Ready or Not

by Corrie Haldane

The second hand on my watch makes a quiet tick-tick-tick. I feel it in my eyeballs. I know that doesn’t make sense, but I do. The numbers blur as my mind lets go to focus on the odd twitching sensation behind my eyes.

“The toast, Daniel,” Mom says. I drag my eyes away from my watch and eject the bread. Too late. Burnt.

I toss the ruined pieces of toast into the garbage. They land on top of several other discarded slices. There is a perfect level of toastiness but I can’t ever seem to get it right. I thought, maybe if I timed it... but I blew it. Just like I blow everything.

“Too dark. It’s not like you do it, Mom.”

“The way you do it is just different,” Mom says. “That doesn’t make it bad. Learn to trust yourself.”

“I can’t do anything right. I’m even too stupid to make toast.”

“You’re not stupid, sweetheart. Dr. Anton says ‘Neurodivergent,’ and—”

“I don’t want to talk about Dr. Anton,” I say.

I open the breadbox but all that’s left are the ends. I hate the ends. They go into the garbage too.

“We need more bread. Can you get two loaves next time? One isn’t enough.”

“One loaf would be plenty if you didn’t throw all your toast away,” Mom says.

“I can’t eat it if it’s not right.” My hands make shaky fists. I close my eyes tight, fighting the freight train feeling that wants to take me away.

Mom’s voice fills my ears. “Deep breaths, sweetheart, just like Dr. Anton taught you. Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. Again. That’s right.”

I breathe and breathe, counting along with Mom in my head. Mom’s counting pushes everything away, even the smell of burnt toast.

Finally, I open my eyes and shake off the tension in my hands like our dog Max shakes off lakewater after a swim.

“See? I knew you could do it,” Mom says. “You can deal with the bread, too. If you want the market to send more, you just need to tell them.”

Tell them? Mom cuts me off before I can get out a single word of argument.

“You’re twenty-seven years old, Daniel. You’re smart and capable. And you can’t hide in this house forever,” she says. “You know that.”

“I know,” I whisper.

And I do, but that doesn’t make it easy.

Ivy works at the Shop n’ Save. She delivers our groceries every Monday but I never talk to her. She leaves the bags on the porch by the door and I wait until she drives away before I bring them inside.

Today will be different.

I’ve been practicing what I’ll say to her all morning: Please add an extra loaf of bread to our regular order.

While I brushed my teeth. While I sat by the lake, surrounded by the smell of wet green things. While I walked around and around the living room. All morning. Please add an extra loaf of bread to our regular order. Pleaseaddanextraloafofbreadtoourregularorder…

When Ivy’s car crunches up the driveway, I’m waiting by the door. At the sound of her footsteps, my legs go wobbly. I lean against the wall, slide down until I’m sitting on the floor.

She’s dropping the bags off on the porch now. She’ll be leaving in a second and she doesn’t know about the bread...

I pull the door open an inch. Ivy’s footsteps are already thumping back down the porch steps.

“Bread?” I choke out with a squeak. “Bread!”

The footsteps pause then slowly thump their way back. “Daniel? Everything okay?”

Please add an extra loaf of bread to our regular order, I think. And then I sputter, “More bread!” and slam the door.

Ivy’s footsteps retreat once more. Her car roars to life and disappears down the driveway. She’s gone.

All the strength runs out of me. I lie down right there, beside the door. My burning cheek presses against the cool tile floor. My hands are shaking and my heart pounds loud in my ears. But I did it.

“Daniel,” Mom calls. “Bring those groceries in before the milk goes off.”

Putting away the groceries is my job, has been for as long as I can remember. I like it, there’s something comforting about lining up the cans and boxes in organized rows. I begin unpacking the shopping bags.

I pull out two cans of tomato soup. “I told you I don’t like this kind, Mom. Why do you keep ordering it?”

Mom doesn’t answer. She’s staring out the kitchen window. Maybe the way the sunlight dances across the smooth surface of the lake has distracted her. It happens to me all the time.

I sigh and stack the new cans of soup with the eight others already in the cupboard.

Not long after I finish putting away the groceries, a knock at the door makes me jump.

Max barks once, thumps his tail against the floor, and lays his head back down on his paws.

“I have your bread, Daniel.”

I freeze. Ivy never knocks on the door; she just drops off the groceries and leaves.

“It seemed pretty urgent,” she calls. “I came back with it as soon as I could.”

I look over at Mom. “Go on,” she says. “Ivy doesn’t bite.”

“I should hope not,” I mutter. I shuffle across the room until I’m standing in front of the door. Ivy sees me through the window; she smiles and holds up the loaf of bread.

I open the door an inch. Two. Peer out at her.

“I don’t think your bread will survive the trip inside unless you open a bit wider,” she says. I let the door fall open a little more.

My muscles are tight, ready to spring into action. Ready to carry me back to safety at the first sign of danger. But there is no danger... there’s just Ivy.

“Hey,” she says.

I sneak a peek at her smiling face, quickly look back down at my feet. “Uh, hey.”

