until it floods your lawn like a ruptured sewer line. Either way, Dad is not standing for it, cannot just “move on,” and will not forget for even one minute of one single day that this consortium of hatred and intolerance is roiling somewhere out there, operating in the shadows of society, and that no matter how much preparation or organizing we Changers do, there is no way to stop the next action or transgression on their part.
Despite all the talking and processing and counseling at the RRR, Dad just can’t be happy that I made it, that I’m alive and well in his house, staring at him over our cereal bowls every morning. So he leaves the house early, funneling all of his rage and indignation about the Tribulations into “fighting for change, instead of sitting around waiting for it to happen.” This morning I told him his ranting was starting to sound a little like Benedict and the rest of the RaChas, to which he replied that I didn’t know “what the H-E-double-hockey-sticks” I was talking about, then grabbed the car keys and headed out the door.
I guess it’s hard for him to accept the facts of what we’re up against. It’s like he refuses to acknowledge it as a reality, as opposed to a theory—as though ignoring the facts might actually make them not so. I think Dad thought it would be different by now, that there would be more acceptance in the world, and that at the very least, more progress would have been made in the years since he was going through his Cycle of V’s. And yet here I am, living proof it hasn’t. Maybe this whole Changers mission is a waste of time. Maybe Statics are getting worse on the whole, not better.
“Your father doesn’t know what to do with his frustration,” Mom says kindly as soon as we hear Dad’s car pull out of the garage.
“He doesn’t know what to do with the truth,” I snap back.
“No, I suppose he doesn’t,” she concedes. “But not many people do.”
Last week, Dad decided to take leave from work and assume a part-time position with the Council. He’s not allowed to actually join the Council, as Changers by-laws state that nobody with a child who’s still completing his/her Cycle is eligible to run. So many rules and procedures, I can’t keep track. I’m even starting to forget the overarching mission of our existence. Mostly I just try to get through each day, like a simple bacteria just going through the motions until my brief time on this planet is up.
I kind of wish Mom would get busy with something too. I see her poking her head into my room in the night when I’m supposed to be sleeping. What does she think? Those Abider nut jobs are going to hunt me down, bust into our house, get past Snoopy, Dad’s Taser (newly purchased), and scoop me up from my bedroom in the middle of the night?
Yes. That’s exactly what she thinks.
I get it. But the Council assures us that whomever took me, Elyse, and Alex are so long gone by now, nobody’s going to hear from them again. At least not in our neck of the Changer woods.
* * *
“All good in there?” Mom asks through the door for the forty-seventh time today.
“Yep,” I murmur, trying not to sound as annoyed as I am.
“You know I hate the Yep,” she chides weakly, her heart still not in it.
At least she’s trying. Mom wants life to normalize. Like that’s even a thing.
Oryon
Change 2–Day 365
So here I am, standing in my bathroom in boxers, shirt off, staring at Oryon in the mirror. Flexing my biceps, leaning in and inspecting the hairs on my chin. It’ll all be gone tomorrow. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll change into some 1960s-looking dude with a full beard and mutton chops. Or maybe I’ll change into a hipster girl with a bleached pixie cut and a walk like a giraffe. Maybe I’ll change into the hottest dude in class.
Part of me still wishes I could simply stay Oryon. Oryon was cool enough. And cool enough is way better than gambling on what comes next. You know how people will stay with a boyfriend or girlfriend who’s fine and all, but in the back of their heads they harbor lingering doubts, thinking maybe they could do better? (Memo to humanity: most of us can’t.) Like that hippie song goes, “Love the one you’re with.” Not the worst advice. But I can’t love Oryon enough to make him stay, or love myself enough not to care if he leaves. I’m an identity way station, and the next vessel is about to pull in.
On the eve of Oryon’s dematerialization, I’m appreciating things about him as though I’m not him, but rather something else entirely, a creature stuck on the inside of the mirror looking out at him. His tightly curled hair, the distance between his eyebrows and hairline. His intense eyes, the warm color and smoothness of his skin. His famous lady-killing smile, which got him so many places. The way he walks through a room, the hint of rasp in his voice. I’m kind of loving it all right now, digging it so much more than I ever did because I know it’ll be gone tomorrow. You don’t miss water till the well runs dry. Or in this case, you don’t miss your corporeal form until it’s reassembled in some cosmic mixing bowl into something else entirely.
I guess it makes me think about appreciating stuff (well, people) more while you still can. Take Nana. She’s still with us, but barely. I’m really happy Mom and Dad brought her back from Florida so she’s closer, but because she’s kind of out of it most of the time, it makes me feel horrible that I didn’t spend more time with her when she was lucid. She knows so much, has been through so much. I took her for granted. Just like I did with somebody else . . .
God, I miss him. A part of me refuses to accept he’s really gone. So what if I’m stuck in the denial stage of grief? Not that those stages seem like anything more than BS made up to sell self-help books. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression. I got them all. No start or finish. No checked-off box. Life’s untidy that way. And I don’t care if I ever get to the “final” Acceptance stage of grieving him. What am I accepting anyway?
Erggh. Mom just came in to tell me Tracy and Mr. Crowell are here.
* * *
Well damn, those two have reinvented the “honeymoon stage.” The minute I saw her in the hallway, Tracy was practically floating a few inches above the ground, beaming so much I thought her head might split horizontally and unhinge at her jaw like a Muppet.
“You look soooo goood,” she exclaims, letting go of Mr. Crowell’s hand (for two seconds) to give me a hug.
I notice at once how she smells like cotton candy.
“You always look good, of course,” she coos. “Not that looks mean anything. I’m just saying, you know, you look rested. Better than the last time I saw you.”
“When I was bedridden? Good to hear.”
Tracy continues to ogle me appraisingly as I shake Mr. Crowell’s outstretched hand. He smiles his crooked smile. “How you doing, buddy?”
“Better, thanks,” I say quickly and quietly, looking down at his suede bucks beside Tracy’s pink espadrilles on the hardwood floor as she climbs up on her tippy-toes and nuzzles Mr. Crowell’s neck.
“Do you kids want some tea?” Mom calls in from the kitchen.
“Nah, I should probably—” I start, while at the same time Tracy chirps, “Yes, Connie, that’d be lovely.”
We stand there awkwardly in
