operators cut the lights and the night jumps back into photo negative relief.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  My father and Ms. Cummings help Mrs. Litch into the back of the Godmobile. Ms. Cummings buckles the seat belt over Mrs. Litch’s lap. Dad gets in the driver’s seat and backs down the driveway to follow the ambulance. Mrs. Litch stares dead ahead.

  The police take notes and photos, their flashes bouncing back and forth in time, measuring and recording until they finally put away their pencils. They murmur into their mikes. The other volunteers, the hard hats, the adults, wander offstage like actors who have forgotten their lines. They head for their cars and they drive to their houses, where they will check to make sure their own children are breathing.

  “Do you want to go home?” Mitch asks me.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  We stay. My friends and Toby and me, we stay. Sara unearths a handful of candles. We light every single one of them and stick them on the floor of what was going to be the playroom, directly below the big-boy room, because it is very dark in Teri Litch’s house. We sit on the floor, between the candles and the wall, five monkeys in a line: Toby, me, Mitch, Sara, Travis. The light licks the yellow handprints Mikey left on the wall.

  God.

  Toby leans against me. I sag against Mitch. Sara moves, Travis shifts, and the five of us dissolve into a pool, one heart beating. Toby is warm. I’m shivering. He clutches my waist. I press my cheek against Mitch’s shoulder. Mitch grabs the back of my neck. In our shadows, Sara’s hair flows from Travis’s head, his legs grow out of her body. Travis reaches out and drapes an arm across my brother’s shaking shoulders. We take turns breathing.

  They cry and their tears roll on the wood floor. My eyes are dry, frozen behind my contacts. I crawl into a candle flame until it becomes a whiteout, the color of hospital walls and bandages and wax bodies. It feels as if my contacts are peeling off. I close my eyes and rub them with my fists. The light explodes like a broken kaleidoscope with all the gritty bits draining away. I untangle myself from the circle and wrap my arms around my knees.

  “It’s our fault. We let him go,” I say. “We weren’t watching.”

  Mitch’s head snaps up. “Don’t say that, Kate. Don’t even think it.”

  “She can’t help what she thinks,” Sara says.

  Mitch stands up. “It wasn’t our fault. Don’t feel guilty.”

  Toby wipes his face on his shirt and slides closer to the line of candles. “You know what the worst part was?” he whispers.

  “What, Tobe?” I ask.

  “The way his arms flopped when she picked him up, like he was made of rags.”

  The candle flames blow another whiteout across my eyes.

  “If anyone is at fault, it’s that inspector.” Mitch crosses his arms over his chest. “He left the job site with a dangerous hazard out in the open. He could be arrested. At the very least, he should be fired.”

  “What?” I ask.

  Sara frowns. “Who cares?”

  “Somebody should care,” Mitch says. “This could be a massive lawsuit.”

  I shiver again. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Nothing matters right now. Nothing.”

  My brother leans forward and waves his fingers through a flame, testing the speed at which he’ll get burned. The heat crinkles the hair on the back of his hand

  Mitch paces at the edge of the shadows. “It does matter. It matters a lot. A kid died here. Right here.”

  “Dude, settle down,” Travis says. “We know. It was an accident.”

  “Accidents don’t happen,” Mitch say. “Someone is always responsible.”

  Toby presses his thumb into the soft wax at the top of a candle. He flattens the rim and sculpts it into a rose. Molten wax runs down the back of his giant hands and hardens. The light reflects up against the angles of his face, catching in the fuzz above his top lip.

  “I don’t want to talk about this now,” Sara says.

  Mitch turns in the shadows. “How can you not talk about it?”

  “I just want to be quiet.”

  “You can’t be quiet. He’s dead.”

  Travis stands up. “Chill. Take it easy.”

  Toby moves to the next candle. I pull myself to my feet and walk to the collection of paint cans in the corner. I pick one up, carry it back to the light, and pry off the lid. Yellow; the color of dried chrysanthemum petals. When Toby was tiny, he had a jar of yellow fingerpaint this exact same shade. I would cover the kitchen floor with sheets of blank paper, and we would paint with our fingers and hands and elbows and knees and toes.

  I stick my right pointer finger in the paint. It’s cold and yogurt-thick. I dip my fingers in one by one and stir slowly, counterclockwise. I cup my hand in the yellow, then raise it and let paint roll down my arm. I dip in again, then stand up and fling my hand toward the wall, like a magic wand. The paint flies, glistens, lands, a perfect sun-splatter above the handprints that Mikey left.

  Toby looks up with a gasp.

  Sara smiles. She takes off her rings and bracelets, and braids her hair out of harm’s way. Travis opens two more cans, red and blue. I plunge my left hand in, bring it out dripping threads of rich blue sorrow. I throw a handful of blue at the wall.

