“Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember talking to Robby?”
Monty looked away and moved his eyes towards the ceiling, focusing on a fly that was circling just below the corner of the wall. His stomach began to turn as the images flashed across his consciousness like the pieces of a puzzle that he didn’t want to solve—the accident, the liquor store, the phone call with Robby, the pills, the booze, the straps, the catheter, the men in blue polyester uniforms. He lifted his arms and pulled against the straps that were binding him—the corners of the fabric had now cut red lines into his skin. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. Why was he still here? Why was he still strapped down?
He turned towards his dad, his lips quivering, his body shaking, the pain from the straps shooting down his arms. “Dad?”
“Yes? What is it?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for you, Monty.”
“But why—I mean, when? When did you get here?”
“Early this morning. Your mother and I came as soon as we could.”
“What? Mom’s here? Why? I don’t understand.”
His dad turned away and put back on his glasses, his thin, sun-dried lips quivering like a frightened child’s. “Well,” he said, trying to maintain his composure, trying to be the man Monty knew as a kid—the man who never showed any emotion, who believed that crying was a sign of weakness. “Robby called us and told us what happened. We got out here as quick as we could.”
“Why am I still strapped down like this? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Monty. I don’t know.”
“I can’t move, dad.”
“I know, son. I know.”
“I can’t move.”
“It’s okay.” His dad stood up and moved towards the doorway, his brown dress shoes scuffing against the hospital floor. “Let me see if I can get someone.”
“Wait—where are you going? Don’t leave me here, please.”
“I’ll be right back. Let me just see if I can get the nurse, okay?”
“Please don’t leave me.”
“I’ll be right back, I promise.”
His dad turned away, shuffled through the doorway, and left Monty alone, alone with his thoughts. He tried not to think about the straps around his wrists and ankles, but it was impossible to do when they were on so tight. They were like barbed wire, their sharp, serrated edges cutting into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, digging deeper and deeper with every slight tug.
He could hear his dad’s voice in the hallway, talking to a woman with a high-pitched, nasal whine. Gradually, the voices became louder, until it seemed they were right inside the room. Then, Monty caught a whiff of an oppressively strong perfume that smelled like one of those rose-scented Glade Plug-ins. He opened his eyes. A woman was standing beside him, a nurse, but a different one from the night before. This one was Latino, short and stubby, with thick globs of eyeliner like the legs of a tarantula jutting out from her eyelids. She moved beside Monty and adjusted the bag of fluids hanging from the metal stand parked behind his head. “Good morning Mr. Monty,” she said, without acknowledging him, inspecting the series of tubes running out from underneath his gown. “And how are we feeling today?”
What? Was she kidding? How did she think he was feeling? He was strapped down to a bed.
“Do you know where you are Mr. Monty?”
“Yes, my dad said—”
“You’re at the Denver County General Hospital. Do you remember how you got here?” She hobbled to other side of the bed and punched in some buttons on the machine that was beeping by his head. “You came in an ambulance, Mr. Monty. Your blood alcohol level was at a 0.5.”
“Is that high?” his dad said, moving in from the doorway, his hair-covered arms crossed tightly over his chest.
The nurse laughed as if something was funny, as if this was all one big, fucking joke. “Yes, Mr. Miller. The lethal limit is 0.4. Your son is lucky to be alive.”
Lucky? What the hell was she talking about? He wasn’t lucky to be alive. He was supposed to be dead.
“How much longer does he have to stay in those restraints?” his dad asked.
The nurse picked up the clipboard from the little plastic cubby, then licked the tip of her finger, and started flipping through the pages. “Let’s see, it looks like we did two blood tests—one last night and one this morning—around five.” She checked her watch and mulled over the numbers. “That means we should be getting the lab results back within the hour.”
“And then what?” his dad said.
She popped the clipboard back into the cubby then moved back to the machine beeping beside his head. “And then, if his alcohol levels are low enough, we should be able to get the keys to the restraints and have Mr. Monty ready for discharge.”
“Discharge? Really? So soon?”
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t you think he needs to stay here for a couple more days for monitoring?”
What? Monty looked up at his dad. A couple more days? What was he talking about? Was he insane?
The nurse chuckled. “I’m sorry Mr. Miller, but this is a hospital, not a hotel.”
“Excuse me?” his dad said, uncrossing his forearms, a green vein the size of an extension cord protruding from his leathered forehead. “What did you just say to me?”
The nurse took one look at his dad and her silly grin quickly vanished and her posture stiffened like a frightened cat. “I’m sorry Mr. Miller, I didn’t—”
“How dare you. How dare you say that to me. You see that kid right there? Huh?” He shot out his arm and pointed at Monty. “You see him?”
The nurse glanced back behind her and solemnly nodded. “Yes sir, I see him.”
“That’s my son, alright? He’s a human being for Christ’s sake. Not some number on your god damn chart.”
“Yes Mr. Miller, I understand, I’m very—”
“He deserves to be treated with a little respect.”
“Mr. Miller, please lower your voice. We have other patients on this floor besides your son who are trying to rest.”
