Who’s Sad?

*NOTE: There is some mild language.*

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“Let’s play a game,” she says.

I give her that look. The look like she’s either a sick bitch or a moron.

“Not that kind of game, you perv.” She yawns and itches her arm. “I was thinking of a game my gramps used to play with us kids.”

“Sounds genius.”

She does that nose-puff laugh thing. You know, the one where you mouth is shut, but you can’t or won’t make it stop. That laugh.

“It was, in a way.”

She gets up out of the triple-hand-me-down recliner. I swear to God a cloud of dust got up with her. Somehow, she gets to the bookcase, the one that’s sagging against the fake-faux wood paneling. Layers of crap—newspaper, dirty laundry, used tissues—don’t trip her. She pulls a way outdated encyclopedia off a middle shelf and flips through it. I guess she found what she wanted, because she brings it over. Without falling over the garbage dump of a room.

“It’s called ‘Who’s Sad?’” she says.

“The book?”

“No, smart ass. The game.”

I knew that.

“I knew that.”

“I figured.” She turns the book so I see a photo of twenty or thirty people posed as a group. “Anyway, Gramps always said you can tell who’s happy or sad by their eyes. Everybody’s supposed to smile, but no matter how hard they try, sad people can’t hide it.”

“So?”

“So, you complained how people are always hiding how they really feel. Well, I think the same rule holds for people who’re pissed or just plain lying. If everyone took the time to really look at the people around them, they’d see more.”

“You don’t say.”

She blows air out through her lips. “Just try it. Pick who’s sad. Make up a story about that person.” She pushes the book closer to me.

“Fine.”

I snatch the damn book out of her hands. The caption is lame. It says the group traveled to India for a fortnight—who the hell says that anymore?—to help the poor. Blah, blah, blah. I look at a few of the grinning dweebs. Young. Idealistic. Totally lame. College kids with dreams intact. Naïve dumbasses.

Then I see a guy in the back row close to the middle. A fake smile is plastered on his oval face, but the rest of his expression is blank. Sad or just numb? Hard telling. I point to him.

“What’s his story?” she asks me.

I shrug. “Hell if I know. You’d think he’d be happy he was doing good like the others.” I poke at her donut belly—doughgirl gut. “He was out there trying to fatten up poor people.”

“Maybe he saw things differently from everyone else.”

“Since when are you the philosophy queen?”

She shrugs back at me and goes back to the recliner. Springs creak as she drops in. “It’s part of the story. He’s unhappy for a reason.”

“Maybe he caught his girl screwing some jock.”

“Could be. He escaped by joining a charity mission.”

I fling the book at her. It hits her shin and lands face down. Not too many pages are creased.

“Nice, Kate. Real mature.” She carefully retrieves the book and closes it.

“I aim to displease.”

“Clearly.”

She gives up on me, like all the other nights. Still, she manages to smile as she helps me down the hall to where she has to give me a bath. That’s the worst. You’d think I’d be able to do that much, but I’ve just about drowned myself every time I tried.

“Why don’t you just quit?” I ask for the millionth time, as she’s helping me dry my dead legs.

“I like helping. It’s a job.” She smiles, like always.

“Thank the martini idiot who hit me for your check.”

She pauses, frowns. “Hey. Don’t start that again.”

I’m too tired to argue. Being down a lung and stuck in a chair will do that to a girl. Besides, that’s one wise crack I didn’t mean to let slip. She calls my doc when I get like this. Lucky you, I think at her. At least you can walk and breathe.

“Get some rest, Kate. I’ll clean up before Susan comes in.”

The crap in the living room will be gone in the morning. Like always. I chuck things when I get mad. The caretakers fix it.

“Hey,” I say.

She looks at me from the bedroom door before killing the light. “What?”

“You happy?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I look into her eyes and see the truth.