Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

by Sweany, Brian;

“You going to get that?”

  “Yeah.” Jack reaches inside his pocket. He flips open his phone, reads the text message.

  “Well?” I say.

  Chapter one hundred one

  I offered to help, but Jack insisted on paying for the abortion. He gathered some items from the attic and sold them on eBay. Most of the items were mine—one complete collection of late seventies Mattel Shogun Warriors, one unopened 1980 Kenner Star Wars Droid Factory, one well-used Atari 2600 game console—but I didn’t make a big deal out of it. He was up to two hundred seventy-five dollars, still twenty-five short of where he needed to be, with nothing but some old comic books—also technically mine—left to his name.

  We pull into the parking lot at Sal’s Comic Barn, a giant aluminum-sided box in Greenwood. Empire Ridge is just too damn nosy for something like this. Local boy tries to unload some things in a pawnshop, and people talk. Here in Greenwood, Jack is just a nameless kid trying to scrounge up petty cash.

  Sal’s Comic Barn is a familiar place to me. I was an avid comic book collector beginning in second grade and ending in puberty. My last two years of collecting in the seventh and eighth grade were largely spent arguing with Sal, his store only two blocks away from Our Lady of Perpetual Help.

  The comic books are individually wrapped in clear vinyl sleeves. We each carry a stack tucked under our arms as we enter the store. Sal sits behind the counter, a middle-aged paradox with an old-man comb-over and teen-profuse acne.

  “Hank Fitzpatrick?” Sal says, brushing the remnants of his barbecued pork sandwich off his face. He sticks a toothpick in his mouth. “Is that you?”

  “Been a while, Sal.”

  “Twenty years if it’s been a day. How’s it going?”

  “My son here is just looking to unload some comics.”

  “Your son?” Sal says, looking at Jack, then at me, then at Jack again. “Looks to me like he could be your brother.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We get that a lot.”

  I nod to Jack. He nods back and places the comic books on the counter. Sal eyes them one by one. He retrieves one book, then another, and another. He slides seven of them back across the counter.

  “How much for these?”

  I grab the comic books, shuffling them as I pretend to assess their worth when I already know their value down to the penny. “Detective Comics numbers three hundred thirty-seven through three hundred forty-three. Good picks, Sal.”

  “They’re okay, I guess.” He shrugs. “I’ll give you twenty bucks for all of ’em.”

  “Twenty bucks?” I say. “How stupid do you think I am?” I drop the comic books on the counter one at a time, smacking them with the back of my hand to emphasize each point.

  “The first appearance of Martian Manhunter.” Smack.

  “…winner of six awards for comic book excellence.” Smack.

  “…both Archie Goodwin and Walter Simonson were recognized for their work in this series.” Smack smack.

  “…the artwork, some of Simonson’s earliest stuff, continues to be hailed as a masterpiece of page layout and storytelling.” Smack smack smack.

  “Yeah yeah yeah.” Sal waves a dismissive hand. “Take it or leave it.”

  We could have easily got fifty for them if we had the time or inclination, but like most seasoned comic book collectors, Sal’s superpower is smelling desperation.

  “Come on, Sal. Can you at least come up to thirty? For old time’s sake?”

  “I’m running a business here, not a charity.” Sal rubs his patchy attempt at a goatee. He cracks a smile, a barbecue-stained row of what I like to call “summer teeth”: some are here, some are there.

  “Then how about twenty-five?”

  “Deal!” Sal says with shamelessly obvious haste, as if to let me know he fucked me over. He throws the money on the counter. “Nice doing business with you, Hank. Try not to be such a stranger.”

  “See you in twenty years, Sal.”

  He laughs us out the door.

  Chapter one hundred two

  We picked Caitlin up at 8:00 a.m. The hour-long drive north to the clinic in Indianapolis passed in complete silence save for The Bob & Tom Show on the radio. I tried to laugh at some of the jokes. Jack and Caitlin didn’t.

