House Arrest by K.A. Holt Page A

she’s out of sick days.
She won’t even think once about it
because we’ll be having so much fun
at what they call Trach Clinic
but what I call
Super Fun No Mary Day.
Woooooooooo.

    At least 20 more months equals
at least 14,600 hours equals
at least 876,000 minutes equals
at least 52,560,000 seconds.
If I reach out my hands
to grab those seconds
like a handful of sand
I can’t reach a single grain.
I can’t imagine what they even look like,
those seconds,
because the seconds we’re in right now
move so slow,
like a big cosmic joke.
And so when the doctors say,
W ait until he’s at least three
then we’ll see how his airway has grown,
we’ll see about getting that trach out, Mom and I can’t even imagine
when Levi is three years old
because we can’t even imagine dinnertime tonight.
We can’t see the grains of sand
because of all the sand already in our eyes.

    I bet it’s so easy
just so super easy
to take a
wait-and-see approach when you are not the one
or even one of the ones
waiting
and
seeing.
When you are not the one
or even one of the ones
staying up all night
doing the suctioning
cleaning the barf
carrying the oxygen tanks
wiping the tears.
Yeah.
Let’s wait and see
if we all go crazy
or if the bank takes the house.
That sounds like a great plan,
Doc.

WEEK 3 8
    Hail Mary pass intercepted
on the twenty-yard line,
run back for a touchdown.
Mom: 7
Timothy: 0
She already knew about Cincinnati!
She knew about it before I did.
I guess I should have known.
I mean, Mom’s no dummy.
There’s just no money to do it.
The travel costs alone . . . she said.
Then to herself,
super quiet,
The travel costs alone. And her eyes drifted over to the wall,
the picture of the whole family
in the hospital
on the night Levi was born
and did not die.
We are not playing a fair game, you know?
When even Hail Mary passes get you nowhere.
Not a fair game at all.

    By the way,
Mom says those are for other people,
the carnivals that raise money
to pay bills and stuff.
Look at us! We’re great! Mom sweeps her arms out wide
like we live at Disney World.
And she laughs
with no actual laughter in her voice
just air forcing its way through her teeth
like leaves being blown against a trash can,
an empty rattle,
a terrible sound.

    The kitchen table is like a weird, flat tree
only instead of growing leaves
it grows paper.
Stacks and stacks of paper.
Mom will move a stack
but it’s replaced by another stack.
On one stack today, I saw
INTAKE
on the top of a page.
Everything was filled out.
You know what INTAKE means?
It means to take someone in.
She’s filled out the form for the facility .
If I rip off that leaf will it grow back, too?
If I cut down the whole tree
can I just make everything disappear?

    José drums on the dash
his fingers tapping a complicated beat.
He’s telling me about all the turtle car things.
The clutch
the carburetor
the brake pads
the whatchamajigger that goes in the whosacallit.
I’m happy the turtle car is looking so good.
I’m happy his dad is letting him help more.
I’m happy about all of it.
Except for one thing.
I’d be way happier if
sitting next to me
was Isa
instead of José
and she wasn’t talking about anything
at all.

    So many boxes by the front door
like building blocks
stacked to make
a very lame fort.
I started unpacking them
counting the supplies
putting them away,
a job that is supposed to be Mary’s now.
But Mary said,
Wait.
Stop.
What are you doing? I said,
Unpacking.
Counting.
Putting away. She said,
But we’re sending those back. I said,
Why in the world would we do that? She made her mouth into a thin frown-smile,
You know why. And it hit me
like all of the boxes had landed on my head.
If Levi goes to the facility we won’t need monthly supplies.
I unpacked
every
last
box.

    Mom left fingerprints on my arms.
I’m looking at them right now.
Purple ovals on each bicep.
One for every hour of