Swimming by Nicola Keegan

flower face doing today? as we all jump out of our skins.
    The cure is taking longer than expected. They come home from appointments together as I sit on the kitchen counter eating doughnut holes. First Leonard then Bron then Mom, in a line like ducks. They come home from appointments together as Roxy, Dot, and I stand around the yard kicking up leaves and June smokes a minty cigarette behind the kitchen. Sometimes they get out of the car in the middle of a conversation our presence does not break. Sometimes they are quiet with a silence that momentary eye contact with them convinces us to maintain. June has taken over car-pool days, pulling up to the curb with a jerk, cranky.
    The moon waxes, the moon wanes, Lake Shawnee’s vivid green deepens into brown, green leaves kaleidoscope into color, and Bron needs help getting out of the car. She’s pale and shaky. She’s angry and her mouth’s dry. What’s left of her hair falls, her freckles recede, her arms turn into branches of new trees, her eyes turn into angry pellets, her cello-playing fingers stop itching for the chords, French club becomes secondary, and the debaters stop waiting and plan their strategies without her. I ride my bike fast, careening down hills, rushing through rushing puddles, coasting past sleeping houses, on my feet under slate bridges, all the way across Glenwood then back again.
    I walk into our dark room; she says: I taste like rust .
    I squeeze toothpaste onto her finger; she swishes it in her mouth and swallows.
    I hear some kids at school say, Her sister’s contaminated . I slam my locker, give them a look.
    When she’s sick, I have to leave the room or I’m sick. When her mouth is dry, my mouth gets dry. When she starts to cry and tells me to fuck off and get out, I fuck off and get out. Our bedroom turns into a damp cave; the walls fold in; it smells like moss. I don’t like it and want it to be over. I sleep over at the Cocoplats anytime I can; we watch Adam Ant leap, fall to his knees, plead, both hands clasped under his chin. He’s part swashbuckling pirate, part American Indian, part British soldier. He’s wearing masculine boots, a fluffy jabot, three layers of mascara. When he sings, his hair vibrates. I’m so in love, I can’t stand it. Lilly’s in love too. But less. I’m the one who kisses the TV.
    Roxanne goes out with friends, has sleepovers, disappears. If Mom and Leonard say no, she begs until they break down—signs of future trouble left ignored.
    Dot excels in all matters: prudence, caring, quietude, studiousness, beauty, cleanliness, invisibility, and the absence of need—signs of future saintliness much admired.
    Leonard plays chess with Bron until eleven at night, walks down the stairs like a tall kid with no self-confidence.
    Mother says: Eat, Leonard , pushing the potato dishes he likes into his general vicinity. No direct contact.
    He pushes them back. I had something at the office .
    I’m giddy. What did you have at the office, Dad, bat food?
    He’s tired. No, smarty winks. Kathy Stupek made some kind of health thing. I had the health thing .
    But he doesn’t eat. And Mother starts lurking like a thief, walking in her stockinged feet on the boards that creak, slipping her head into the doorway of our bedroom when Bron comes home as we hold our breath and stop moving until she goes away.
    Bron turns onto her back and stares at the ceiling. She’s starting to drive me nuts .
    I flip on my side and stare at the wall. She’s just worried .
    Bron turns onto her stomach and sighs into her pillow. Like I need her worry .
    A couple of weeks ago, Mom stood by the window begging, bribing, pleading. Leonard was sitting on the edge of Bron’s bed, his legs folded under him like the lawn chairs in the basement. He was using all his paternal power of persuasion in a discussion that started weeks ago and still isn’t done. I was getting dressed for school, tucking my big shirt into the waistband of my big