Lost Boy

by Tim Green

  “She was?” Ryder had no idea.

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, she’s in our system. Had her tonsils out, actually, and while she was here she filled out a DNR.”

  “DNR?” Ryder looked at Doyle, whose face had suddenly fallen.

  “Do not resuscitate.” Doyle spoke softly.

  “Right now, for Ruby to have a valve replacement would technically be elective surgery. She won’t need the valves until her heart fails. . . .”

  “But,” Doyle said, staring intently at the doctor, “when her heart fails, she’s got a DNR that won’t let you bring her back. But she can change that, right?”

  “If she were coherent, yes,” the doctor said. “It’s all about timing. If we take her off the morphine, the pain alone would stress her heart tremendously. She might not come out of it. She’s like a . . .”

  “A time bomb.” Doyle immediately looked sorry he’d said the words.

  The doctor nodded. “I know it’s disturbing, but that’s right. I’m sorry.”

  “So, some people get to buy their life if they’ve got two hundred thousand dollars lying around, but the rest of us die?” Doyle growled.

  The doctor shook his head. “No. That’s not true, but in this instance, with these facts and the DNR, there’s no one who will pay for the transplant until her heart actually stops.

  “Honestly? Having two valve replacements isn’t a walk in the park. So, even if she hadn’t signed the DNR, she’d still be in a bad spot.”

  “But with the DNR, she’s . . . it’s . . . ,” Doyle said. “But, if we had the money . . .”

  “Hey, there was a woman last year who made it like this for six months.” The doctor was trying too hard. “And miracles happen every day, so . . .”

  “But, what’s real?” Doyle asked. “How long can she go without the new valves? A month?”

  The doctor sucked in his lower lip and shook his head as he lowered his voice. “No, not with the way this is going. Honestly, I’d say two weeks. Maybe three.”

  They left in a daze.

  Ryder rested his head against the truck window, listening to Doyle argue frantically on the phone about using the FDNY name to raise money. He was talking with his union rep, urging him to fight the department on his behalf. It sounded like he was getting nowhere.

  “Okay. Okay, but you’ll try, right? You promise? You’ll try. . . . Okay. I know. . . . I know. Okay. You gotta try, though. . . . Call me when you hear.” Doyle huffed and slapped his phone down on the seat between them.

  Ryder’s head bumped against the glass when they hit a pothole.

  “Sorry. Didn’t see that.” Doyle looked over.

  Ryder said, “Two weeks.”

  “Maybe three.” Doyle’s voice dripped with hope and goodwill. “Positive thoughts, right?”

  “What about Thomas Trent?” The question had been building up inside Ryder since they’d left his mother’s hospital room.

  “I have no idea.”

  “You said before that it was a long shot,” Ryder said.

  Doyle pulled the truck up alongside a fire hydrant beside Ryder’s building. “Ryder, you don’t even know if this guy is really your dad. You go off and get yourself in all kinds of hot water trying to get into Yankee Stadium.”

  “I was robbed and then I was desperate.” Ryder felt his blood start to boil. “If he is my dad, that’s not even a lot of money for him. He makes that in a week.”

  Doyle stroked his mustache. “I don’t know. It might work.”

  “Because you can’t raise the money.” Ryder’s words came out sounding meaner than he meant them to.

  “I can. I know I can. It’s just the timing, see? Two weeks, I mean, it’s gonna take me that just to fight these guys about the name. Crap!” Doyle slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I’ve heard lots worse.” Ryder stared at the street, the cars and people passing with no idea that his mom was going to die.

  “We should try this.” Doyle perked up. “You never know which path will lead to success, so you try them all.”

  “Did you make that up?” Ryder asked.

  “No. Read it in one of those books, but it stuck with me. Come on. Let’s go get you some clean clothes. You’re starting to smell like my dog.”

  “You got a dog?”

  “Brutus. He’s a Dalmatian. I’m a fireman, right? We should pop in on Mr. Happy, I mean Mr. Starr. He might have some other ideas on contacting Thomas Trent. Maybe through the team or his agent or something. Maybe he could use the wheelchair bit to get some access. You know, play on their sympathies?”