  “No,” Mitchell “Heartless” Pangborn says. “You can’t throw paint at walls. It’s not your house.”

  My contacts are working again. I can see his words hang in the air, then crash to the floor. He is standing so far away from the light that it is hard to make out the lines of his face. His hands are locked in the dark behind him.

  “If you don’t like it, you can leave,” I say.

  He walks out without another word. When the door slams, the candlelight jumps.

  Toby dips his fingertip in the blue can and paints the figure of a tiny man on the wall. I throw more blue at the wall, leaving lines of color on the floor, on my sneakers and legs. Travis paints tiny mo
nsters flying around the window frame. Sara puts a yellow handprint by the light switch. Mitch’s car starts up. He backs down the driveway slowly, then lays rubber on the road.

  I stand back and observe my masterpiece. I am so not an artist. Does it matter? This wall, this house, it’s all coming down. I bet they bulldoze it and sell the land.

  Sara ties her T-shirt up under her bra and Travis paints a face on her belly. She draws a flower on his bald head. My brother finds a couple of Mikey’s trucks in the living room. He dips an eighteen-wheeler onto the surface of the red paint and runs the truck along the wall, leaving wet tire tracks. He hands me the moving truck. I dip it in blue. We work together until the candles burn out.

  Teri and my father return to our house a little after midnight. Mr. Spock and I are watching Star Trek reruns with Toby tucked under the quilt on the couch behind us. The front door opens and slams shut, and Teri shuffles past me without a word. On her left wrist, she’s wearing a plastic hospital bracelet along with my watch. She heads up the stairs to my bedroom.

  I join Dad in the kitchen. He takes a beer out of the fridge and sucks it down while I wait at the kitchen table. When the beer is gone, he sets the bottle in the recycling bin. He leans against the sink and recites softly, bringing me up-to-date.

  To summarize:

  1. Teri is sedated. She’ll be staying with us for an unspecified period of time.

  2. Mrs. Litch is even more sedated. She’s at Betty’s house.

  3. Mikey died of a massive electrical shock.

  4. Mikey will be buried on Tuesday, in the morning. The Litches want to get it over with.

  5. Mikey didn’t know what hit him.

  Dad gulps back a sob. He holds his breath for a minute, then exhales slowly. His eyes are watery and old.

  “I’m sorry, Kate.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  He massages his temples and grimaces. I take his migraine medicine out of the cupboard by the sink, hand it to him, and pour him a glass of water. He tosses back the pill and drinks the water. “Thanks.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  He nods slightly.

  “Mikey’s father—it was Mr. Litch, wasn’t it? Charlie.”

  Dad turns on the hot water and carefully washes the glass before answering. “Quite possibly. Probably. I’m going to try and get Teri into counseling, see if there is anything I can do to help.” He takes a shaky breath. “How’s your brother? How are you doing?”

  “Toby was kind of freaked out, but he’s sleeping now. I’m okay.”

  He dries the glass and returns it to the cupboard. “You should get some sleep, too. Go on upstairs now. And turn out the light, will you? It’s bothering my eyes.”

  I hit the switch as I leave the room. He opens another beer in the dark.

  Teri Litch has no intention of sleeping. As I walk into my bedroom, she is trying to escape out the window.

  I grab her arm. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Go away.” She shakes me off and tries again.

  Given her luck, she’ll fracture every bone in her body. I put my arms around her waist and try to pull her to the bed. “You . . . have . . . to . . . stay . . . here.”

  She releases the window frame and looks down at me. “Let go.”

  “No way. You’re trying to kill yourself.”

  She steps backward and pushes me off. “Not killing myself.”

  “What do you call jumping out the window?”

  “I just wanna go home,” she whispers.

  I flick on the overhead light and blink. She’s not wearing her glasses. Her eyes are so puffy I can’t see the pupils. There are scratches on her face, a bandage on her forearm.

  “They gave you drugs, Teri. You need to sleep. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  She makes a flapping mouth motion with her fingers. “Blah. Blah. Blah.”

  I move between her and the window. “Seriously, you can’t go back there, not tonight. There’s no heat.”

  “So?” The springs squeak as she sits on the edge of my bed.

  “So stay here.” (Ask me to drive you to Betty’s house so you can stay with your mom, please, please, please.) “Stay here and rest.”

  She shakes her head from side to side, her hair swinging gently. “Nope. Nope. Nope. Where he died, the exact spot. That’s where I’m sleeping.”

  No way. Even I can see the mental health implications in that. “Tomorrow. When the sun is up and you’re feeling better. Dad will go with you. I will, too, if you want. But you can’t go back now. I’m serious. Teri? Listen to me. Sit down. Come back here. Teri! You can’t—”

  She closes the door behind her.