His dad threw his head back and let out an insane, little chuckle. “Oh, I’m sorry, but are those other patients strapped down like my son is? Huh?”
“No sir, they are not, but—”
“But what? Why do you have him locked down like this? He’s my son for Christ’s sake. He’s not a god damn criminal.”
“Mr. Miller, if you just lower your voice, then I’ll explain.”
His dad withdrew and unbowed his shoulders, folding his arms back across his chest. “Okay, fine, explain.”
The nurse let out a deep sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Miller…”
“Yes? I’m waiting.”
“Mr. Miller, your son was out of control last night. He was a danger to himself and to the employees of this hospital. We had to take immediate action. It was either the restraints or we call the police and let them deal with him, which I know is not what you or your son wanted. Is it?”
His dad didn’t say anything and just snorted. His nose was turned up so high it looked like it might disappear into his forehead.
“Now, like I said, I will go and check with the lab and if Monty’s alcohol levels are down, which I believe they will be since we’ve been flushing saline through him all night long, I will talk with the doctor and see if we can’t get him out of those restraints. Okay?”
His dad said nothing and just scowled at the floor.
“Mr. Miller?”
“What?”
“Is that alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine.”
She turned toward Monty and batted her tarantula-covered eyelids. “Is that alright with you Mr. Monty?”
Monty nodded.
“Okay then, you just sit tight and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
She forced a smile then shuffled towards the doorway, stopping just short in front of Monty�
�s dad. His dad looked down at her in disgust then moved in from the doorway, allowing her to get through.
“Dad?” Monty said, pulling on the bindings, lifting his head up as far as he could.
“Yes, Monty?”
“I’m cold.”
His dad’s face immediately softened—all the rage just melted away. He let out a deep sigh and moved in from the doorway, his shoulders slumped over, his head bowed to the floor. He grabbed the bedding at Monty’s ankles and pulled it up just below his chin. “Is that okay?” he said, looking down at Monty, with a weak, uneasy smile.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Monty quickly looked away and turned his eyes back towards the ceiling. He couldn’t bear having his dad see him like this.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, his dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I need to make a phone call,” he said. “Will you be alright in here by yourself?”
Monty didn’t look at him and just nodded. He could feel the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.
“Okay, just yell out if you need anything.”
“Alright.”
His dad turned away and walked towards the doorway, but just as he was about to leave, Monty stopped him and said, “Wait, dad?”
His dad turned around, holding his cell phone, his eyes moistening like he was about to cry. “What is it?”
“Please get me out of here.”
“I will, Monty. I will.”
Chapter 17
Discharged
HIS dad kept his promise and got him discharged from the hospital around noon. The car ride back to the apartment was eerily quiet, neither Monty nor his dad uttered a single word. Monty kept his eyes shut and his breathing steady, trying not to think about the pain he’d just endured. Every now and then, he’d open his eyes, peer out the window, and watch the snow that was floating to the ground. It was a bleak day. The sun was hidden behind a curtain of hazy, white snow clouds. But it wasn’t dark out—actually, it was just the opposite. The little bit of sunlight seemed to be amplified by the reflection of the snow on the ground. It made his eyes tear just to look at it, like looking through a pair of binoculars directly at the sun. He grabbed his hood and pulled it down over his eyelids, retreating like a gopher into its hole.
About ten minutes later, the car stopped and the engine halted. Monty pulled off his hood and began to look around. Where were they? They weren’t at the apartment. It looked like they were in a parking lot somewhere downtown. “Where are we?” he said, looking out the window at the tall buildings cutting into the sky.
“We’re at the hotel,” his dad said as he cut the engine.
“What are we doing here?”
“I have to get some things.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah, right now. Come on, we’re going in.”
“Can I just sit here until you get back?”
“No. I need you to come in with me. Are you okay to walk?”
Monty grimaced and peeled his head from the headrest then grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. As he pulled himself out of the car, he began to feel woozy, the blood in his head draining down to his toes. Then something rose inside him, something hot and chunky surging into his throat. He fell to his knees and pressed his hands into the pavement, bucking forward like a mad bull. The bile came, sharp and acidic, like a stream of yellow jackets spewing from his throat. He coughed and gagged and lurched repeatedly forward, every vein in his neck about to explode.
His dad rushed around the car and crouched beside him, placing his hand on the back of his head. “Monty, are you okay? Are you alright?”
Monty couldn’t respond. He was right in the middle of it. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. All he could do was bend forward with his mouth open, the bile forming a small pool just beneath his nose. He did a couple more heaves until there was nothing left to vomit—no bile, no mucus, no water, no food. Then, using his dad as support, he pushed himself up, holding his stomach like he was a pregnant woman in labor.
“Monty, are you sure you can walk?”
“Yeah, I can manage.”
“Okay, just take it easy. One step at a time.”
Together, he and his dad walked across the hotel parking lot, Monty hobbling along like an eighty-year-old man. His face twitched, his legs trembled, and the bile began to crust inside the corners of his mouth. A group of valets working under the hotel’s check-in canopy immediately stopped working when they saw Monty and his dad approach. He must look pretty bad, he thought, wearing nothing but bloodstained boxers underneath a vomit-splattered hospital gown. But what was he supposed to do? His dad wanted him to come in with him. Why didn’t he just let him stay in the god damn car?
