Counting

Hannah Hu

Counting

I like counting.

Mama tells me the same story every time we flip through the sticky pages of her photo albums about the week I was born and how, before I could babble or stumble or lose my new baby smell, I curled my fingers in slow intervals,counting.

What I was taking count of, she doesn’t know. She coughs out a laugh as she wonders if I was counting the years until I could tell her she didn’t have to wait for her face to dry up and her hands to turn pruny to divorce my meathead of a dad.

I laugh, counting the seconds my last laugh here takes, and turn to Papa, who,as usual, does not get the joke. Now, normally, I would roll my eyes and move the conversation along, but this is my chance– my last chance– to do a good

thing. So, I elbow the block of meat that’s Papa’s arm and ask him isn’t it funny since they’re not divorced and isn’t it also funny that our turk–

–sweetie, Mama cuts in with her bad news voice. Papa places the weight of his ten-ton arm on my shoulder and I try not to shake it off, staying still and counting the time it takes to steady my breathing.

I was just going to say our turkey’s in such a funny shape this year, I continue shakily, counting the minutes my mouth has been up into a smile– ten, my cheeks are starting to hurt– before I count the less-than-a-second my mouth takes to swoop back down. We are getting divorced, one of them says while my vision blurs.

Oh, I respond, tears– one, two, four, nine, thirteen and a half– forming in my eyes and streaming down my face.

Look, kiddo, this was long overdue, Papa starts.

And, I should know. Eleven squabbles, fourteen whispered fights in front of friends, twenty-three yelling arguments when those friends leave and they think I’m asleep, and not one, not two, not three, but four full-blown brawls that ended in at least one of them fainting, crying, or both.

But...

This is my last day. I don’t want it to end this way.

What did you say? Mama asks, concern creasing her forehead.

You feel sick or something? Papa adds, raising a meaty hand to my cheek. No, I just, I start. I pause. I think.

There’s been this heaviness lately, this increasing weight pinning me down to the bed as I watch the ceiling fan turn too many times to count, my eyes sore, my limbs leaden, my mind sluggish and empty and–

–and there’s just so much work I need to do and so many people to please and, god, there’s just so much, I say. It’s easier to just... leave.

At that, Mama’s face droops at least two inches and Papa’s eyebrows scrunch at a forty-five-degree angle and they stumble over each other– something they’ve done at least a hundred and sixty times– that things will get better and Papa knows this great doctor from med school that can help calm my nerves and Mama heard on Facebook that herbal tea helps your mind feel ten years younger and Papa scoffs that the point is to get better, not get younger, and Mama tells him how I can do both and the squabble almost escalates to a brawl before they settle down.

The point is, we’re here for you, even if we don’t see eye-to-eye, Mama concludes. The point is, we love you, Papa adds.

And with that, I feel lighter. Because, even though the heaviness will return later, right now, I am loved and I am supported and I want to stay for as many days as I can count.