  Damn.

  8.1 Residual Matter

  By the time I get down to the Litches’ house, Teri is upstairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor where Mikey died. The moon is swimming through the window, casting silk shadows. She has stripped down to her bra, underpants, and mismatched socks. A semicircle of toy cars and trucks arcs in front of her; the half-empty toy basket is in her lap. First in the line is a fire truck.

  “Teri. Teri?”

  She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are focused on a spot beyond the cars. I drape the blanket I brought over her shoulders and lay the pillows on the floor beside her. The air is thick with moonlight and the smell of Teri. She breathes in and out slowly, a wet, reluctant tide.

  I’m trespassing on holy ground.

  The boards creak as I make for the door. Teri’s arm shoots out toward me, her fingers splayed open.

  “Do you want me to stay?” I ask.

  Nothing. Did she hear me? Is she freaking out on whatever the hospital injected?

  “Teri.” My voice is too loud. “What do you want me to do? Stay?”

  She slides the toy basket across the floor.

  “Suit yourself,” she slurs.

  Another beat of silence. The house creaks and the air quivers with Litch lies and secrets and memories.

  I sit behind her, my back against hers. I take the ice cream truck out of the basket and set it in line. Next comes the police car, then the Jeep, the motorboat, the cement truck, the bulldozer. One by one the paint-chipped, dented, wheel-free vehicles of Mikey Litch line up until at last the basket is empty and the circle is finished.

  I can feel Teri twist as she looks to her right and to her left, making sure I completed the job properly. She settles back with a grunt and leans against me. The ridge of her backbone is thick, like she has hunks of granite instead of vertebrae. When we are balanced back-to-back, covered by the blanket and encircled by toys, her gray hand appears again, slipping blindly toward mine. Our fingers weave together. Her hand is so hot, I can feel blisters forming. It’s like holding on to a kerosene heater, hearing the sizzle and pop of burning flesh. Paint peels off my skin and drops to the floor, drops between the cracks. But I don’t let go.

  9.0

  Radioactive

  SAFETY TIP: First-aid kits in the lab must be clearly marked and identified.

  Sunday is a foggy day. Teri refuses breakfast and asks Dad to drive her to Betty’s house so she can see her mother. Ms. Cummings stops in after church and says Toby and I are in shock. She makes us pudding and leaves.

  I want to play Hearts, but Toby keeps falling asleep. He could have a viral form of narcolepsy, or maybe he’s suffering from exposure to the paint fumes last night. I take the phone off the hook so he can get some rest.

  I look at my homework, but it doesn’t make any sense. I take out my contacts and put on my glasses and it doesn’t help.

  I think maybe I should do some laundry.

  I think maybe I should check my e-mail.

  I think maybe I should brainstorm about my MIT appeal.

  But all I can do is to watch cartoons, all day and half the night. It’s really foggy out.

  Teri stumbles into my bedroom at one o’clock on Monday morning and wakes me up. She has walked from Betty’s house to mine, with a stop at The
Moon for a beer or two or eight.

  I leave a note for Toby and Dad on the kitchen table and drive Teri to her house. We sleep on the floor of Mikey’s room again. It’s even colder than the night before.

  10.0

  Phase Transition

  SAFETY TIP: Wear lab coat when handling corrosive or flammable substances.

  There is no point in going to school on Monday. No point whatsoever.

  Teri has other ideas. She shoves me awake at dawn. “We’re going to be late,” she says, pulling on her dirty clothes.

  I rub my cheek. I toppled over in the night and slept on the cement truck. “We don’t have to go to school. Dad will call and explain.”

  She pulls on her jeans. “Why would I want to stay around here?”

  Because you’re in shock, you need counseling, you need Prozac and many other drugs, your son is dead, you need to cry, you need more sleep, you need to eat something, you need to plan a funeral, you need to deal with all this shit.

  “Fine,” I say, trying to stand up. “Let’s go to school.”

  When we get to my house, Teri walks straight to Bert and lets herself in on the passenger’s side. I duck in the house to change quickly and grab my books. I tell Dad what’s up and remind him to give Toby his meds. The recycling bin is full of beer bottles and Dad is moving slowly. No comment.

  Teri doesn’t say a word during the drive to school. She follows me through the parking lot and stands patiently in line to get through security. I show my ID and pass through the gates without setting off any alarms. Teri doesn’t even reach for her wallet. She just walks through, head down.

  “Don’t you need to see her identification?” I ask the security guard.

  “Everybody knows Teri,” the guard dog says. “Move along, please.”

  The bell rings and the crowd in the lobby streams off down the halls. We pass Student Body, the bizarre sculpture Mr. Freeman’s art class built. Sure enough, someone ripped off the heart. The jockstrap, too.