Lost Boy

by Tim Green

  “But you said you don’t have a father? Is she your real mom?” The woman was trying to stay patient. “Who can we call to come get you?”

  “I’m Doyle McDonald,” the firefighter interrupted. “Look, he’s upset.” Doyle gave the lady behind the counter a serious look and pointed to the FDNY patch on his sleeve. “I got him.”

  The lady stopped chewing her gum. “We’re also gonna need insurance information from someone.”

  “Let me settle him down and find out who else there is and I’ll get back to you.” Doyle offered a smile of strong white teeth beneath the bushy mustache. “Promise.”

  “Sure,” the lady said, nodding. Ryder wasn’t surprised that the lady accepted the promise of a fireman like a gold coin. Firemen were heroes. Everyone knew that.

  “Who can we talk to about his mom? How she’s doing?” Doyle asked.

  “Someone will be out soon. You can have a seat over there to wait.” The lady pointed to a waiting room before she returned to her computer.

  “Okay. Thanks.” Doyle nodded and steered Ryder to a plastic-covered chair bound together with others in a long row against the wall. They sat down in the two seats that were closest to the double doors where Ryder’s mom had gone in.

  Ryder couldn’t hold still. “I have to see her. I have to.”

  Doyle looked sympathetically at Ryder’s tears. He studied the reception desks for less than a minute before he mashed a finger to his lips, stood, and silently waved Ryder toward the double doors, which hissed open automatically. Inside the doors was a hive of activity—a series of hallways stuffed with medical equipment, patients on gurneys, and nurses and doctors hurrying to and fro.

  Doyle stopped the first nurse he saw. “I need to see the female trauma who just came in. I was at the scene.”

  The nurse took a quick look at his uniform, hesitated when she saw Ryder, but pointed down the hall anyway. “You better hurry, they’ve got her in EOR 3 and they’re gonna open her up.”

  Doyle nodded, took Ryder by the arm, and headed in the direction of the operating room.

  They passed a room guarded by two policemen. Inside, a young man with a bandana around his head screamed in pain while a handful of hospital people tried to hold him down. His lower leg flopped around on its own like a fish and blood was everywhere. Ryder swallowed and felt Doyle’s tug.

  They stopped outside the operating room and its double doors. Ryder was tall for his age, but the windows didn’t let him see in. Doyle studied whatever was going on. His tan face lost some color and his grip tightened on Ryder’s arm. He tugged Ryder aside as a young woman in scrubs emerged with blood spatters on her pale blue mask and hat.

  “How is she?” Doyle asked.

  The doctor looked at Ryder. “He can’t be here.”

  “I know,” Doyle said. “I got him, though.”

  “You should not be here, either,” she said.

  Doyle pointed to the firefighter patch on his sleeve, which everyone knew was as good as a key to the city. “How is she?”

  The doctor shook her head and started off down the hall. “Not good.”

  “Maybe we should wait outside,” Doyle said. “You’re not going to be able to see her.”

  “What about over there.” Ryder pointed to two chairs across the hall. “So we’re closer.”

  Doyle looked around. “Yeah, okay. Good.”

  They sat down and Ryder tried to listen through the doors. All he heard was muffled voices. Once in a while there would be the muted bark of an order. The terror weighed on Ryder, making it hard to breathe. His brain spun like a wobbly top. When a nurse hurried out, they stood up and heard a lot of noise from inside. It didn’t sound good. The nurse didn’t pause, but disappeared, only to come rushing back with someone else.

  Ryder’s heart never left his throat. He could feel it beating there, choking him, but he didn’t move. It might have been twenty minutes or twenty hours. He had no idea, only the vague sense that he had to use the bathroom. Hunger never rose its head. His stomach was closed for business. Doyle worked silently on an iPhone, but stayed beside him, solid as stone.

  Finally, the doors burst open and a handful of doctors and nurses emerged, faces drawn tight, scrubs spattered with his mother’s blood. He knew by the way they undid their masks and whisked off their caps that it was over. He and Doyle stood at the same moment. Their eyes went from him to Doyle.

  Doyle choked out the words. “How is she?”

  Everyone turned to the boss, a small woman doctor.