“You have a great house,” she says. “You’re so lucky to live right on the lake.”

“I like it. It’s quiet. Not like in town.”

“You don’t like people that much, huh?” Ivy says. “I don’t really, either.”

Max pushes his way past me to sniff at her leg. She rubs behind his ear with her free hand and his tail wags.

“I thought you might get lonely out here on your own, but I see you have a friend,” Ivy says.

“I’m not lonely.” I don’t add that I have my mom, too. I’m not a complete idiot.

“So, were you having, like, a sandwich emergency or something?” she says.

“Huh?”

Ivy laughs, holds up the bread again. I feel hot all over. Stupid. She’s laughing at me. Everybody laughs at me. Everybody but Mom.

I reach out, carefully pluck the bag from her fingers, and back slowly into the house.

“C’mon, Max,” I say. The dog obediently trots back inside.

“Thanks for the bread,” I say and then gently close the door.

The days pass like they always do. Tuesday, I wash my clothes. Wednesday, I clean the bathroom. Thursday, I mop the kitchen. Mom taught me how to do all these jobs a long time ago. “It’s called independence,” she told me.

Friday, I have my Zoom call with Dr. Anton. I’d rather scrub a hundred toilets than meet with Dr. Anton, but Mom says my appointments with him are “non-negotiable.” At least this time, I have something new to discuss.

“I talked to somebody this week,” I tell him. “Ivy, the girl from the Shop n’ Save.”

“That’s wonderful, Daniel. Making connections is so important for you right now.”

“Well, I’m not going to bother again,” I say. “She laughed at me.”

Dr. Anton asks me to tell him what happened so I recite the conversation, word for word. I have an excellent memory.

“Sounds to me like she was just being friendly,” he says. “I think you should give her another chance.”

I’m not so sure about that, but I don’t tell Dr. Anton.

Monday, grocery day, I lock myself in the bathroom when I hear Ivy’s car in the driveway.

I run the tap full blast for exactly five minutes. The sound of rushing water fills my ears and there’s no room for anything else.

It’s quiet when I turn off the faucet. I wait an extra two minutes, listening for sounds of Ivy. Nothing but the birds and the lake and the whisper of the wind in the trees. I unlock the door and poke my head out.

“You can bring in the groceries, sweetheart,” Mom calls. “She’s gone.”

I peek out the window just in case, but the coast is clear and I collect the bags.

Back in the kitchen, I unpack the bags, put everything away where it belongs just like always, including two more cans of tomato soup.

“Geez, Mom. More?” I say. She just shrugs.

There are two loaves of bread this week, and a cherry pie which Mom definitely did not order. I find a note tucked underneath the pie.

If I did something to make you mad, I’m really sorry. I’m not always the greatest at talking to people. The pie is fresh, just baked this morning. I hope you like cherry...

Friends?

-Ivy

I do like cherry. I like it very much.

The next Monday, I wait on the porch for Ivy. I pace back and forth along the wooden boards, my head all full of words. Mom’s words (“You need friends, sweetheart.”) and Dr. Anton’s words (“Make connections, Daniel.”).

The words are so loud, I don’t even notice Ivy’s car until Max barks a greeting.

“Hey, Daniel,” Ivy says as she gets out of the car. Max bounds over to her and she bends to scratch behind his ear.

For a second, I think about turning around, heading back inside. Then I remember the pie. I remember the note (Friends?). And I stay.

Max lays down and rolls over, his way of asking for a belly rub. Ivy laughs and gives him one. Just like Dr. Anton said, laughing isn’t always mean.

She gives Max one last pat then straightens up, opens the trunk and pulls out the grocery bags.

“Thank you for the pie,” I say as she approaches. “It was delicious.”

She smiles. “I’m glad you liked it. I noticed your regular order doesn’t have much...variety.”

I shrug.

“The cookies looked pretty good today.” She pulls a paper sack out of one of the bags. “Do you like chocolate chip?”

She offers me the bag. I take it, peek inside. The smell of chocolate and sugar makes my stomach grumble. Loudly.

Ivy giggles. “I guess that’s a yes.”

I laugh a little bit, too. It makes my throat feel funny, but in a good way.

“Uh, would you like one?” I ask. And suddenly, we’re sitting beside each other on the porch step, eating cookies.

Ivy talks about her morning in between bites. About the customers at the Shop n’ Save, about her boss.

“Do you like working there?” I ask when she pauses to lick melted chocolate off her fingers.

“It’s okay, I guess,” she says. “It’s a job, you know?”

“Actually, I don’t,” I confess. “I’ve never had a job.”

“Don’t you need money?” Ivy asks. “I mean, I guess your mom has taken care of things. She set up your weekly grocery delivery and stuff, but eventually…?”

“I don’t want to think about ‘eventually’ right now,” I say.

Ivy shrugs, snags another cookie. “Fair enough.”

On Tuesday, I eat the rest of the cookies for breakfast.

“Really, Daniel?” Mom asks when she sees my plate.

“I’m twenty-seven, Mom. I can eat cookies whenever I want. It’s called ‘independence.’”

