Riley Park

by Diane Tullson

  Every muscle in my body goes stiff. My teeth bang down, my lips crank back, my neck is like wire rope. It’s the worst pain, and in every muscle, every single muscle. I fall backward and I can’t stop myself, can’t even put my hands out to break the fall. The pain of the Taser is like my body is the puck on the end of a slap shot, and the slap shot never ends. I call out to the cops to stop. I’ve never felt anything hurt so badly, but I’m totally aware of the cops. It’s like I’m watching them in a movie, a really scary movie, and I can’t move to turn it off. They’re talking to me, telling me to calm down, and I’m screaming at them to turn it off, just turn it off.

  I don’t think it’s ever going to stop. I’m going to die. But then it does. The pain vanishes. The cop with the Taser says, “That was five seconds, big guy. Do you want another?”

  Five seconds. The pain is gone, and at first all I feel is relief. I roll into a ball on the ground. I’ve never been more exhausted, like I’ve just done a week of training camp. Five seconds. Do I want another? I decide that the cop doesn’t actually mean for me to answer that question. I tell him to screw himself. But I watch the cop’s hand on the Taser and I am careful not to move.

  Cops are all around me. Some are putting on disposable gloves. I guess it’s because of the blood—they don’t want to catch anything. I hear a cop near my head. He sucks in a breath and says, “Nasty.” I guess he’s talking about where the bar hit me. I’m not really sure. But the paramedics are here and I’m getting strapped onto a board and I can’t feel much of anything at all. I just wish the pounding would stop, that someone would make it go away, that awful pounding in my head.

  Chapter Four

  The cop leans over the gurney as the paramedics wheel me into the emergency room. He has his notebook out, asking me questions, and he talks funny, which I mention.

  The cop gives me a look that makes me regret the comment. “That’s because you loosened my teeth,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t have hit you,” I say. “It’s just that I thought you were these guys.”

  “These guys.”

  “These guys. There were three of them. I don’t know who they were. They just showed up, started beating on me and Darius.”

  Darius.

  “Where is Darius?” I ask.

  The cop glances at the paramedic, then back to me. “The kid on the ground?”

  I nod.

  “He’s your friend?”

  No, I just get into fights defending random strangers. “Yes, he’s my friend.”

  The cop writes something in his notebook. “The docs are with him now.” He wipes his nose and winces, like he forgot that he just got hit in the face. He says, “These guys, you don’t know who they are?”

  My head is pounding. “No.”

  “Why do you think they came after you?”

  I think of Rubee. I say, “I have no idea.”

  The cop looks at me. “So you and Darren were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Darius.”

  The cop looks at his notebook.

  My best friend. The guy who has been my friend longer than anyone. “My friend, his name is Darius.”

  “Darius,” the cop says. “Right. So you and Darius don’t have any connection with these guys.”

  “Right.”

  “How many guys?”

  “Three. I told you that.”

  “What were they wearing?”

  I replay the scene in my head. Everything appears as gray. Gray clothes. Gray skin. Gray steel. I say, “Do you mean were they wearing colors, some kind of gang?”

  He shrugs.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  My head is pounding so hard I’m surprised the cop doesn’t hear it too.

  The paramedics wheel me into a curtained cubicle. A nurse appears, and she’s gray too, her gray hair held back in a ponytail. She snaps on new gloves and greets the cop. “Hey, Rex. Nice goal your son made last game.”

  Rex. The name makes me think of a bulldog. I snort.

  Rex is a mind reader, apparently. He turns to me and says, “That’s Officer Rex to you.”

  The nurse takes a chart from the end of the gurney and flips it open. She speaks to me while she reads the chart. “How much did you drink tonight?”

  “My head hurts.”

  She moves up beside my head and peers into my eyes. She recoils, using the chart to fan the air in front of her face. “I’d say you had a fair bit.”

  Officer Rex says, “His head is cracked open at the back.”

