The Rules of Inheritance Read Online Free PDF Page A

want out of the car, out of this moment, away from all of this.
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    But there is nowhere to go.
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    After we get back to the house I stand in the doorway of the study, watching my mother sleep, missing her.
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    My father asks me to be on call that night and he gives me a baby monitor. He says he is tired, that he needs a break, but really I think he just wants me to spend more time with her.
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    She wakes up at least once a night, he says. All you have to do is sit next to her, comfort her until she goes back to sleep. She’s just scared, he says.
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    That night, while we’re playing video games and drinking wine, I swallow a little white pill that I’ve been carrying around in my pocket all day.
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    What’s that? Brian asks.
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    Kind of like a quaalude, I answer.
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    Where’d you get it?
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    My dad, I say, washing the pill back with a swig of wine.
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    Brian shrugs and then unpauses the game we are playing. The tinkling sound of scoring resumes. I’ve already forgotten that it is my night to get up with my mom.
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    Hours later I stumble to bed in the guest room. My father has set up the baby monitor by my bedside and the little green light glows in the dark. It’s the last thing I see before my eyes close.
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    I don’t know what time it is, maybe three or four in the morning, when I open them again. I can hear my mother crying softly. I don’t know how long she’s been crying, but her soft mewling lights up the monitor with each intonation. My limbs feel like sandbags. I am warm and loose and so, so heavy. I push my way out from underneath the covers and make my way downstairs.
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    There is a tiny light on in the corner of my mother’s room, and I stand for a moment looking at her. She is curled onto one side, her arms wrapped around her abdomen. She looks so small underneath the sheets.
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    I step forward finally and ease myself down onto the side of her bed. She doesn’t seem to notice that I am there.
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    Mom?
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    She continues to cry. I reach out and begin to stroke her hair. The quaalude has left me feeling open and loose. I am not afraid of her.
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    Mom, I say again. It’s okay. It’s okay.
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    I murmur these words to her as I stroke her hair, smooth my hand in circles over her back.
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    It’s okay. It’s okay.
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    Her crying fades to a gentle whimper.
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    It’s okay. It’s okay.
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    My eyes are closed now too, and I lay my head down against her shoulder.
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    Mom, I miss you.
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    She is quiet now, her form gently rising and falling with each breath.
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    The memory of this moment will become the sole thing that prevents me from completely evaporating with guilt in the years to come.
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    Mom, Mom, Mom, I say quietly. The word like some kind of prayer.
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    We stay there for a long time like that, and when I wake up the next morning in my bed upstairs it will be hours before I remember any of it.

    OVER CHRISTMAS BREAK Christopher decides not to return to school. He tells me this over the phone. He is going to work for his uncle in New Jersey for a while, painting houses, saving money. Then he plans to move to San Francisco.
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    Don’t you want to finish college? When he doesn’t reply I immediately feel stupid for having asked. Naive and girlish.
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    The last time I see my mother is the day I drive back to school. She is in the passenger seat of my father’s car. He has dragged her out of the hospital bed, wants to take her for a drive, to remind her of the world outside. He has wrapped her in blankets, and her skin is the same gray as the seats of the car.
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    I lean in through the open door, try to put my arms around her, but it’s awkward and I just kind of press myself against her.
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    Her voice is hoarse, her hands claw at me just a little. I love you so much, honey.
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    I do not know that this is the last time I will ever see