Alive

Chapter 11

Oliver

(Monday, May 6)

"I know, Mom." I sink down to the floor in my apartment. Press my back against the door. "I've been doing a lot better."

"Honey," she says, sighing, "you don't sound better. You've been taking the pills Dr. Briggs prescribed, right?"

"I have," I say. "I was just sick the past couple weeks. Missed a lot of work."

There's a silence, and I'm trying to rack my brain for something more convincing to throw at her. Something. Anything... Then there's scuffling, a deeper tone somewhere across the room. Shit. I've been on speakerphone. And that's Dad. More scuffling.

"Oliver." It's his voice now, replacing Mom's close to the speaker. "Asking for money, again?"

"It's been months," I say. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't need it."

"Hm," he grunts, like whatever I say means nothing. "How's college going? Enjoying the dress-up games?"

I roll my eyes. Grit my teeth. But I don't say anything. Any other time and I'd have it out with him. But I need things to go well. I need this.

"How much do you want?" He drops the mocking tone. But it's still shitty. "Fifty? Seventy?"

Fuck him. He's not stupid. Rent's $940. I swallow.

"Two hundred," I say. It's the most I can ask for right now. Anything higher, and he'll demand a copy of my budget. Which doesn't exist. He whistles anyway, like I've asked for a thousand.

"Must've been really sick," he says. "What did you have this time?"

Here we go. He's still talking, referencing all the times I couldn't get out of bed for class in high school. Middle school too. My whole life. I don't know. But he never bought it, no matter what diagnosis my mom showed him. If my brain's sick, I just need to outsmart it, right? Man up. Put my damn clothes on, and be responsible.

"This is the last time," I say, cutting him off. "I swear. Just give me this, Dad. Please."

I have to close my eyes. I can't look at myself right now. I hate begging. I also hate the way Mom speaks to him. Pleading with him like I'm a two-year-old and he's a monster trying to eat me. He's not a monster. The guy's a genius. Running a massive programming company that he single-handedly built back in college. Then there's me. His heir, or whatever you want to call it. Who can blame him for his disappointment?

"Two hundred," he says, heaving a sigh. "I'll throw an extra hundred in for your phone bill. Three hundred. How's that?"

Shitty. Like the sound of his voice, patronizing and irritated.

"Yeah," I say. "Thanks."

"I'm wiring it over," he says. "By the way..." There's movement on the other side of the line. He's walking, and the next time he speaks it's like he's in a small room. "Have you put more thought into our last conversation?"

I thought he was joking. That website was shady as fuck.

"Not really," I say.

"You should," he says. "They're still looking for volunteers. People like you."

I want to hang up. I almost do.

"Just consider it," he says. "They're a respectable company. Revered in the pharmaceutical world."

"Yeah, but why would I need treatment?" I ask, raising my voice. "There's nothing wrong with me, right Dad?"

"Oh there's something wrong with you," Dad says, through a laugh. "You're just not man enough to fix it on your own. I'm beginning to see that." He sighs. "Probably Margaret's fault, the way she coddled you."