Page 100 of Possibly Texas

Another shower was had, though this time I wasn’t shivering. I felt as though the world was a brick oven and I was a pizza being burnt to a crisp. I adjusted the shower knobs so that the water was just warm enough to clean with, but cool enough that it didn’t feel as though it was stripping my flesh from my bones.

After my shower, and the delicate use of my towel to dry off, I couldn’t find anything in my medicine cabinet to soothe my sunburn. So, I slipped on a pair of light sweatpants and a lightweight long-sleeve shirt. In the bathroom mirror, a red-faced demon peeked out at me, cackling hysterically at my hubris.

Downstairs, I scarfed down a bowl of sugary cereal—my favorite—and made my way outside. Jack had already eaten and was working on the table in the yard. On the second step was a bottle of aloe vera gel and a bottle of sunscreen. I glanced over at Jack, but he was still in “ignore the kid mode,” so I snatched up the bottles and bolted back into the house.

I didn’t get far. Once inside the house and in the kitchen, I stripped off my shirt and sweatpants carefully and slathered my body with the aloe vera.

Immediate relief.

It didn’t fix my sunburn, but it soothed my dry, red skin. Made me feel a little closer to human. Before I set the bottle on the kitchen table, I squirted a healthy glob into my hands and rubbed it into my face slowly. A moan of relief escaped my throat as the skin of my face slowly began to feel less and less like sandpaper.

After using the ointment that Jack had set out for me, I slathered any skin that would be exposed to the sun in the sunscreen. Then, shamefully, I made my way back outside. Just as I had the day before, I sat down on the steps—though more carefully this time since my skin felt like it would split open at any sudden movement.

“I’m going to be here,” I said to Jack. “I’ll help you when you’re ready.”

Jack didn’t respond. He didn’t pause his work or acknowledge me.

So, I sat and watched Jack as the morning sun slipped by overhead.

When the sun was directly overhead and sweat was darkening the pits and back of my shirt, Jack suddenly stopped working. He stood by the table for the longest of moments, as though contemplating something deathly important. Finally, when I decided that maybe I should go inside to reapply sunscreen, he looked over at me.

Though he was incapable of making the sound, his whole body moved as though he sighed. He looked at me, waving to make sure he had my attention, and I sat up rigidly. Jack signed “lunch” to me.

“You want me to make lunch?” I asked, a little more enthusiastically than I had intended.

He signed “yes.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to control my voice as I rose from the steps. “Anything okay?”

Jack didn’t sign, but he nodded.

I turned to march up the steps, grimacing at the ass-shaped wet spot I’d left on the steps. I’d actually sweated through my sweatpants, which loaned credence to their moniker.

Inside of the house, in the blissful AC, I threw together two sandwiches and chips on a couple of plates and grabbed two sodas. Lingering to enjoy the AC and dry out a little bit, I spent too much time making sure the sandwiches were stacked perfectly and sliced in two with precision. Before I was ready to face the heat once more—both literally and figuratively—I made my way back outside.

Jack was picking away at a piece of the table with his thumbnail, examining some minor imperfection when I made my way out to stand beside him. At my approach, he glanced over at me, then went back to picking. I couldn’t tell what it was that had him concerned with his work, but I set the plate gently down on the table in front of him.

“Sandwiches and chips?”

Jack gave a quick nod. I set the soda down.

“And a soda,” I said.

Jack snatched it off the table and I froze; afraid I’d offended him. He set it on a hip-high block of wood to his side. He brought both hands up in front of his chest as if cupping the air, not quite facing me, then lowered both hands marginally while bringing his fingers together.

Wet.

“The table is wet?”

Jack jabbed his thumb at the can.

“Oh,” I said, “yeah. Sorry. I didn’t think about that. Sorry.”

He waved me off. I stood there watching him, holding my plate, my soda can tucked under my arm as he concentrated on the table. Jack frowned, his eyebrows knitted together, then turned to face me, though he avoided eye contact. He brought both hands up to mid-chest and tapped the tips of his fingers of one hand against the other like two birds pecking at each other.

I looked down at the table for several moments.

“Yeah,” I said. “It looks even to me.”