  Ryder followed Doyle out of the truck. He looked at the fire hydrant, but Doyle marched right past without noticing. They mounted the stairs and were huffing by the time they reached the top. Doyle stopped in front of Mr. Starr’s door.

  “You better not say that stuff about the wheelchair,” Ryder warned.

  “Oh, he can insult me, but I gotta tickle his ear because he’s in a chair?” Doyle wrinkled his face. “Give me a break. The guy’s a crab. I don’t care if he’s in a chair or has a gold medal for winning the hundred-meter dash. I treat everyone the same.”

  Doyle knocked, loud.

  “Leave me alone!” Mr. Starr screamed even louder, enough for Ryder to wince and cover his ears. “I told you, there’s no Stephen Starr here!”

  Doyle shook his head and shouted through the door. “It’s us!”

  The chair whirred from within, coming closer and closer until it stopped and the lock rattled. The door swung open, banged Mr. Starr’s chair, and shut again.

  “Stupid door!” Mr. Starr pulled it open again, hooking it with a claw and glaring up at them. “So, they let you loose?”

  They followed him into the living room. The chair spun around suddenly. “Armed robbery? You had a knife?”

  “No.” Ryder shook his head violently at the craziness of the story. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Didn’t think so.” Mr. Starr glared at Doyle. “The incompetence of these government workers never ceases to astound me.”

  “See?” Doyle looked at Ryder.

  Ryder sat on the edge of the couch along with Doyle and told Mr. Starr everything that happened.

  Mr. Starr’s eyes widened and softened as he heard the part about Doyle rescuing him from a foster home, or worse.

  Ryder finished with the part about his mom and the doctor’s report.

  “Well, the fireman is right about one thing.” Mr. Starr’s head seemed to tremble. “We need to try.”

  “See?” Doyle nudged Ryder. “I’m right.”

  “But you’re wrong about another thing. A big one.” Mr. Starr seemed almost pleased.

  “What’s that?”

  “You can’t save her with your fireman’s fund scheme. You’ll never get that done.” Mr. Starr spoke with unwavering certainty.

  Doyle seemed nervous, and when his phone played a tune, he yanked it from his pocket like it was on fire. “Hello? Yeah, I know. I know I’m on duty. Where? At the neighbor’s with the kid.”

  Doyle listened and his mustache quivered before he grunted and hung up. “That was Derek. Social services isn’t happy with the judge’s ruling. They’re investigating my relationship with Ryder. Guess they spoke to the school and decided you aren’t going to fit the bill as a guardian.”

  “Meaning?” Mr. Starr asked the question Ryder wanted to ask, but was afraid to hear the answer.

  “Derek’s holding them off down at the station, but they want to talk to the chief.” Doyle pounded a fist into his open hand and gave Ryder a grim look. “After they do that, odds are they’re going to take you away.”

  Ryder stared hard at Doyle. “Is Mr. Starr right? You can’t raise the money? In time?”

  “I . . .” Doyle’s mouth stayed open, but no more words came out.

  “Would you bet her life on it?” Ryder asked quietly. “Two hundred thousand dollars?”

  R
yder watched Doyle’s face turn red. “I can’t promise. No.”

  “So, that makes it easy,” Ryder said.

  Mr. Starr narrowed his eyes. “Easy?”

  “Yes.” Ryder had never been more certain of anything in his life. “Now we know there’s only one thing we can do. We’re going to Atlanta.”

  “I can’t go to Atlanta.” Doyle pointed to his own chest. “Then I really will lose my job.”

  “Who said you?” Ryder asked.

  “Well, not you.” Doyle huffed.

  “Not just me.” Ryder put a thumb in his own chest before pointing. “Me and Mr. Starr.”

  “Him?” Doyle wrinkled his brow.

  “I don’t think I can do this without a grown-up,” Ryder said. “Mr. Starr is the best choice anyway. He used to be a crime reporter. An investigative reporter.”

  Mr. Starr’s face glowed.

  “Yeah, but . . . how can you get around?” Doyle threw his hands in the air.

  “I think disabled people can go anyplace they want to,” Ryder said.

  Mr. Starr wheeled the chair toward his bedroom without comment, motor humming. “Come on, Ryder. Help me pack.”

