Photographic artwork by Kris Saknussemm
We're here for Bobby, we're here for Bobby, we're here for Bobby, I repeat to myself, trying to keep the lid on the constantly simmering pot of rage in my stomach. A few years ago, people might have said Bobby was "autistic," but now everyone on iTik these days is saying they're autistic, so the word doesn't mean much anymore. You're easily overwhelmed by horrible noises? You're probably autistic. It's like if we're all autistic, are any of us autistic? I'm not a doctor, but what I mean about Bobby is he has a narrow window of interests and never makes eye contact with any of us. When we can do something that might interest him, my whole family piles into the car and goes.
"bell hooks is a judgmental bitch," my mother says from the front seat, her elbows resting on her knees and her feet on the dash. She's still reading All About Love even though dad, Bobby, and I have all begged her to quit. Dad must have seen it in the bookstore front and center with its gorgeous red cover and thought with the word "love" in the title, he could only gain more from buying it.
"I don't think we should speak that way about the dead," Dad says.
My mother slams the book shut and turns the radio up, drowning him out. A soothing NPR radio voice reports they've opened the new underwater Disney World in Orlando. Bobby asks if we can go, and my mother immediately snaps that we can't afford it. I get it, she doesn't like being confronted with her own limitations. Me, neither. Despite her pissy mood, the day is full of promise. Sitting behind her, it's hard not to imagine my fingers reaching out and flicking her in the back of her head. My fingers reach for my earlobes instead, feeling the hard masses where my ears are pierced, squeezing until my eyes prick.
Bobby's playing a game on his phone with the sound on, shooting and killing something. Dad rolls down his window as the car approaches the gate to Stone Lake.
"We're here for the garage sale," he says.
The green-haired attendant smacks her gum as she opens the gate, and we are inside. Stone Lake has one garage sale per year, and the other 364 days it remains impenetrable to non-residents, lined with "No Trespassing" signage. Mom wants to snoop around and see what the rich people in this neighborhood will sell, but as I mentioned before, we are mainly here for Bobby.
Back before Bobby was born, there was a river near our apartment complex. Back when there were rivers. It was called Little something... it started with a P. Let's go with Little Patookus. Everything was wet back then, and there were blue-tailed skinks around every summer. Bobby is obsessed with them, but he has never seen one. It's been too dry outside of Stone Lake for them, but maybe there will be some behind the gates. There are no natural lakes in Maryland, but Stone Lake is the last human made one. Even Deep Creek dried up. It's easier to save something when it is literally owned by specific human beings. Go figure, I guess all that fencing serves a purpose.
Closing my eyes, I try to remember Little Patookus. It used to rush, its levels rising with every sudden rain. It used to smell like decay, but in a delicious way, reminding you it was alive. Kind of like smelling your own farts. It used to be so loud, you couldn't hear anything else. My eyes open as my dad pulls the car behind an ancient Tesla with a plate that says "ERTLVR." My mom holds her hand out to Bobby, who doesn't look up from his killing game. She clears her throat, and Bobby sighs, handing the phone over.
"I want you to be present," she draws the last word out in a way that makes me want to slit my throat or hers. "After all, we did come here for you."
Bobby's a quicker learner than me and knows better than to talk back. He just slinks out of the car. My mother strides confidently up to a woman at a folding table. My father, Bobby, and I head in the opposite direction to the walking path. My belly hurts as I take in the houses in this neighborhood. They are enormous and could each easily fit several families of people who liked each other. The sun looms above us, critical and attentive. We have been outside of the car for three minutes, and my pits are already soaked. Suddenly Bobby's sweaty palm is in mine, and he asks, "Do you know why they have blue tails?"
The path ascends a small, grassy hill. Remember grass? Un-fucking believable. I try to practice gratitude that there's even a chance Bobby's going to see a blue-tailed skink thanks to these rich, self-preserving assholes.
I screw my face up like I'm thinking hard about his question.
"Beats me, why do they have blue tails?"
"They are blue so they will attract the predator's attention."
"Wouldn't they want to hide from their predators?"
The view is coming, so I watch Bobby closely as we begin to approach the lake. His dark eyes finally leave the pavement and widen at the sight of the lake. It's all cliffs and watercolor reflections of the blue sky and the tree line surrounding it. Remember trees? It has that delicious decay smell, and I feel an urge to bury my hands in the dirt around the path.
The three of us descend to a fishing pier. Remember fish in lakes? Bobby plunks himself stomach first on the pier and reaches his hands into the water. Dad's face is red, and he looks uncomfortable, like he might cry, like that one time we got evicted after he lost his job with the gas company. I weave my arm through his and rest my head against his shoulder.
"Why does Mom always have a stick up her ass?" I say, which makes him laugh.
"I don't think we should curse," he says.
"Sorry." My arm unlaces from his, and I sit next to Bobby and stare at my reflection in the lake.
"She's done a lot for this family, you know that, right?" his reflection looms behind mine as he steps closer.
"Why can't someone do a lot and not be a buzzkill?"
Bobby shakes himself from his trance and asks, "Can we go look for the skink now?"
Dad tells Bobby he should look on the ground for leaves or fallen branches. He says he read this a long time ago in a book about "herping."
"What does looking for skinks have to do with herpes?" I ask.
Dad explains that herping is searching for reptiles and amphibians, and I imagine myself sleeping on the grass as Bobby flings leaves and fallen branches everywhere. Dad tells Bobby he needs to slow down to not startle the skinks. I tell Bobby they used to come out for me when I least expected them, when I was sitting on the hammock reading a book. We search for what feels like hours. My mother has texted Dad 12 times requesting his input on various purchases. Appliances destined for the landfill and last season's decor. She's gotten so old-fashioned and deferential after her time as the breadwinner. Dad's gotten so cautious after the eviction. It's like they are both in a constant stalemate when it comes to decision-making.
I lift a dry, gray stone, and underneath finally find one. It's shriveled, unmoving, but the tail is unmistakably blue. Bobby's five steps away, and I try to catch Dad's eye, but his eyes are on his phone as he texts back my mother. I imagine him saying something passive like, If you think it's practical. Before I can decide what to do next, Bobby is investigating the dead skink. His fingers delicately pry the skink from the dirt, and he holds it softly in his hand.
"It has to be alive," he whispers in the sweetest and smallest voice I've heard from him since he was a toddler.
"I don't think it is," I say, trying to be consoling, trying to reassure him as if the world isn't on fire.
"Maybe it needs some water," he says, his pleading eyes meeting mine. His eyes match the lake: wet, shiny, and seemingly impossible.
My hand reaches to my waist pack for my water ration. I pour a few drops into Bobby's cupped hands over the skink. Bobby holds his breath. I hold my breath. Years pass, and we are still holding our breaths.
