With all of us gathered around the dining room table, he told us about her breast cancer in the same way he wrote his stories. He didn’t try to paint it as anything it wasn’t. It was Stage 2. Hudson had moved him and Avery to Caper so he could help with appointments and be around when she didn’t have enough strength to handle everything by herself. Mom was starting chemo next week. It would be a major step, and with the side effects, us kids would need to step up and help.
It was the first time I remember being scared. That moment when you realized you were growing up. When your childhood ended and you left it trailing behind you in the rearview.
Dinner was silent and awkward. We all picked solemnly at our burned food. After, I headed up to my room and out through the window onto the roof that allowed me to look out over our acres of land. A few minutes passed before I heard the soft shuffle of footsteps on the carpet. I expected to see Mom, but it was Avery, who didn’t hesitate before climbing out and settling next to me.
She dug in her pocket and produced her Discman and headphones. Then she did what I’d been waiting months for her to do. Reaching toward me, she held out one of the earbuds, inviting me into her world when I couldn’t handle my own.
I took it gingerly. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you might need a friend.”
Avery
Spring 2005
After that night, I knew we were staying in Caper. Maybe that’s why I let myself care about Wes, because he wasn’t going to be temporary.
On the days when George and Dad went out for appointments, Wes and I would cook and clean the entire house. It was his idea, but I went along with it. I think it gave him this sense of control when he had none, reaching for anything he could do to help. There was a fair amount of trial and error. Some of George’s old favorite meals made her nauseous because of her treatment, and it wasn’t like we knew how to cook anything elaborate.
I’d stay with him at his house on those days, bringing my guitar with me. He’d listen to me play while the food was in the oven. Music wasn’t something I shared because it felt like letting someone have access to my soul. I was greedy with my obsession, but it seemed like the only way I could take care of Wes while he was too worried to take care of himself.
The first time he asked me to teach him how to play, I was working through “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young.
“Yes, like that,” I said, letting go of his hand after helping him form the shape of the final chord in the progression. “All you need are those four. Now try cycling through them.”
He did, his fingers moving stiffly from one to the next. “Oh my gosh, I’m doing it!” His face lit up brighter than I’d seen it in weeks. “It’ll take me an hour to get through this song at this rate, but I’m doing it.”
A timer went off in the kitchen, and I jumped to my feet. “Keep going, I’m going to check on the sauce and start the pasta.”
That day we decided on our most ambitious recipe, a Bolognese that we had to use some of George’s white wine to deglaze the pan, whatever that meant. Out of curiosity, I took a sip and offered some to Wes, who shook his head. The sauce took two hours, and we’d tried to time it for when our parents would be back.
I scoured through cupboards searching for pasta, but all I could come up with was a quarter of a box.
Returning to the living room where Wes was still playing, I said, “Keep practicing. Try adding a little more pressure on the frets. I’m going to run to my place to see if I can find more pasta. I’m pretty sure Dad picked some up last week.”
It took me half an hour to get to my house, find the pasta, and get back, running most of the way. Pushing through the door, I kicked off my sneakers and listened. He was still playing, faster now, almost up to speed with the regular tempo of the song. His rhythm was off, but we could work on that next.
“If you keep practicing, maybe we can show my dad and George next week.” The last words fell from my lips as I registered what I saw.
Wes didn’t seem to notice me. He just kept playing as his fingers bled, red smearing against the dark stain of the guitar.
“Stop,” I said, but he didn’t. I raced over and wrenched the instrument from his hands. Sour bile crept up the back of mythroat. The guitar landed next to us with a sickening twang. “Stop!”
He looked at me with clouded eyes then blinked, brows pinching as if to place my panic. His gaze fell to his hands as he muttered, “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Where’s your first aid kit? Wes, where is it?!”
“Bathroom.” He started to stand but I pressed a hand to his shoulder and forced him to stay.
“No, you stay right here.” I ran to the bathroom, hauling back the massive kit from under the sink.
I struggled to click open the clasps with shaking fingers. Silently, I cleaned the cuts, wiping them with antiseptic as he winced. They were small and only on two fingers, yet it was one of the most terrifying things I’d ever witnessed.
“Why didn’t you stop?” I wrapped his final finger and, after a moment of hesitation, let go of his hand.
“I didn’t notice. I wanted to get the chords right and then it started feeling so good that I couldn’t stop.” He looked down and flexed his fingers.
“Promise me you won’t do it again.”