  Ryder glanced at Doyle, who seemed totally flustered, and then he followed Mr. Starr into his bedroom. Mr. Starr instructed Ryder where to find a duffel bag in the closet and then had him pull the dresser drawers open one at a time to transfer certain clothes into the bag.

  Doyle appeared and leaned in the doorway with a frown. “And what? You’ll just wheel that thing up to Thomas Trent’s front door?”

  “If we have to.” Ryder stuffed four pairs of socks into the bag.

  “I really can’t go.” Doyle stroked his mustache.

  Mr. Starr cranked his chair a quarter turn to look at the fireman. “We don’t need you to go, Doyle.”

  “You called me Doyle.” Doyle tilted his head. “And you don’t sound crabby. Don’t try and guilt me into this.”

  “I’m being serious,” Mr. Starr said. “Ryder’s right. We can do this, and, if you go meet the social services people at your fire station, we know we’ll have time to make our escape. You’re the distraction. I won’t call you live bait.”

  “But . . .” Doyle didn’t finish.

  Mr. Starr raised a crooked hand, extending a single finger in the air. “Ryder’s right. He and I can do this. A kid with a sick old man in a wheelchair? That’s as good a formula for getting to meet a sports star as anything. Not even a fireman can beat a wheelchair-bound old man and a kid.”

  Doyle grinned and nodded and Ryder knew it was because that was exactly what Doyle was saying in the truck outside. Ryder felt better that the two adults in his life right now agreed. It gave him hope.

  “Do you need some money?” Doyle asked.

  Ryder looked to Mr. Starr. “Do we?”

  “No, but thank you. I have a credit card with a big limit because I always pay my bills on time,” Mr. Starr said.

  “Can you fly on a plane in . . . your condition?” Doyle asked.

  “No. But we can take a train. The Crescent line goes from New York to Atlanta every morning.” Mr. Starr advanced his chair with a little leap toward Doyle as if to challenge him. “Do you think you can keep the social services people at bay for twelve hours or so?”

  “I think I can throw them off your trail.” Doyle grinned.

  “Yes, fortunately,” Mr. Starr said, “like most civil servants, they’re not apt to be that bright.”

  “There he goes again.” Doyle threw his hands up and gave Ryder a disgusted look. “Just when I think we’re on the same team.”

  “We are on the same team, but for every star a team has, they’ve also got a bunch of third-string substitutes.” Mr. Starr stared without blinking.

  “And I’m supposed to be third string?” Doyle shook his head. “I’ve heard it all now.”

  “Get going, already,” Mr. Starr said. “Everyone has their role. Tell us if we’re going to have to rush out of here and spend the night in Penn Station. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll assume we can get a good night’s sleep before our trip.”

  Doyle reached over Mr. Starr and handed Ryder a card he’d taken from his wallet. “I’ll be on duty until after you two take off. All my information is on this. You call me when you get there, okay?”

  Ryder pocketed the card and nodded. “Please check in on my mom.” He took a deep breath. “And tell me if there’s any change.”

  Doyle nodded and squeezed past the chair and started down the stairs.

  As the footsteps faded, Ryder suddenly felt uncertain about their plan. He looked at Mr. Starr, bent and twisted in his chair, practically helpless. Then, he looked down at his own twelve-year-old arms and legs and wondered if going without Doyle was a huge mistake.

  Amy Gillory had switched her schedule and arrived in the morning. Neither Ryder nor Mr. Starr acted like anything was out of sorts. The Crescent train left Penn Station in the afternoon. When the nurse had gone, Ryder filled a duffel bag with clean clothes and his toothbrush and some toothpaste. He also took some snacks from the kitchen.

  “You have the signed ball, right?” Mr. Starr had already packed his own things and had wheeled himself into Ryder’s living room.

  Ryder dug it out of his pocket. “I never let go of it.”

  “I’m glad you have it,” Mr. Starr said. “I think it’s our silver bullet.”

  “Isn’t that to kill monsters with?” Ryder asked. “A silver bullet?”

  Mr. Starr puckered his lips. “I suppose, but it’s a saying that means like your secret weapon. Something to get the job done in a big way.”