  She cast a disapproving look at Doyle, then her eyes softened when she saw Ryder and she took a deep breath.

  “She is alive,” the doctor said in a lilting Indian accent.

  Doyle exhaled in a burst of joy.

  Ryder felt his insides relax. Warmth flooded his entire body.

  When he realized the doctor’s face didn’t match her words, though, everything cramped up again. He looked up at Doyle, who saw it too, and frowned at the doctor.

  “What’s wrong?” Doyle asked.

  “Who are you?” The doctor’s syrupy accent rolled the r’s softly off her tongue, the o’s sounding like a song. “You should not even be in here.”

  The other doctors and nurses melted away, leaving just the three of them standing there.

  Doyle put a protective hand on Ryder’s neck. “I’m a fireman, but I’m a close family friend. I’m all they’ve got. This is her son.”

  Ryder only nodded, not happy about lying, but wanting more information about his mom.

  The doctor took a deep breath. “I have another surgery I need to do now. She’s alive, but she’s very sick.”

  “Like, it’ll be a long road?” Doyle asked.

  The doctor stared at him hard, then bit into her lower lip and shook her head. “A short road . . . Her heart is very damaged and things are not working right. I think she will need a new valve, maybe two valves. Her heart cannot continue like this.”

  “Well.” Doyle brightened. “You guys do that all the time, right? Valves?”

  The doctor shook her head. “It can be done, but this is a very difficult area.”

  The doctor gave a worried look at Ryder and lowered her voice. “It is very costly.”

  “What about insurance or something?” Doyle asked.

  “Even if she has insurance, they don’t pay for everything. It’s very complicated. The hospital administrator can explain more.”

  “Well, I can pay for it.” Doyle stuck out his chest. “How much is it?”

  “Something like this?” The doctor’s eyes didn’t waver. “It would be two hundred thousand dollars, at least.”

  “Two . . .” Doyle swallowed and his hand slipped off of Ryder’s neck. “What if they don’t have that kind of money?”

  “These are not my decisions.” The doctor shook her head. “I’m very sorry.”

  “How long do I . . . we have? To get the money?”

  “She cannot go very long as she is. Three, maybe four weeks. Now, I must go.”

  “Can I see her?” Ryder asked.

  “She’s in recovery, then they’ll move her to ICU. You can see her there, but it will be at least another two or three hours before you can go in.”

  “Can she talk?” Doyle asked.

  “She will be in pain, so she will be medicated. She also has a broken femur, three broken ribs, and a ruptured spleen.” The doctor spoke softly. “She might not recognize you. I’m sorry, but she is lucky just to be alive.”

  Ryder watched her walk away.

  Doyle cleared his throat. “Okay, well. You never know what can happen, and she’s okay for now, right? You gotta look at the positives. Come on, kid. Let me get you a soda or something, and maybe we can figure out what we’re gonna do.”

  Ryder followed, his mind still churning over everything that had happened and what he’d just heard. It was like a vat of messy soup. There was still a kind of buzzing in his ears and a fuzziness around the edges of his vision.
Doyle led him back through the emergency waiting room, then outside before reentering the hospital through the main doors. They found the cafeteria. It smelled of cleaning compounds and cheap food. Doyle bought a coffee for himself and a Coke for Ryder. They sat down at a small round table in the corner.

  “You want to take your coat off?” Doyle asked.

  Ryder shrugged. He didn’t care if it was off or on.

  “Now, listen, buddy. There’s gotta be someone you and your mom know. If you don’t have family, you must have had a babysitter growing up, or someone who watches you when your mom has to go out or something? Think, buddy.”

  Ryder shook his head. “Just Mr. Starr, but hardly ever.”

  “Mr. Starr. Great. See? He’s someone.”

  Ryder shook his head. “He can’t do anything and he doesn’t have a phone.”

  “You don’t need a phone. How do you know him?”

  “He lives across the hall from our apartment.”

  “Perfect. See? A neighbor across the hall who’s watched you before. That’ll work. That way you don’t have to go into a foster care home or something while this all gets sorted out. You don’t want to go into a home. Trust me.”

  It hit Ryder like a tidal wave, suddenly and with tremendous force.

