The Revenge of the Radioactive Lady - Elizabeth Stuckey-French [65]
And there was his very own yellow brick house with the white picket fence, the smooth carpet of St. Augustine grass that, for some reason, this summer, didn’t sport even a patch of brown fungus. If a big hurricane came and washed his house away, he would miss it. He truly would. As he pulled in behind the house and parked the car at the bottom of the driveway he felt a bittersweet tang, as if his house were already gone.
* * *
For Vic, being around Suzi had always been relaxing, like sitting in front of a fire, basking in the warm glow of her competency. Not that she was always easy to be around, by any means. But up until she hurt her knee, she’d been on a steady course—good grades, excelling at sports, and friendships—whereas Ava and Otis were much loopier and uncertain in their passage through the days. They got A’s in some subjects and F’s in others, could flawlessly recite their lines in Guys and Dolls but had trouble cutting up their meat. In a conversation with Ava and Otis, you never knew, from one minute to the next, whether they’d approach you eagerly or flail and curse at you. And being around them out in public, watching them interact with other kids, Vic always felt on edge, expecting a misstep and hating himself for it, overwhelmed one moment with pity, the next with pride, his hopes rising and plummeting. There was always distance between himself and his older two children, even though he loved them with all his heart. With them he always had to think before he said or did anything; and because being with them often felt like work, he’d gradually started spending more time with Suzi. He wasn’t proud of this fact, but there it was.
That’s why he depended so much on Suzi to be the calm center of his life. Watching her decline was extremely disturbing.
That evening after work, when he went into her messy room and sat on the bed beside her, she merely glanced at him and went back to staring up at the swiveling ceiling fan. She wore her shorty pj’s with fairies on them and had an old polyester afghan she’d dug out of the back of the closet covering her injured knee.
Vic worried about leaving her at home all day, because her mother was too busy with Wilson and Ava to pay much attention to her. Oh, Suzi could take care of herself. It wasn’t that. On one occasion, years ago, when Suzi and Ava and Otis had, for one time only, an incompetent babysitter who did nothing but sit on her butt and watch TV all evening, occasionally going outside to call her boyfriend and smoke a cigarette, eight-year-old Suzi made dinner for herself and Ava and Otis—sandwiches and cheese grits and a fruit salad—then put the leftovers away and washed the dishes, took a bath, and put herself to bed. “I figured I was second in command,” she told us later. It didn’t occur to Ava or Otis to step in and take over, or even help.
Vic reached over and stroked Suzi’s unkempt, curly hair.
She flinched, the way Ava always did when he tried to touch her.
“What’ve you been doing today?”
“Praying about my knee. It’s not working.”
Vic decided to leave that one alone. “Help me make something for supper.”
“Where’s Mom?” Suzi said accusingly, like he was keeping her mother away.
“They won’t be home from therapy till seven.”
“Figures.”
“Want to bake some cookies?”
“You don’t get it,” she said loudly. “My knee hurts!”
Vic knew he should stop pushing her, but he couldn’t seem to shut up. “You’ll feel better if you get up and move around some. And your knee will heal faster.”
In response, she rolled over and faced the wall. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Do. Anything.”
Vic found himself wanting to yell