  Without moving my head, the nurse peels up the bandage and the pounding gets louder. “Nice. Looks like he’ll need surgery.” She looks at me. “We’re going to have to get rid of what’s in your stomach.”

  I’m wondering what she means, when she holds up a package. Inside the package is a length of clear tube.

  Officer Rex grimaces.

  The nurse nods at the paramedics. One moves to each side of the gurney. The nurse opens the package and fits an end on the tube. Then she squirts on a blob of clear gel. “If you don’t fight this, it won’t be so bad.”

  She pries open my mouth and jams the tube to the back of my throat.

  My eyes fly open and I gag, but I can’t clear the tube. I can’t breathe. I reach for the nurse, but the paramedics clamp my arms. I gag again, and the tube slithers into me. I can feel it, actually feel it moving in my gut. I start to puke.

  Officer Rex steps back from the gurney.

  The nurse vacuums the spew out of my mouth. “We’re in.” She eyes the orange liquid coming up the tube. “Looks like hot dogs.”

  I puke again, and the puke tastes like tube and the gel crap, which tastes worse than puke, if that’s possible.

  The back of my throat is on fire.

  I retch, wishing I could expel the tube, wishing I could reach in and yank it out, wishing I could get the paramedics off my arms and I’d rip that tube out and I don’t care if my entire stomach comes with it.

  The nurse puts her hand on my chest. “Easy.”

  Does she know I can’t breathe?

  My eyes fill and I taste snot streaming from my nose.

  Get this thing.

  Out.

  Of.

  Me.

  One of the paramedics has broken into a sweat. The other is practically sitting on me. The nurse adjusts the tube. I retch again.

  “That’s going to feel better,” she says.

  For who? The tube is red hot, nuking my puke, searing my throat.

  She clicks off the pump. She looks at me with warning in her eyes. “Do not move.”

  And the tube is out. Even the paramedics seem relieved. She hands me a paper tray and I spit the last of it. My throat feels like I just drank gasoline. I suck air until my lungs hurt.

  On the other side of the curtained partition, a monitor starts to beep. I hear someone yell, “Crash cart!”

  The nurse swears softly, peels off her gloves and disappears around the curtain.

  Officer Rex moves next to me.

  I hear the sound of running feet and a cart.

  “Clear!”

  Officer Rex is watching me.

  Again I hear it. “Clear!”

  Officer Rex speaks quietly. “He’s going to be all right.”

  Who?

  From behind the curtain, I hear, “Stay with us, Darius!”

  Darius.

  I look at Officer Rex. His eyes flick from the curtain to me, back to the curtain.

  “I need to see my friend.”

  “Not now.”

  “No. I really need to see my friend.” I wrestle one arm free of the straps.

  One of the paramedics calls out, “We’re going to need some help in here!”

  I’ve got the other arm free, and I’m just about off the gurney when the nurse appears. Her hair has come loose from the ponytail and hangs damp on one side of her face. She sets a syringe against the inside of my arm.

  Maybe it�
�s in my head. Maybe it’s Darius, but I hear the drone of a heart monitor flatlining.

  My veins are cold steel. Officer Rex swims in front of my face. And then there is nothing.

  Chapter Five

  The nurse is adjusting a bag of fluid that hangs over my bed. My eyelids feel like lead. I struggle to open my eyes wide enough that I can see her. The nurse looks down at me and then glances at the clock. She moves to the end of the bed, opens a clipboard and makes a note. “Nice to see you awake, Corbin.”

  I blink, trying to clear my vision. It’s not the nurse from the er, the one who pumped my stomach. This nurse is small with dark hair.

  “Where am I?”

  She looks at me and smiles. “What did you say?”

  I try to clear my throat. It feels like the sides of my throat are stuck together. I’m in the hospital. That much is clear. Around me, machines beep and blink. I can’t see another bed—I must have my own room. What I want to know is where is Darius? I work a tiny wad of spit down my throat. “Water.”

