May We Be Forgiven

her nails—she had beautiful nails. She talked about you a lot, very proud of both of you. Very proud.”
    “Thank you,” Ashley says.
    Nate gets up and goes to get something to eat. He comes back with a plate of berries for Ashley.
    “You’re a good brother,” I say to him.
    A woman bends towards the children, revealing loose, wrinkled cleavage. I look away. She extends her hand. No one takes it. The hand, with its big diamond, lands on Nate’s knee. “I was her hygienist. We used to have wonderful talks—well, mostly I talked, she had the saliva sucker on, but she was a good listener. She was good.”

    “ D o you have anything?” Nate asks me.
    “Anything like what?”
    “Like a Valium, an Ativan, maybe codeine.”
    “No,” I say, surprised. “Why would I be carrying that?”
    “I don’t know. You had snacks—Gummi Bears—and Kleenex. I thought maybe you’d have some medication.”
    “Is there something you normally take for upset? Something that a doctor gives you?”
    “I just take stuff from Mom and Dad’s medicine cabinet.”
    “Great.”
    “Okay, never mind, just thought I’d ask.” Nate walks away.
    “Where are you going?”
    “Bathroom.”
    I follow him.
    “You’re following me?”
    “Are you going to look in the medicine cabinet?”
    “I have to pee,” Nate says.
    “If you are, I’m going to do it with you. We’ll look together.”
    “That’s so fucked up.”
    “Any more or less so than you doing it alone?”
    I follow him into the bathroom, locking the door behind us.
    “I really do have to pee.”
    “So pee.”
    “Not with you standing there.”
    “I’ll turn my back.”
    “Can’t,” he says.
    “I don’t trust you.”
    “When I’m back at school you won’t be following me into the bathroom. There has to be a measure of trust. Just let me pee.”
    “You’re right, but the minute you blow it, you are so fucked,” I say, opening the medicine cabinet.
    “His Prilosec, her birth control, her Prozac; acyclovir—that’s nice, they must have herpes—oxycodone for his back.”
    “Oxycodone would be okay,” Nate says. “Oxy is nice.”
    “Here, take this,” I say, plucking out a pink-and-white capsule and handing it to him.
    “What is it?”
    “Benadryl.”
    “That’s not even prescription.”
    “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t work; it’s very sedating.”
    “What else is there? Diazepam, that’s generic Valium—let me have two of those.”
    “No.”
    “How about one? That’s what you’d take for fear of flying.”
    “How about four? That’s what you need for a colonoscopy,” I suggest.
    “You’re funny,” Nate says, taking one pill and pocketing the bottle.
    “Put the bottle back. For all you know they have a camera in here, and they’ll blame me.”
    As we’re coming down the hall, Jane’s father catches my arm. “You should cut your dick off. You should have to live without something precious to you.”
    The father gives me a little shove and walks off to speak with the caterer. I see the caterer’s big burly boyfriend coming towards me, and I’m thinking they’re going to ask me to leave, and so I start weaving through the crowd, trying to avoid the guy, thinking I better get Ashley, I better tell the kids that it’s time to go. The caterer’s boyfriend gets to me before I reach the children.
    “Did you try the tuna?” he asks.
    “Uh, no,” I say. “No, I didn’t try it yet.”
    “Be sure you do,” he says. “I make it myself from fresh tuna.”
    “Sure,” I say. “Will do.” I’m shaken. “I have to go,” I tell Nate.
    “Okay,” Nate says. “I’ll get Ashley.”
    “Where are we going?” Ashley asks.
    “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not used to telling anyone what I’m doing. I’m not used to going with anyone.”
    “You can’t leave us here,” Nate says.
    I pause. “I’m going to see my mother.”
    “Are you going to tell her about all this?”
    “No,” I say.

    W e leave without saying goodbye. I tell the limo driver the name of the nursing home and he looks it up on his GPS and we take off.
    “Should we bring her something?” Nate asks.
    “Like what?”
    “A plant.”
    “Sure.”
    “I think it’s good to bring something you can leave behind, so it looks like someone cares about her,” Ashley says.
    When the limo driver passes a florist, I ask him to stop. We spend twenty minutes debating what to bring—finally picking out an African violet, assuming it to be most