The Point of Vanishing by Howard Axelrod Page B

terms this week by your accident. The bizarre and random nature of the event is almost unfathomable. I am so very proud to be your father.” But I also knew nothing in our relationship had prepared us for this conversation—and a shared language wasn’t going to suddenly form now, just because we needed one. The conspiratorial looks we exchanged watching the Celtics on TV, or as Mom launched into another non sequitur at dinner, were nowhere near sufficient for the task. The language we did share had been developed for the way life was, the way life had been. Dad couldn’t help me. And I couldn’t help him to help me, asmuch as I wanted to.
    â€œWell, just give it some thought. That’s all I’m asking.” He kept brushing imaginary crumbs from the table. He was a good poker player, but without cards in his hand he was easy to read.
Why was I blocking his effort to help me?
I changed the subject, told Mom the steak was delicious. She moved the conversation along. Dad was seated to my right, and when I leaned forward, he vanished in my peripheral vision. It was easier that way.
    A few nights later, Peter called. Mom was cooking dinner, and I’d come downstairs for her company. Before dinner had always been one of my favorite times with her. As she dipped chicken in egg yolk or grated carrots for a salad, she existed in a spotlight of her own making, telling stories, making observations, until she couldn’t remember where she’d started, and I’d have to run the conversation back for her like a court stenographer, having been trying the whole time to understand her by the gaps in between, by the jumps of her mind.
    But now she wasn’t talking. The whole week her face had been stricken with the look of a child with urgent news who has been told to keep quiet. For Mom, the world was made of stories. Stories about work, stories about that day’s encounter at Star Market, and even the stories of strangers, which she’d ask about when she could—if a person looked even mildly approachable—and which she’d speculate on when she couldn’t. “There’s a story there,” she’d say, as we left a restaurant or a store, a couple standing in silence. But now she didn’t know what stories to tell or to whom. Years later, she’d admit the period after the accident was the one time in her life she avoided acquaintances at the market: she didn’t want to have to answer questions.
    So when Peter called, I seized the opportunity to shape the story myself. Mom was at the sink, grating carrots with deft flicks of her wrist. She was pretending not to listen to my conversationwith Peter. And I was pretending, too. Because it wasn’t really Peter I was talking to, it was her.
    â€œI’m doing fine. The pain isn’t bad. And listen, Peter, it was no one’s fault. It could have happened to anyone.”
    The other end of the line got quiet. Mom’s hand with the grater remained motionless at the sink. Her effort not to look at me was palpable.
    â€œFreak accidents happen. And given that this was a freak accident, I’m lucky it wasn’t worse. Not a car accident. You know, something like that. It wasn’t your fault, Peter.”
    He asked when I would be back at school. My right eye was beginning to throb, as though it wanted to speak for itself. The pain had become less concentrated, less like a fist—but it felt like there was a part of me pressed up behind my eye, still trying to look out. I turned slightly away from Mom, towards the window. Keeping my voice level, I told him I’d be back at Adams House by Monday.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œI’m sure.”
    â€œIt’s just, I talked to the House Tutor, and he said you could take exams after the summer. You don’t have to rush it.”
    I turned farther towards the window. “It won’t be rushing.”
    â€œYou’re sure? I