  Ours is only the third car in the parking lot. Save for the nearby hum of morning rush hour on the interstate, there’s an eerie quiet to the place. With its mustard-painted vertical siding and faux fieldstone, the clinic reminds me of our family pediatrician’s office. Jack only switched from his pediatrician to a general practitioner last year. Babies having babies.

  I open the door for them both. The inside of the clinic is also like any other doctor’s office. The required minimum six tropical plants. A faint antiseptic odor. Old copies of Glamour.

  “Are you eighteen years of age, miss?” the nurse at the front desk asks. I can hear her voice just above the din of Christopher Cross’s “Sailing” that crackles out of a blown speaker on the ceiling. The nurse has a large jaw and big breasts, with wide hips perched on oddly lean legs, kind of like Sally Spectra in The Bold and the Beautiful.

  “Yes, I’m eighteen,” Caitlin says. She produces her driver’s license from her back pocket. With her free hand she reaches over and gives Jack’s hand a squeeze. Jack tries to give her a reassuring smile, but he doesn’t quite get there.

  For a few seconds, I see myself in Jack’s place. Laura standing at the counter handing the nurse her identification. The nurse giving her a clipboard of papers and saying, Thank you, Ms. Elliot. I’ll go make a photocopy of this. You can have a seat and fill out these papers.

  “What is all this?” Caitlin asks.

  The nurse points to the clipboard. “The top two sheets are your patient history and your written consent to perform the procedure. The third is the consent to administer anesthesia, which you’ll take in with you and sign after the anesthesiologist explains everything to you. They’ll call your name shortly.”

  Caitlin fills out the forms, Jack sitting beside her. I flip through a worn issue of Glamour with Britney Spears on the cover. Between the how-to pictorials on breast exams and the underwear ads, I used to find Glamour to be a surprisingly adequate visual aid.

  “Caitlin,” the nurse says from a cracked-open door to our left.

  “Yes,” she says.

  Caitlin stands up, squeezes Jack’s hand one more time. He wants to go with her, but he knows that is impossible. His eyes start to well with tears. When it matters most, he can’t be there for her, and it’s breaking his heart. Jack seems to have figured out the part of the equation I was always missing as a teen: the part about how to do a little more honoring and a little less coveting.

  Caitlin lets go of his hand, disappearing behind the door. The nurse sits back behind the front desk. “Sir,” she says to Jack.

  “Sir!” she says again, louder this time.

  “Huh?” Jack says. He looks down to realize he’s standing there with his hand on the doorknob.

  “You can’t go back there.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “It’d be nice if someone would at least tell me what was going on.”

  I stand up from my chair. “You mean you don’t know, Jack?”

  “Not a clue.”

  The nurse shakes her head. I look at her. “Can I have a copy of that third form you handed Caitlin?”

  “Why?” she says.

  “Do I need a reason?”

  She hands me the form. I hand it to Jack. “Sit down and read this.”

  I sit next to Jack, looking over his shoulder. I try to imagine what Caitlin is going through. Is this what Laura would have gone through had she not chosen to deceive me? Dear God, how can I be mad at her now? She didn’t betray me. She saved me.

  CONSENT FOR ABORT
ION

  I hereby direct and request the physician from Women’s Freedom, LLC to perform a suction aspiration abortion. If any unforeseen circumstances arise, or are discovered during the course of the abortion, which call for procedures in addition to, or different from those contemplated, I further request and authorize the physician to take whatever measures he/she deems medically necessary.

  I assume the first thing Caitlin does when she enters the operating room is take off her clothes.

  I understand that the purpose of the procedure is to terminate my pregnancy, but that no guarantee has been made to me regarding the outcome of this surgery.

  Caitlin is repulsed by her own body. More than that, she thinks to herself as she rubs her ever-so-slight pooch belly, it has betrayed her.