  He burst into tears and a moan of terrible pain escaped his throat as he began to sob.

  “Hey, hey. Come on, buddy.” Doyle slid his chair over and put an arm around Ryder’s shoulders. “I don’t know what to say here. . . . I mean, I got no kids or anything. Don’t worry, I guess. It’s gonna be okay.”

  “No! It’s not!” Ryder choked on his words. He could barely breathe.

  “My mom is gonna die!”

  Doyle held on to him awkwardly, and after a while, Ryder had no more tears. He sniffed and Doyle seemed relieved to let him go. Doyle handed him some napkins to clean his face. Ryder shook his head and stood up, not caring about the looks from the other people in the cafeteria.

  “Let’s go to your place.” Doyle spoke in a gentle voice that didn’t match his big, bulky frame. “You can drop off your baseball glove and get out of that uniform, and we can talk to Mr. Starr. Sound good? We got time. We can go there and then come back and see your mom. Okay?”

  “Okay.” As Doyle steered him outside, Ryder looked down at the baseball mitt he’d forgotten was still on his hand.

  Doyle hailed a cab, which took them to where Ryder and his mom lived, a crumbling five-story brick building where they shared a one-bedroom apartment. Spray paint soiled the concrete front steps. An old yellow door showed brown rust around the edges, and the round handle sagged uselessly. The other door was missing completely.

  Ryder felt embarrassed by the shabby entrance. From the darkened hallway came the sounds of shouting and the screams of a baby.

  “Be careful of the railing.” Ryder put a hand on the old thing, carved from wood decades ago, and wiggled it as proof that it wasn’t to be trusted in the least to do its job.

  They climbed the darkened stairway, up all five flights. They heard more shouting and crying and loud music thumping behind doors. Each floor had its own smell, none of them good, even the third where a family from Pakistan cooked exotic meat with spices you’d think might be nice, but they were so rich they nearly made Ryder’s empty stomach heave. Finally, they reached the top landing where they turned right and went to the very end of the hall before Ryder fished the key from his jacket pocket. He kept it tied to his belt on a New York Giants lanyard. He jiggled the key into the lock, letting them into the tiny apartment that was as pleasant a refuge in such a place as to make it almost magical.

  Ryder’s mom kept everything neat and clean, and several glowing floor lamps filled the apartment with a yellow-orange warmth that could almost be felt. The scent of homey spices like cloves, dried basil, and cinnamon from the galley kitchen greeted them at the door. The smells made him think of her. The sight of her pale blue bunny slippers waiting hopelessly on the mat just inside the door made him choke on a fist-sized lump in his throat.

  “Nice little place.” Doyle peered into the living room with its single curtained window, an old leather love seat, a carved golden oak table with matching high-backed chairs, and shelves crammed with musty books from floor to ceiling. At the closer edge of the room was an overstuffed chair with a blue-and-white decorative porcelain reading lamp on a narrow table beside it. “She reads a lot, huh?”

  Ryder nodded wordlessly.

  Doyle pointed to a shelf in the corner, the only one that wasn’t packed with books. Nearly a dozen trophies stood glinting with pride. “Yours?”

  Ryder nodded again. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

  “Okay. Nice. You gonna change?”

  Ryder shrugged and went into the only bedroom. He and his mom each had their own twin bed against opposite walls. He tried to ignore all the normal things around the room as he tossed his glove in the closet, stripped down, and pulled on jeans and a hoodie. He didn’t want any reminders of their normal life. He was already desperately hungry for it. He couldn’t believe this was happening—how stupid he felt for being so angry at his mom. Even the saddest or most irritating moments in his life before now seemed sweet in comparison to what was going on. His “now” was no place to be, and he gave himself a little curse for taking everything for granted.

  So, he ignored the split personality of the room. Her side was painted pale pink with tiny purple flowers on the wall and lace pillows on her bed. On the nightstand was a decorative antique lamp. On his side, the walls were off-white and sported his own team pictures amid posters of Derek Jeter, A-Rod, and Mickey Mantle as a sign of respect for the team’s great tradition. The cover on his bed and the pillow were both speckled with the Yankees logo. Baseball trophies of many sizes and shapes crowded the top of his dresser.

