The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second by Drew Ferguson Page A

last long without either. She said it’d be cruel if he didn’t do something now. Mr. Hunt said he’d decide what was best for his family.
    â€œBullshit,” Nurse Julie said. “I’m talking about a living, breathing person. She needs this treatment now or she’ll get worse.”
    â€œOkay, we put her on your machines. Then what? She’s never getting better. It must be nice knowing how other people should live their lives. I only know what she wants—and it sure as fuck isn’t this.”
    Julie burst into tears. Mr. Hunt told her—in a voice so calm it was scary—to get her crap and get out of his house. I crept from the kitchen, making sure my bare feet didn’t make any sounds on the hardwood floor. When I felt carpeting, I turned and saw Mrs. Hunt’s profile. She was in her chair, facing an open window. She’d heard them. I felt sick. When she saw me, her eyes smiled. She struggled to say something, but no words came. I sat across from her on an ottoman and touched her hand. It wasn’t withered or anything, just curled into a fist.
    â€œIt’s pretty bad now, isn’t it?”
    Her eyebrows arched. Was that a yes?
    â€œAnd Rob doesn’t know?”
    Her eyes closed, then opened slowly. No.
    I didn’t know what to say. Gee, sorry you’re dying. That’s kind of a bummer, isn’t it? Can I getcha something? No? You sure? Coffee, maybe? Okay. Why am I standing here with my thumb up my ass, looking sorry for you? ’Cuz I don’t know what else to do. The whole dying thing isn’t exactly a conversation-starter. Wanna see the hickeys your son gave me last night? That’d go over real well.
    What I couldn’t figure out was why Mr. Hunt hadn’t told Rob his mom was in such bad shape. Maybe he was worried Rob couldn’t handle it. That he’d totally lose it and turn into this chain-smoking, vomit-and-piss-stained, raging drunk, guzzling rubbing alcohol straight from the bottle; crashing at flophouses; selling blood, plasma, sperm, spinal fluid, and the fillings from his teeth to scrounge up a handful of change for a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 banana-flavored wine. Or maybe he was freaked Rob would off himself and he’d find him swinging from the rafters in the attic, bicycle chain around his neck, toppled chair at his feet. I decided it was probably best just to keep my mouth shut for once. Hard to believe, right?
    Half an hour later, Rob came downstairs wearing only his Calvin Klein underwear and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He conned his dad into letting us skip church, but only if we made sure Rob’s mom had her medicine and her Robert Ludlum book-on-tape, and that we checked on her once in a while.
    Rob asked why Julie couldn’t do it, and Mr. Hunt said he’d let Julie go. She couldn’t provide the support he needed anymore. I guess it wasn’t a total lie, but still. Rob shouldn’t worry, though. Mr. Hunt was looking into other options.
    We spent the day playing video games, talking about which guys on the team needed to play better, telling stupid jokes, and bragging about all the crap we’d do once we were out of school. Rob said that if they’d let him in, he’d go to some famous New York music school. What was weird was Rob talking about the stuff he’d do with his parents—like going back to New York to visit family over Thanksgiving and finding a way to get Mrs. Hunt to one of our games.
    After dinner, Rob drove me home. He didn’t want me to leave—I think he wanted more bed time, too—but Rob needed to practice for an audition he has on Tuesday with some piano teacher in Chicago. I guess the guy plays for the symphony or something big like that and only takes the best students. Afterward, Rob and his dad are going to visit Rob’s uncle in Lakeview.
    Rob was really cute when he pulled into my driveway. Every time I tried to get out of the