  It has been explained to me that, in rare instances, the pregnancy is not terminated and, if that happens, further treatment may be necessary at my expense.

  The anesthesiologist enters the room. “Hello, Caitlin,” he says. He offers a limp-wristed handshake, an empty gesture on behalf of a palatability this situation can never have. He explains what he’s about to do to her. She signs the consent form, hands it to him.

  I understand the procedure is done by suction aspiration of the uterus.

  Ten minutes later, the doctor and the nurse from the front desk enter the room. “Good afternoon, young lady,” he says to Caitlin, dispensing with the pleasantries and getting right to it. “This will be a lot like a pelvic exam or Pap test, so I need you to lie down on the exam table, please.”

  I understand that the risks involved include, but are not limited to, perforation of the uterus with possible damage to abdominal organs…

  “Just relax. I’m inserting a spectrum inside your vagina.”

  Hemorrhage…

  “I’m now going to clean the vagina and cervix with an antiseptic solution.”

  Blood clots in the uterus…

  “You should be feeling the effects of the local anesthetic that was administered.”

  Allergic reaction to the local anesthesia…

  “You will notice a numbing sensation in your cervix.”

  Cervical tear…

  “And the Misoprostol should be kicking in any second now to dilate your cervix.”

  Infection…

  “Okay, I’m inserting a thin, hollow tube into your cervical canal.”

  Hysterectomy…

  “The cramping is unavoidable, but it’ll all be over shortly. I promise.”

  Sterility…

  “Your cramping should gradually subside now that the tube is out. What’s that? You need to throw up? Nurse! Please help her.”

  Emotional reaction, both long and short term, to the termination of my pregnancy…

  “Feeling better? Let’s run through our recovery checklist.”

  If I experience any complications that require emergency medical care, I understand that I am financially responsible for the cost of said care.

  “You’ll have irregular bleeding and more cramps for the next two to three weeks. You should only use sanitary pads for the first week. No tampons, got it?”

  I agree to see additional care promptly, if advised to do so.

  “You’re welcome to take ibuprofen or acetaminophen for the cramping and the pain, but absolutely no aspirin.”

  I have been told that, as an alternative to abortion, I may choose to continue this pregnancy and either parent may have custody of the child or elect adoption.

  “No sex for one week.”

  I agree to read the aftercare instruction sheet and contact Women’s Freedom, LLC if I experience any of the symptoms listed on said sheet. I further consent to the disposal of any tissue removed from my body during the abortion.

  “Other than that, I think we can agree that this was a fairly painless procedure, right?”

  I hereby release the physician and staff from any and all claims arising out of, or connected with, the above procedure or any resulting complications and expenses.

  “Have a nice day.”

  I certify that I have read and fully understand this consent. I further state that consent is given without coercion or duress.

  “Bye now.”

  After about a half hour, Caitlin was wheeled back into the waiting room. Hunched over, limp, like she had been poured into the chair. Jack pushes the wheelchair to the car. I open the rear passenger-side door and offer my hand to her. She grabs my hand and stands, her knees wobbling. She steadies herself, looks over her shoulder at Jack.

  “Paperwork,” she says.

  “What’s that?” Jack asks.

  “Forgot to fill out the paperwork. Gotta go back. The receptionist said I need to fill out something else.”

  “You two get in the car,” I say. “I’ll take care of this.”

  I throw open the door to the clinic. The nurse is standing there with a piece of paper in her hand, evidently expecting me. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but we need to just—”

  “Inconvenience? That’s what you call this?”

  “Please, sir, calm down.”

  “Listen, lady, I don’t need to calm down. I want to know why it is you want that young woman out there to fill out more goddamn paperwork.”

  “We don’t need her to fill out anything.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s this about?”

  “It’s her blood type. Ms. Caitlin is Rh-negative, and so we had to administer a shot of RhoGAM after the procedure.”

  “Roe what?”

