Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu Page A

out?
    â€œI’m going to check your pulse, Ethan,” my dad says, sitting next to me on my bed. “Can I do that?”
    I nod, not ready to speak. My dad places his warm hand up near my neck, two fingers pressing in. His touch startles me, and I pull back.
    â€œNot too hard,” my mother says. “He needs to breathe.” She’s there, too, standing next to my dad, dressed in the black yoga pants and ratty Yale T-shirt she sleeps in sometimes, one hand nervously folding over the other, over and over again.
    â€œMegan,” my father says, his voice soft but firm. The same voice I know he uses with little kids when they’re scared to have a cavity filled.
    The sheets under me are damp with sweat. I’m cold all of a sudden, and my teeth start to chatter loud enough that I’m sure my dad can hear.
    â€œGet him another blanket,” my dad directs my mother. When she comes back from the hall closet with one, he tells her, “His pulse is slowing down. It’s okay. The worst is over.”
    â€œHe hasn’t had one of these in weeks,” my mother says, her brow wrinkled with concern. “We need to talk to Dr. Greenberg about adjusting his dosage.”
    â€œMaybe,” my dad answers, wrapping me up in the soft green comforter that used to be on the bed in the guest room before my mother redecorated it. He looks me in the eyes and pushes a smile out. One of his signature this-will-only-hurt-for-a-moment-don’t-worry smiles. He uses those with the kids who have cavities, too.
    â€œI want to call Dr. Greenberg right now,” says my mother. “My phone is charging in the kitchen. Let me go get it.” If she’s not already crying I can tell from the crack in her voice that she’s pretty close to it.
    â€œIt’s the middle of the night, Megan,” my father says.
    She turns in the doorway and glares at my dad. “I know it’s the goddamn middle of the night!” she snaps.
    I blink and exhale, my breath shaky. “Stop,” I manage. “Just … stop. Don’t yell. I’m okay now.”
    Now my mother’s crying for real. Big, glossy tears pouring down her face. Sobbing coming from deep in her chest.
    â€œMegan,” my dad says under his breath. “Megan, honey…”
    â€œOh, Ethan, I’m sorry,” my mother says, crossing the bedroom floor in her quick, tiny steps and reaching out for me. “Oh, sweetheart. My sweet, sweet little boy.”
    She hugs me like she might crush me, and I shrug my shoulders at her touch. She senses it and backs up. I press my hands onto my face because I don’t want to see her hurt expression. But I really don’t want her to touch me right now. I want to disintegrate into a million little pieces and float through the atmosphere. I want to rocket up past the moon and disappear somewhere into the outer bands of the Milky Way.
    I want to be somewhere where I don’t feel anything.
    I think I am a seriously fucked up person. And I will probably never be normal. Even if I want to be.
    *   *   *
    When I wake up the next morning, it’s so late it’s almost lunchtime. I fell asleep last night only after I took one of the pills Dr. Greenberg prescribed for my anxiety.
    When I go downstairs, my mom tells me she’s called my tutor to cancel school, telling her I’m not feeling 100 percent. To be honest, I don’t mind Mrs. Leander coming over and tutoring me. She’s some retired teacher who’s probably, like, seventy years old, but she’s pretty good at teaching me, and she doesn’t treat me like I’m some weirdo but just like I’m any other kid. One time I overheard her telling my mom that my “natural intelligence” will help me overcome the fact that I didn’t go to school for four years. So I couldn’t help but like her a little more after that.
    But a day off from school means a day