On Wednesday, with no more cookies, it’s back to my regular breakfast. After a lot of practice, I have recently discovered the secret to attaining the perfect level of toastiness: two minutes and forty-five seconds. No more, no less.

I drop the bread into the toaster, push the lever down and begin timing. I am careful not to take my eyes off the second-hand spinning around my watch. Ten seconds. Twenty.

The phone rings. I ignore it. Forty-five seconds.

It rings again. And again.

“Mom?” I call, never looking away from my watch. Sixty seconds.

Suddenly, thankfully, it cuts off, mid-ring. Seventy-five seconds.

Just before the two minute mark, it starts up again.

“Mom! The phone!”

I try to breathe through clenched teeth. One hundred and twenty goddamn seconds.

The phone keeps ringing.

I throw up my hands, whirl around and head out of the kitchen, searching for Mom in every room. I can’t find her anywhere.

Then, everything happens all at once. The phone is ringing. Max is barking. The smell of very burnt toast hits me like a slap to the face and the smoke detector begins blaring its alarm.

I don’t know what to do first. I can’t think; the sounds and smells fill my head until it's almost bursting and there’s no room for anything else. I close my eyes and clap my hands over my ears.

“Mom! Where are you? I need you!” My screams scrape my throat raw. Panicked, I turn and run outside, away from the noise and the smell and the chaos.

My feet get tangled up on the steps and I pitch forward. I throw my arms out in front of me to break my fall.

My left wrist snaps when my hand connects with the ground. A microsecond later, my face smashes into the edge of the concrete patio. My whole world explodes in a white-hot starburst of pain. For a time, that’s all there is and I am lost in it.

Mom’s voice breaks through after a while. She’s calling me, over and over. I don’t normally like people to touch me, but just this once, I wish she would.

I open my eyes, stare up into the blue, blue sky.

The lake laps quietly against the shore. The wooden dock creaks as it bobs on the water. Someone is having a fire, there is a faint tang of smoke in the air.

The coppery smell of blood is stronger. I sit up.

With my good hand, I reach up, carefully touch my face. My lip is sticky with blood, swollen. My tongue finds the unfamiliar jagged edge of a broken front tooth.

“You need to clean yourself up,” Mom says. “You’re bleeding.”

I close my eyes again, cradle my injured arm in my lap and rock, faster and faster, waiting for the world to go away. I can’t do this. I can’t.

“You can,” Mom says. “You will.”

And somehow, I do.

On Thursday, I push open the door to Mom’s bedroom. The barely-there scent of her lavender hand lotion is familiar, soothing. I cross the room, open the drawer of her nightstand, and grab the bottle of what Mom calls her “pain pills.”

There are only three left. I take two, then lie down on her bed. Sleep.

On Friday, I skip my appointment with Dr. Anton. “It’s called independence,” I mutter and swallow the last pill.

Saturday? Sunday? My wrist is swollen and my face is swollen. Everything hurts and there’s no more pills.

“You need help,” Mom says.

“Then help me!”

“I can’t,” she says. “You know I can’t.”

My head swims with pain and memories. Dark rooms, bad smells. Fear.

“I need you,” I say through tears.

“I know, Daniel. But you have to let me go now. You have to do this on your own.”

Memories flood in faster, stronger.

Mom, bald head wrapped in a sky blue scarf, telling me I have to be strong, learn how to live on my own.

Mom, pale and thin. Asking for her pills. Sleeping, almost all of the time.

Mom, groaning in pain when the pills stopped working.

Mom.

“Why did you leave me?” I scream.

Max nuzzles against me, whines. The distant hum of a motorboat crossing the lake is the only other sound. There’s nothing else.

Because I am alone.

I jolt awake. Pain shoots through me, sharp and immediate. It takes a moment to realize what pulled me from sleep.

Knocking. It must be Monday.

“Ivy,” I whisper.

My body screams at me with every step. It hurts and I want to stop, lie down, give up. But I can’t give up. I bump against the door frame with my bad arm. The world goes grey and I want to fall into it but I force myself to keep going.

Out of the bedroom, down the stairs, across the living room. Gasping, my sweaty palm slips on the doorknob. I growl, grip tighter, twist.

By the time I fling open the door, Ivy is gone. I collapse beside the grocery bags she’s left on the porch, too exhausted even to cry.

Max takes off barking down the driveway and out of sight. I call for him, weakly. He doesn’t even slow down.

Moments later, Ivy’s car reappears, followed by a joyful Max. She throws open her car door and runs to me.

“Oh my god, Daniel, what happened?”

“My mom is dead,” I say, lisping like a little kid because of my broken tooth.

“I know. Cancer, right? I’m so sorry,” she says. “But your face…”

She reaches out, touches me. Her fingers gently stroke my cheek, her hand is lakewater cool.

“My wrist is broken, Ivy. Can you take me to the hospital?”

She helps me to her car. The empty house seems to grow smaller as we drive away.

“I’m going to make my own grocery order from now on, okay?” I tell Ivy. “No more tomato soup.”

Maybe it’s not independence, but it’s a start.