  “RhoGAM.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s short for RHO immune globulin. We administered it to Caitlin because the fetus was Rh-positive. If some of the red blood cells of the fetus leaked into her system, her body could produce antibodies to the Rh D factor—a condition called sensitization. Without the RhoGAM shot, these antibodies would cross the placenta and potentially destroy the red blood cells in the next Rh-positive baby she has, killing the child.”

  “Look, I just want to get out of here. What can I do to take care of this?”

  The nurse hands me the invoice. “I’d prefer to just bill Ms. Caitlin and not bother her about this today, but she won’t give us a mailing address.”

  I look at the invoice. “So basically you need fifty more dollars.”

  “Yes,” the nurse says. “That covers the cost of the RhoGAM shot.”

  I pull out my wallet, extracting two twenty-dollar bills, a five-dollar bill and five one-dollar bills. I slam the money on the counter. “Take it.”

  Caitlin is the second person I know with an Rh-negative blood type. The other person is my mother. Mom discovered her blood type on the day I was born; Caitlin discovered hers on the day someone wasn’t.

  2007–2008

  Chapter one hundred three

  When I was a child, Dad kept a Laser in our garage. It wasn’t the five-megawatt weapon of mass destruction like the one invented by Chris Knight and Mitch Taylor in Real Genius, the greatest Val Kilmer movie no one remembers; rather, it was a small fiberglass cat-rigged sailing dinghy. Dad taught me to sail when I was six years old, and for one perfect summer, we went out at least twice a week on Eagle Creek Reservoir, the long and narrow man-made lake on the west side of Indianapolis that had strict horsepower limits, which kept away all the beer-swilling, nautical-illiterate powerboaters.

  Later, that following spring, Dad took the Laser down to the Gulf of Mexico for our family’s spring break. We went out sailing one day on the front end of a storm. Mom watched as Dad and I came flying into a lee shore, the shore that was facing into the wind. The storm front was closing, wind and salt spray roaring over our backs. A wave caught the bow just right, pitch-poling our boat. The Laser flipped end over end, the aluminum mast
snapping in half after getting stuck upside down in a sandbar. I nearly drowned. When we drove back to Indiana, the boat—and Dad’s nascent hobby—stayed in Florida.

  A lot went through my mind when I saw my gay neighbors Oscar and Marshall park the beat-up sailboat in their driveway with a For Sale sign. What were two gay guys who were both afraid of the water doing with a sailboat? What was the over-under on how long it took the HOA to send them a strongly worded warning letter? Was she seaworthy? And most importantly, how pissed was Beth going to be after I bought her?

  As it turns out, Oscar and Marshall were selling the boat for a friend. The HOA waited a whole two business days to send the letter, which when you factored in the time it took to actually mail the letter meant it was sent out almost the instant the boat appeared. Not only was she seaworthy, she sailed beautifully. And yes, Beth was way fucking pissed.

  The boat is called a Highlander. Twenty-feet long, with about two hundred seventy-five square feet of sail between the jib and main, plus a three hundred–square foot spinnaker, she’s a lot beefier than Dad’s old four-meter, one-sail Laser. I named her Heather—after Connor MacLeod’s first wife in the movie Highlander, obviously.

  I’ve been trying to turn Beth into a sailor, but she’s having none of it. We’re a month into the summer. This is already our third weekend on the water, and I think it might be Beth’s last. I’m skippering the helm at the moment, doing my best to guide my first mate.

  “What do you mean, grab the sheet?” Beth says. “The only sheets I see are the sails.”

  I point to the left side of the boat. “The jib sheet to port. Just cleat it off.”

  “What side of the boat is port again?”

  “The left side,” I say. “Remember, ‘port’ and ‘left’ have the same number of letters.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “So grab the sheet already!”

  “What sheet?”

  I take my hands off the tiller and grab the line running from the clew of the jib back into the cockpit. I attach it to the portside cleat. “This sheet.”

  “You mean the rope?”