grocery shopping and errands.
âWhat if he finds out before then?â Trust Daniel to think of that.
âHe wonât.â Arthur rarely goes out in the evenings. Heâs usually at his computer working on some program.
âWell, you know best.â
âWhen it comes to my brother, yeah I do.â I grow prickly at the understated disapproval in his voice.
Daniel and I get along for the most part although weâre polar opposites in most respects: He thinks like a scientist whereas Iâm driven by emotions. Heâs slow to anger and I have a short fuse. He watches PBS documentaries for fun and my favorite TV show is The Good Wife . We only butt heads where Arthur is concerned. Daniel thinks heâd be better off in a group home and I know for a fact my brother would sooner be homeless. Heâs weird about sharing a bathroom and heâd hate having to follow a bunch of rules. Living independently, he can stay up all night, eat Cocoa Puffs for supper, or smoke indoors if he so chooses. No, itâs not ideal, but the alternative would be worse; heâd be miserable. But whenever I point this out to Daniel, he arguesâcorrectlyâthat the problem with schizophrenics is they often forget to take their meds, which wouldnât be the case with proper supervision. Heâll quote stats about improved mental and physical health and increased life expectancy. I, in turn, point out that I make sure Arthur takes his meds, and who cares if he showers regularly as long as heâs happy? At which Daniel will shrug and say, âWell, you know best,â in a tone that implies the opposite. This has led to some heated arguments.
Tonight Daniel ignores my snappishness to give me a patient look that says, I know youâre under a lot of stress so Iâll try not to take it personally that youâre being a bitch . âWhy donât I fix you something to eat?â he offers. âI could warm up some of the lobster bisque from last night.â
âSounds good.â I suddenly realize Iâm starving, having only picked at my sandwich at lunch.
He heads for the kitchen, leaving me to gaze out the window at the darkened landscape, the lights of the swimming pool glowing in the near distance. Arthur was only eight when Mom left, but he remembers details about her Iâd forgottenâthatâs how his mind works. On any given day if you ask what he did that morning, he canât always tell you, but he remembers the mincemeat pie Mom baked for Thanksgiving one year. How will he react when I tell him she turned up dead? Lately heâs been on an even keel, but this could send him veering off course. He could even capsize. I pray it wonât come to that. Because thereâs no mayday like an Arthur-related mayday.
CHAPTER FOUR
âArthur,â I say to my brother as he tosses another economy-size box of Honey Roasted Cheerios in the shopping cart heâs pushing down the cereal aisle at Albertsonâs, âcan you afford all this?â
Itâs Saturday morning and weâre doing his weekly grocery shopping. The day before yesterday when I broke the news about our mom, I thought he handled it pretty wellâhe smoked three cigarettes in a row without saying a word. When he finally spoke, it was to ask, calmly, if I thought a memorial service would be appropriateâbut now Iâm not so sure. Heâs acting so squirrely I donât need his shrink to tell me heâs verging on another one of his psychotic episodes. For one thing, heâs loaded the cart with enough food to feed a family of ten and weâre only on aisle two.
Arthur regards me as though Iâm the one whoâs being unreasonable. âTish,â he answers with exaggerated patience, âI need all this stuff. I have to keep up my energy.â He drops his voice to a confidential whisper. â For the project Iâm working on .â
No doubt a
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