  The nurse moves to a table by the bed. She fills a plastic cup partway with water, then puts a bending straw into the cup. She holds the straw to my lips.

  It’s warm, but it tastes sweet, like the best thing I’ve ever drank.

  “Slowly,” the nurse says.

  As if on cue, water goes down the wrong way and I cough, spitting water across the sheet.

  She says, “You’ve been out for a while. The surgery was more complicated than the doctors expected.” The nurse puts the water back on the table. “Your parents were here. We just sent them home to rest.”

  I bring my hand in front of my face. I notice a tube taped on top of my hand. The tube connects to a needle piercing my vein. My fingers feel stiff and my hand itches where the needle sticks in. I lift my hand to my head.

  The nurse says, “They had to open your skull. The surgeon will be in later to talk to you.”

  They had to open my skull? That can’t be good. When I touch my head, all I feel is tape.

  I say, “Did they put it all back?”

  The nurse looks at me, her eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry?”

  “My brain.”

  She still looks confused.

  “Never mind. It was a joke.”

  The nurse checks my pulse and then bustles around the bed, straightening the sheet.

  I say, “I need to go see Darius.”

  Her hands pause on the sheet.

  I repeat, “Darius. He came to the hospital when I did. We’re friends.”

  Her tone softens. “You’re our only patient in the ICU.”

  The ICU. Intensive care. That’s where they put you if you’re really screwed. Darius was worse off than me—he’d be in intensive care too. I say, “If Darius isn’t in the ICU, maybe he’s in the regular U.”

  Again with the eyebrows.

  “Could you please just check? His name is Darius...”

  She sighs. “Why don’t you wait until your mom and dad come back?”

  “Why? What will they do that you can’t do?”

  The nurse puts her hand on my arm. I don’t know why that bothers me so much, but I want to flick it off. She says, “Your friend.” She takes a breath. “He didn’t make it.”

  Now her dark hair is fading to gray, and I see the emergency room nurse, and I hear the heart-rate monitor from behind the curtain. Darius’s heart-rate monitor. And I remember now the sound it made when his heart stopped.

  I swallow. “No, you’re wrong. They started his heart. Maybe he’s in the heart ward or something.”

  The nurse pats my arm, and now I am pissed off. She says, “Corbin, your friend died.”

  I bat her arm so that she knocks the water cup over. I blink again and again. Now there are two dark-haired nurses, now three, swimming in front of my face. “Get out.”

  She picks up the cup and sets it on the table. “I’ll just get some paper towel and mop that up.”

  I scream, and my throat feels like raw meat. “Get out!”

  The nurse presses a button on the wall.

  “Out!”

  Another nurse throws open the door. Right behind her I see the square shape of Officer Rex. He says, “Good. You’re awake.” He strides up to the bed. “You need to answer some questions.”

  He pulls a notebook from his pocket. Something shines on his front teeth. It looks like he’s wearing braces.

  I say, “She said Darius is dead.” I motion with my hand to the nurse.

  Officer Rex nods. “That can’t really surprise you.”

  I swipe tears from my eyes.

  Officer Rex hands me a tissue. To the nurses, he says, “Leave us for a few minutes, would you?”

  When the nurses are gone, he turns to me. “You were pretty mad at your friend.”

  “No.”

  “That’s what people are telling me. That you and Darius had a fight.”

  “What people? Jason? He wants my starting spot on the team. He’d do anything to drag me down.”

  “Maybe you’d like to beat up Jason too.”

  “I would, but I didn’t beat up Darius. I told you what happened. We got jumped, or Darius got jumped and I happened to be there.”

  “Wrong place at the wrong time.” He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Seems pretty severe to just randomly beat a guy. Makes sense that there’s a reason.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Like, how can this make sense?”

  He shrugs. “It makes sense that about ten people told me you roughed up Darius earlier in the evening. It makes sense that you got drunk and passed out.” He scratches his head with the pen. “Your prints are all over the weapon.”

  “So, what, like I cracked open my own head?”

  “You fell when you got Tasered.”

