The Tragic Age Read Free Page B

Dad say you’re going to help me,” Dorie says.
    A bone marrow transplant replaces diseased blood cells with healthy cells from a compatible donor. Fraternal or dizygotic twins are often but not always compatible. Apparently I’m a very good match.
    â€œYou don’t have to if it hurts,” she says.
    â€œI want to,” I say. “I want you to get better.”
    â€œMe too,” Dorie says. She holds out her hand to me and I take it. I hold her fingers tight in my palm.
    Mom says Dorie and I came out of the womb together holding hands. Dorie came first, pulling me firmly but gently after her. I believe it. Dorie was always the brave one.
    â€œBilly?”
    I look up. Miss Barber is staring at me. I don’t know how long she’s been waiting for me to speak. The side of my face feels cold and numb and my voice sounds far away, even to me.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWe were talking about your sister?”
    â€œYes.”
    Miss Barber glances uncertainly at her notes. “I understand she was ill?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œShe’s better now?”
    As if people always get better.
    â€œShe’s dead now.”
    Only sometimes they don’t.
    â€œI am so sorry.”
    People usually are.
    â€œNo problem.”
    I was only supposed to save her.

 
    5
    One of the unusual things about Mom— Linda —is that she always insists we have dinner together as a family several nights a week.
    The housekeeper will cook something before she leaves and Mom will set the table and light the candles in the big dining room and she’ll serve what the housekeeper has made, like pork chops in a chili-verde sauce, which is actually really good, as if she made it herself. Dad— Gordon —will sit at the head of the table, a bottle of insanely expensive cabernet in front of him, swirling his wineglass, as if he actually knows what he’s doing. Mom and I will be on either side of him. Sometimes we’ll all even try to get a little pleasant conversation going. It can be pretty nice, really. At least it’s a nice idea.
    But this is one of those nights when Mom clears her throat and smiles at us and you just know the evening is turning horrible.
    â€œWell,” Mom says. “Did anyone have an interesting day today?”
    Dad and I share a quick look. I don’t think Dad ever has interesting days, and if he does, they’re not the kind of interesting he’s going to share with Mom. And so, just to be safe now, he doesn’t say a word. Following in his footsteps, neither do I.
    â€œAll right,” Mom says. “How about this? What’s the best and worst thing that happened to each of us today?” Mom is trying to look cheerful. This is obviously some line of questioning she’s gotten from a friend who probably got it from some daytime talk show where women discuss their feelings.
    Dad, who hates discussing feelings, especially Mom’s, sticks his nose into his wineglass and sniffs. This is called “catching the bouquet.” It’s a good way to stall for time if nothing else.
    â€œAll right,” Mom says, still all pleasant. “I’ll start. Betsy Mirrens broke her foot and will be off the tennis court for six weeks.”
    Dad frowns. “Betsy who?” You get the feeling that whoever she is, he doesn’t like her.
    â€œThe Mirrenses.” Mom sounds impatient. “We’ve joined them for any number of dinner parties.”
    Dad shrugs. “All we do is join people for fucking dinner parties.” He takes a sip of wine and begins to gurgle it in the back of his throat. This is called “aerating.” To aerate means to add oxygen. Oxygen changes things.
    Mom, who doesn’t like it when Dad starts tossing around F-bombs, is beginning to look sort of pinched and frustrated. I figure it’s time to help her out.
    â€œWhat’s the best thing?” I say.
    Success. Mom looks