Delirium - Lauren Oliver [109]
I must be staring, because Mrs. Scharff explains, “Brian has asthma.”
“Oh,” I say.
“The allergies make it worse.”
“Um . . . what is he allergic to?” I ask, because she seems to be expecting it.
“Dust,” she says emphatically, like she’s been waiting to break out that word since she sailed through the door. She looks witheringly around the room—which is not dusty—and Carol blushes. “And pollen. Cats and dogs, of course, and peanuts, seafood, wheat, dairy, and garlic.”
“I didn’t know you could be allergic to garlic,” I say. I can’t help it: It just pops out.
“His face puffs up like an accordion.” Mrs. Scharff turns a disdainful eye toward me, as though I’m somehow responsible for this fact.
“Oh,” I say again, and then another uncomfortable silence descends on us. Brian doesn’t say anything, but he wheezes louder than ever.
This time Carol comes to the rescue. “Lena,” she says, “perhaps Brian and Mrs. Scharff would like some water.”
I’ve never been so grateful for an excuse to leave a room in my life. I jump out of my seat, nearly taking down a lamp with my knee by accident. “Of course. I’ll get it.”
“Make sure it’s filtered,” Mrs. Scharff calls after me, as I tear out of the room. “And not too much ice.”
In the kitchen I take my time filling up the glasses—from the tap, obviously—and letting the cold air from the freezer blast my face. From the living room I can hear the low murmur of conversation, but I can’t make out who is speaking or what is being said. Maybe Mrs. Scharff decided to reprise her list of Brian’s allergies.
I know I have to go back into the living room eventually, but my feet just won’t move toward the hallway. When I finally force them into action, they feel like they’ve been transformed into lead; still, they carry me far too quickly toward the living room. I keep seeing an endless series of bland days, days the color of pale yellow and white pills, days that have the same bitter aftertaste as medicine. Mornings and evenings filled with a quietly whirring humidifier, with Brian’s steady wheezing breath, with the drip, drip, drip from a leaking faucet.
There’s no stopping it. The hallway doesn’t last forever, and I step into the living room just in time to hear Brian say, “She’s not as pretty as in the pictures.”
Brian and his mom have their backs to me, but Carol’s mouth falls open when she sees me standing there, and both of the Scharffs whip around to face me. At least they have the grace to look embarrassed. He drops his eyes quickly, and she flushes.
I’ve never felt so ashamed or exposed. This is worse, even, than standing in the translucent hospital gown at the evaluations, under the glare of the fluorescent lights. My hands are trembling so badly the water jumps over the lip of the glasses.
“Here’s your water.” I don’t know where I find the strength to come around the sofa and place the glasses down on the coffee table. “Not too much ice.”
“Lena—” My aunt starts to say something, but I inter-rupt her.
“I’m sorry.” Miraculously, I even manage a smile. I can only hold it for a fraction of a second, though. My jaw is trembling too, and I know that at any moment I might cry. “I’m not feeling very well. I think I might step outside for a bit.”
I don’t wait to be given permission. I turn around and rush the front door. As I push out into the sun I hear Carol apologizing for me.
“The procedure is still several weeks away,” she’s saying. “So you’ll have to forgive her for being so sensitive. I’m sure it will all work out. . . .”
The tears come hot and fast as soon as I’m outside. The world begins to melt, colors and shapes bleeding together. The day is perfectly still. The sun has just inched past the middle of the sky, a flat white disk, like a circle of heated metal. A red balloon is caught in a tree. It must have been there for a while. It is going limp, bobbing listlessly, half-deflated, at the end of its string.
I don’t know how I’ll face