Terminal

At the moment, the best thing in the world I could imagine was to pull the sheets and comforter up over my head, curl into the fetal position, and just lie there, drifting in and out of consciousness until the cancer finally did me in— hopefully while I was sound asleep. I was never one of these people that believed in that chronic depression bullshit, never bought into the psychobabble and self-help books and feel-good pop psychology of people like Dr. Phil and Oprah. Michelle thought that Dr. Phil and Oprah both walked on water and shit gold bricks. I thought they were both assholes. I mean, if the two of them were so goddamn good at dispensing advice on how to control your life, then why couldn’t the fat fucks control their calorie intake? They were phonies— rich people who made their money telling others how to fix their lives, while their own lives were a fucking mess. I’d never taken Prozac, Paxil, or any of the other antidepressants that, according to the disclaimer on the commercials, had common side effects like bleeding from the eyes, fatal nose warts, and spontaneous human combustion. It was all bullshit; just mass-produced medication for phony diseases that existed simply to make the drug companies richer, and I wasn’t buying into it.

Listen up. Are you or a loved one depressed? Well, now there’s good news. Here’s Tommy O’Brien’s plan to cure yourself: Shut the fuck up. That’s all. Shut the fuck up and get on with it. Life’s a bitch, then you die. It’s that simple. Depressed? Shut up and get the fuck over it. Move to fucking Calcutta or Baghdad or Compton, then come back and tell me how bad you have it. But I was depressed. Depressed and angry. It wasn’t fair. Why should I have to die now? Why did it have to be me? I was too frigging young for this to be happening. But it was, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Part of me wanted to lie there in bed and another part of me wanted to run through the streets, screaming “Fuck you!” to God and the tobacco companies and the foundry and my parents and the government and our president and the rich and this fucking town and everybody in it. I wanted to rage, to let my anger spill out of me. I wanted to smash things, break stuff— just destroy everything in sight and burn it all to the fucking ground and laugh amidst the ashes.

But I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t run into the street. Instead, as the nausea hit, I made the now-familiar morning run from the bed to the bathroom, and I puked. Then I flicked on the exhaust fan so Michelle wouldn’t hear me, puked some more, showered, and puked again. I brushed my teeth and winced. My gums were tender and they started to bleed. The mouthwash burned them too, and I squinted my eyes shut and rode out the pain. After rinsing my mouth and getting dressed, I lit up another smoke and walked down the hall to join my family. T. J. was sprawled out on the floor again, still wearing his pajamas and picking at a half-soggy bowl of Cheerios with blueberries floating in milk. His eyes never left the screen. It looked like he’d gotten some sun during our visit to the park the day before. Michelle did too. She cracked two eggs and dropped them into the pan. They’d gotten some sun, but I was still as pale as the egg whites.

“Morning, babe.” She pecked my cheek as I leaned into her from behind, smelling her hair and giving her a squeeze.

“Good morning.” I did my best to sound happy and awake. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a rock,” she purred. “Especially after— well, you know. How about you?”

“Okay, I guess.” I poured myself a mug of coffee. “You guys are up early.”

“Yeah, I promised my mom that we’d go to church with her. She’s been bitching that T. J. and I haven’t been there with her in a few weeks. I think she just likes to show us off to her friends. You want to go along with us?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, hon. Church gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“You sure it’s not just that you don’t want to spend time with your mother-in-law?”

“Well yeah, now that you mention it. Your mom gives me the heebie-jeebies too.”

“Tommy!”

Laughing, she smacked my ass with the greasy spatula. I yelped in surprise.

“You take that back, Mr. O’Brien.”

“What are the heebie-jeebies?” T. J. piped up.

“It’s a present your grandma gave me,” I told him, and Michelle turned away, snickering. “What ya’ watching, little man?”

“Justice League Adventures. It’s my new favorite cartoon on Sundays.”

“And who’s that big green guy? The Hulk?”

“No, Daddy, that’s Jonn Jonzz, the Martian Manhunter. He’s getting ready to fight Vandal Savage but . . .”

I’d known that, of course. I’d been raised on Marvel and DC. Successfully getting him off the subject of his grandmother’s effect on me, I tuned him out, nodding in the appropriate places and expressing dismay over the character’s plight when required. All the while, I searched for the aspirin. I found them, washed four down with my coffee, and resurfaced for air just as T. J. was finishing up.