  Ryder picked the TracFone up off the kitchen table.

  “I think I may need you to dial Ashleigh Love for me,” Mr. Starr said as Ryder slipped the phone in his pocket.

  “Your other nurse? Do you need her?” Ryder held up the phone.

  Mr. Starr’s face reddened a bit. “If we’re going to be gone for a few days, I do need her to make some adjustments for me, yes.”

  “Will she try to stop you?”

  “She might try and talk me out of it,” Mr. Starr said. “But she’ll do what I ask. She’s too kind not to.”

  “Is this . . . are you going to . . . are you okay to do this?” Ryder asked.

  “Do we have a choice?”

  “Mr. Starr, I . . .”

  “I’ll be fine.” Mr. Starr sounded mean again. “Just dial the girl, will you? 917-555-6344.”

  Ryder dialed and held the phone up to Mr. Starr’s ear. He could hear Ashleigh Love’s voice. She did ask him not to go and Ryder got to hear all about how he needed his therapy on a daily basis to keep the blood flowing through his body and keep him from getting sick. In the end, she agreed to meet them between jobs at the train station and get Mr. Starr fixed up as best she could for the trip.

  “If you’re gone more than a week, you’ll have to see someone down there,” Ashleigh said.

  “I know that,” Mr. Starr snapped. “We’ll see you at the station, next to the Starbucks. I’ll buy you a latte.”

  Ryder hung up and stuffed the phone in his pocket.

  “Well, you might as well start wheeling this thing. It’ll save the battery. Take me to the service elevator and we’ll hope the super has stayed sober enough to keep at least one thing around here working right. It’s the reason the state let me stay in this godforsaken dump—that elevator, and the fact that I know for certain the landlord gets an extra three hundred a month from Social Security because of it.”

  Ryder grabbed hold of the handles sticking out from the back of the chair and put his weight behind it, surprised at how easily it moved and nearly ramming Mr. Starr into the wall.

  “Easy!” Mr. Starr barked.

  “Sorry.” Ryder backed up, but too fast so that he bumped into a table next to his mother’s reading chair. The porcelain lamp wobbled and fell in slow motion. Ryder grabbed for the shade, but the base swung into the wall, smashing into twenty pieces.
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  “Oh my God.” Ryder stared at the blue-and-white shards and what was left of the lamp. “It’s her favorite lamp.”

  “Things break,” Mr. Starr said. “Come on. Leave it. We’ve got a train to catch.”

  Ryder did as he was told and walked away, uncertain, from the mess. Carefully, he eased Mr. Starr out of the apartment, then up the hallway, turning right toward the lift. They passed several apartments with no tenants because of water damage so severe that the floor had supposedly rotted clean through. Ryder had always been forbidden from the area. His mom said it was dangerous. At the end of the hall Ryder could see where an original wall had been torn down, exposing the service area and the elevator’s wide metal doors. On the metal frame was a round button.

  “You gotta pound on it to get it to work,” Mr. Starr said.

  Ryder made a fist and thumped the button. Nothing happened.

  “Harder.” Mr. Starr sounded impatient.

  Ryder struck it again.

  “You gotta hit it like five or six times, real hard,” Mr. Starr said.

  Ryder pounded on it until a little yellow light went on and he could hear the gears and cables working behind the doors. When the elevator arrived and the doors swung open, its floor was a good six inches below where Ryder stood. He looked at Mr. Starr for direction.

  “You gotta back me in.”

  Ryder did, and when the chair banged down onto the elevator floor, Mr. Starr only said, “Good.”

  Ryder pushed the button for the first floor. The door shut, the elevator jerked, then dropped as if the cable had snapped. As they plummeted down, Ryder could only think of his mom and that he was going to beat her to heaven by two or three weeks.

  The elevator banged and stopped, dashing Ryder to the floor, then rattled and bumped and started to go down again, smoothly this time.

  Mr. Starr laughed. “One day it’ll snap. When we get back from this, I’ll have to remember to put you and your mom in my will. You can sue the landlord and the city for wrongful death. They know this thing is ready to go.”

  “You should have told me.” Ryder couldn’t help being angry.