  He shook his head and kept his eyes on the floor, returning to the living room the instant he was dressed.

  Doyle replaced the book he’d been studying to its empty spot on the shelf. “So, where’s this Starr guy?”

  “Okay. He’s across the hall.” Ryder led Doyle back out into the hall and threw the bolt so the door to his apartment wouldn’t close behind them. He knocked on the next door over and waited.

  “Maybe he’s not home?” Doyle stroked his mustache.

  Ryder shook his head and found his voice. “No. He’s always home.”

  “Always?”

  “You’ll see.” Ryder knocked again.

  The screech from within was muffled, but clearly unwelcoming. “Who is it?”

  Ryder put his mouth to the crack and shouted. “Mr. Starr? It’s Ryder.”

  There was some muted thumping, then silence for several minutes.

  “I think he’s coming,” Ryder said.

  “You do?”

  Ryder nodded because he now heard the faint high-pitched whisper of a motor that slowly approached from the other side of the door. There was a bump against the door and some indistinct cursing from within before the locks rattled over and over again.

  Finally the rattling stopped and the motor sound backed up before Mr. Starr shouted, “Well? Come in!”

  Ryder grabbed the knob, turned it, and swung open the door. Doyle made a small sound of surprise at the sight of Mr. Starr.

  Mr. Starr glared at them from where he sat rigid and upright in his wheelchair, his big dark eyes made bigger yet by the glasses he wore. His face was frozen in a mask of discomfort, drawn down at the corners of his mouth and eyes, his head stuck in an immovable tilt that suggested either disgust or retreat. The lopsided skull beneath his pale scalp sprouted thin black strands that looked more like damp thread than hair, and both his arms seemed stuck at uncomfortable angles. One wrist was more crooked than the other.

  “It’s not polite to stare.” Mr. Starr’s lips had all the flexibility in the world. “Even if your brain works slow. I’ve found most firemen have slow brains. It’s not a career for the quick-witted, running into burning buildings. .
. .”

  Ryder shifted uncomfortably because there was no tone of joking in Mr. Starr’s voice. “Mr. Starr, my mom had an accident.”

  “Well, she’s a careless young woman, what do you expect?”

  “Hey.” Doyle put a hand on Ryder’s shoulder. “I think you can be nice to Ryder. Aren’t you a friend?”

  “Friends?” Mr. Starr glared, unblinking. “I am relied upon in emergencies only. I don’t have friends.”

  “She was hit by a truck.” Doyle sounded bitter and offended. “She’s in the hospital.”

  “What truck? Your truck?” Mr. Starr’s eyes burned with mean delight when Doyle winced.

  “No,” Doyle said, “not my truck.”

  “But your truck had a hand in it.” Mr. Starr struck the arm of his chair and kept talking. “Racing through the streets, blaring your horn, causing others to run down innocent people? I’d rather have fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva. . . . Oh . . . I already do.”

  Mr. Starr stared and Doyle obviously didn’t know what to say.

  “Your truck?” Ryder couldn’t help asking, and he suddenly wondered if that was why Doyle was being so nice.

  Doyle’s mustache quivered but nothing came out of his mouth for a moment before he said, “There was an accident. Look, can you watch him for a few days while we sort things out?”

  “Can he stay in his apartment with the door open and I stay in mine—with the door not wide open but unlocked—until his mother gets better so that social services doesn’t whisk him away to a foster home where he’s beaten or neglected? Is that what you’re asking?”

  Doyle gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

  The mean look on Mr. Starr’s face didn’t change, but it never did. His eyes shifted to Ryder, and Ryder stared back, trying not to cry while he waited for an answer.

  Ryder’s mom always said that inside Mr. Starr’s frozen and twisted body was a person who used to run and laugh and smile. She said that person didn’t get to come out very much but that was because he was shackled in pain from his disease. That was the word she used, “shackled,” and Ryder knew it meant bound by iron rings and chains. So he had learned to feel sorry for Mr. Starr because he couldn’t imagine being in so much pain and—like his mom—he didn’t let the mean words Mr. Starr often used hurt him at all. His mom said they were like bullets from a Nerf gun and that’s how he should think of them.