As they walked under the canopy, the valets started whispering to one another out of the sides of their mouths. But Monty didn’t look at them. He kept his head down and his eyes forward, concentrating as he made his way through a set of automatic revolving doors. Once inside, he followed his dad down a wide, marble-floored lobby towards a bank of gold-painted elevators at the end of the hall.
“You doing alright?” his dad asked, glancing behind him.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, we’re almost there.”
They got to the end of the hall and his dad hit the elevator button, while Monty took a quick breather, resting his forehead up against the wall. The elevator beeped and the doors slid open. Monty stepped in first and his dad followed. Just as the doors were about to close, a group of businessmen came up behind them, smiling, laughing, and telling crude jokes. His dad stuck his hand out in front of the sensors, keeping the elevators doors from closing. “Going up?” he asked.
They were about to get in until they saw Monty, at which point, they shook their heads and said, “No thanks, we’ll take the next one up.”
“Suit yourself.” His dad moved his hand away from the sensors then took a step back as the elevator doors shut.
The ride to the fifteenth floor was unbearably quiet. Monty’s dad looked like a marine standing at attention, his feet pressed together, his hands folded behind his back. Something was wrong. Something was definitely shady. What were they even doing here? What was so important that his dad had to get right now?
The elevator beeped and the doors slid open. Monty followed his dad down a long, dimly lit hall. They came to a door, number 1520. His dad pulled out a key card and shoved it into the metal slot. The red light turned green and his dad removed the key card then turned the knob and opened the door. As they walked into the room, Monty began to get that feeling, like everything in his life was about to come crashing down. And then it did, like a fucking earthquake bringing down a building right on top of his head. They were all there, sitting in the room, waiting for him—Robby, Susan, his mom, and some woman he’d never even seen. Bastards. He should’ve known. It was a fucking ambush. His dad must’ve had this planned the entire time.
Instincts took over and Monty turned for the doorway, but before he could get there, his dad grabbed him by the collar and spun back him around. “Monty!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
“Fuck you,” Monty screamed as he plunged his forearm forward, snapping his dad’s head back against the wall. “Fuck all of you.”
He went again for the door, but Robby was already on him. Like a linebacker, he tackled him, driving him down into the floor.
“Get off of me,” Monty screamed, writhing beneath him, trying to reclaim his arms.
“Come on Monty,” Robby said. “Don’t do this. Calm down. Just calm down.”
“Get the fuck off me.”
“Monty, stop it. Just stop it.”
Robby pressed his knee against Monty’s cheekbone, driving his face down into the floor. Monty tried to break free but he couldn’t—he was too depleted from being strapped down all night long. The more he struggled, the more his body began to wither, like an earthworm shriveling under the scorching, summer sun. Like the air being le
t out of an air mattress, he completely deflated and sunk down into the floor.
“Are you done?” Robby said, leaning over him, his fat knee pressing against Monty’s ear. “Are you finished?”
Monty nodded his submission. He was so tired, he could no longer move.
“If I let you up, are you going to cooperate?”
He nodded once more.
“Alright then.”
Robby slowly peeled his weight off of him, allowing Monty to roll over on his back. He lay for a few seconds just staring up at the ceiling, taking in long, deliberate swallows of breath. Once he caught his breath, he rolled over onto his stomach then, using the wall as leverage, he pushed himself up.
“You okay?” Robby said, looking at him suspiciously, his body positioned between Monty and the door.
“Yeah.”
“You ready to get this over with?”
“No.”
“Well too bad, ‘cause we’re doing it anyway.”
“Whatever.”
Chapter 18
The Intervention
HIS mom was sitting on a couch beneath a window that had a panoramic view of the mountains and downtown. She was crying softly and clutching a crumpled-up piece of tissue that was trembling between her wrinkled hands. Monty did his best not to look at her. He couldn’t bear seeing her like this. Her face was worn, her skin was sallow, and she had deep indentations under both eyes. If Monty didn’t know any better, he’d say she was a junkie, just another hopeless addict looking for the next high. And the worst thing was, he knew he did that to her—he was the reason she looked the way she did. If only he could apologize and tell her that he loved her—tell her he was sorry for all the horrible things he did, then maybe, just maybe she’d stop blaming herself for all of his depravity, maybe she could forget about him and move on with her life. Why was she doing this…trying to make him feel guilty…sitting there, crying, and feeling sorry for herself? This wasn’t her choice. It had nothing to do with her. Why did she always have to make everything her fault?
He clenched his fists and walked towards the sofa keeping his eyes focused squarely on the floor. When he got about halfway into the room, someone called to him with a thick, Texan twang that reminded him of Laura Bush. He turned to his right. A chubby woman with freckles was standing beside him wearing a red, poufy perm and a bright, phony smile. “You must be Monty,” she said with her hand extended, the freckles like leaches sucking on her skin. “My name’s Deborah. How do you do?”
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