  “Someone hit me in the back of the head.”

  “Did you see who hit you? Maybe Darius hit you. Maybe you gave back a little better than you got.”

  I am suddenly so tired. “I’m going to tell you everything, okay? I just have to know. Is Darius dead?”

  He nods. “He died yesterday morning. Twice they restarted his heart. The second time, he hung on just long enough for his mom to get here.”

  A man in green scrubs opens the door.

  Officer Rex puts the notebook back in his pocket. He turns to me and says, “Now it’s a murder charge. Better get yourself a lawyer.”

  Chapter Six

  Officer Rex moves back from the bed. The man in green introduces himself as the surgeon. He shines a light in my eyes and then flips open the clipboard at the end of the bed.

  The surgeon says to me, “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  But Darius is dead.

  He says, “Whoever did this to you, they wanted to do some real damage.”

  I glance over at Officer Rex. His eyes narrow.

  The surgeon continues, “You received a high-energy direct blow to the skull, small surface area, with a blunt object, probably a baseball bat.”

  Officer Rex steps up. “Or a steel bar.”

  The surgeon shrugs. “Or a steel bar. Centrifugal spread of fragments from the point of maximum impact—”

  Officer Rex interrupts. “What?”

  The surgeon sighs. “Corbin took it straight across the back of the head, basically. The assailant was at least as tall as him. Depressed open fracture, contaminated, with ensuing hematoma—”

  Again, Officer Rex breaks in. “As tall as Corbin?”

  The surgeon nods. “Maybe a bit taller, but not much.”

  Darius is shorter. Was shorter.

  The surgeon takes a breath and continues. “I can only tell you what the injury tells me. Fracture pattern, type, extent and position determine causative force. Assessment of sustained injury indicates epidural hematoma.” He closes the clipboard and,

  finally, looks at me. “We went in and elevated the fracture. The next few weeks will tell us the extent of damage to the brain. You’ll be in icu until we assess the risk of seiz
ure.”

  Brain damage? Seizure?

  “No physical activity that might compromise the injury,” the surgeon says. “No alcohol or drugs.”

  I find my voice. “I have hockey practice.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Uh, hockey would be a physical activity that might compromise the injury.” Then, like he’s sorry for making me sound like an idiot, he says, “No contact sports. No running. A brisk walk is good.”

  “I’m on the starting line in our next game.”

  “No hockey.”

  “I’m getting scouted.”

  He shrugs. “No hockey.”

  I say, “How long before I can play?”

  The surgeon returns the clipboard to the end of the bed. “Don’t push your luck.” He goes to the door and pulls it open. “We saw more of your brain than we ever like to see.” He pauses, like he’s considering what he’s about to say. When he speaks, he sounds tired. “With this kind of trauma, it’s not just the injury. If we could fix the other stuff, then we’d be doing something.” He leaves and the door closes behind him.

  Officer Rex clears his throat. “So your friend wasn’t tall enough to do this to you, and it didn’t happen when you fell. Looks like you were attacked.”

  “I’ll cancel my call to the lawyer.”

  “Not yet. You’ll be charged for resisting arrest at the very least. And if I get my way, you’ll pay for this dental work.” He bares his teeth to reveal metal bands on his top and bottom teeth. “It’s a splint. Temporary, I hope. Apparently it will keep my teeth from falling out. The guys at the station say I have braces. They think it’s hilarious.”

  I say, “It was an accident. I thought you were one of them.”

  He retrieves his notebook from his pocket. “One of them. Who would that be?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. I’ve never seen the guys before.”

  “This kind of attack isn’t random,” he says. “You pissed someone off in a big way. Good thing a neighbor called in a complaint that your fire was so big you were going to burn down the park. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have shown up. You might be dead too.”

  I think back to the night. It plays in black and white. “We went cliff jumping, me and Darius.”

  I think about how, when we jumped, we were so close I could touch him. If I reached out my hand, I would have been able to touch his shoulder.