Semi-Scripted: A Wanderlove Novel

by Amanda Heger

  “Maybe we should find one of the organizers?” she asked Clint.

  “I’m afraid to move. Maybe we should play dead?” He said the words from the corner of his mouth, every other muscle mannequin-like.

  “No. It will be fine.” She took a step backward. The rat took one forward. One backward. One forward.

  “Not fine. Definitely not fine,” Clint said.

  “I told ya,” Roy said.

  Only a rat. More scared of you than you are of it. Only a rat. Marisol reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of candy. One of the butterscotch discs she kept handy in case of a blood sugar emergency. If she could distract it for a few seconds—

  “Here.” She chucked the candy toward the rat, realizing a second too late that she hadn’t unwrapped it. No matter—the animal’s gargantuan paws tore through the plastic at hyperspeed. “Go.” She took off toward the door with Clint at her heels. They slammed the door shut behind them, leaving poor Roy and his cronies alone with the beasts.

  Marisol leaned against the wall and tried to calm her breathing. Fifteen minutes until she was supposed to go onstage, and she was ready to pack it all in, admit defeat, and hop on the next plane back to Managua. Between the sex tape rumors and the paparazzi in the lobby, she’d screwed up her own chances at the grant. And now giant rats had taken over her presentation room. Clearly the universe was trying to tell her something.

  And she was finally ready to listen.

  “I heard there was a problem with your presentation. That’s so terrible.” Pube Two appeared with a hand to her chest. “Bless your heart. It must be awful trying to juggle the stress of being an Internet celebrity with real work. I guess something had to give, right? It’s probably for the best.”

  Marisol pulled upright, like the woman’s bitchy tone was a marionette string attached to her spine. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I just…” She shrugged, the picture of innocence. “What’s the saying? If you chase two rats you’ll lose them both?”

  Marisol squeezed her fists tight against her side. “You.”

  “You’re welcome. After your little meltdown during our movie last night, I knew you needed a break. This seemed like the best way for everyone. Well, maybe except the rats. But I think they’ll survive. Tough little things. I also went ahead and explained everything to Mr. Peabody. That’s who you’re meeting with this afternoon, right?”

  “Your movie was horrible,” Marisol spat. “Capoeira is Brazilian. I don’t think those people need you to come in and teach it to them.”

  “Tell that to all those little kids with BMIs in the overweight range. No more obese range for them.”

  Clint’s voice cut through her rage. “Marisol? I think you should see this.”

  Clint. She’d forgotten he was there. She wasn’t sure what was more important than giving this crazy lady a piece—or three—of her mind, but Marisol craned her neck to see what he was pointing at.

  Down the hall, past the thick rope someone had put up and the DO NOT ENTER sign, a crowd waited. At least forty people milling around, shuffling their folders and tugging at their suits. People waiting to see her. People waiting to hear what she had to say about diabetes education. People who could take her words and ideas and make an actual difference in their communities.

  “I guess you have some fans after all,” Pube Two said. “Don’t worry. I’ll go ahead and tell them you had to cancel.”

  “Do not tell them anything.”

  “Ta-ta!” Pube Two waved as she flounced away.

  Marisol looked at Clint. It was like the Pube’s deceit had brought everything into perfect focus. “Can you help me?” she asked.

  “As long as it doesn’t involve going back in there with those rats.”

  “Tell those people the presentation is going to be on the patio.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  I’m going to talk to the bartender.”

  “The bartender?”

  “Yes, please hurry.”

  “You’re going to buy everyone drinks?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. I think he’s going to give them to us. After all, I do not think the hotel will want me to call Chuck Taylor from Sizzling Celebrity Scandals and tell him about their rat problem.”

  “Blackmail. Got it.” He pushed forward at a full sprint, easily passing Pube Two and her dainty, designer-shoed walk.

  Marisol shook out her fists and steadied herself for battle. Okay, Universe. Time to shut the hell up.

  • • •

  The smell of hospital invaded his nostrils before Evan made it through the first set of double doors. In the eight years since he’d been here last, he’d managed to forget how much death smelled like fake pine and latex.

  “I’m looking for my grandfather, John Abramson.”

  The woman at the desk took a drink from her giant Styrofoam cup. “Room 413. That’s the ICU, so visiting hours end in”—she twisted her neck to look at the clock behind the desk—“twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks.” He jogged the few steps toward the elevator and pressed the up button at least three times.

  Twenty minutes. Los Angeles traffic plus a flight delay and a resulting missed connection meant he only got twenty minutes to spend with Gramps. What if these were the last twenty minutes? Last Evan had heard, Gramps was still unconscious from the fall. They weren’t sure when he’d wake up again—if ever.

  “You like Los Angeles?” the reception desk woman asked. “I’ve been thinking of heading out there myself. Just got a divorce, always wanted to go, so I figured why not.”

  “Excuse me?” Evan pressed the elevator button again.

  “Los. Angeles. Do. You. Like. It?” She furrowed her brow like he was an idiot.

  “Yeah, it’s good I guess.” Not that he’d be going back any time soon.

  “If I gave you a video tape, do you think you could get it in front of James January?” She pulled out a VHS—an actual, honest to goodness video cassette—and waved it toward him. “It’s a few years old now, and a little bit racy but—”

  Ding!

  Evan couldn’t get on the elevator fast enough.

  Eighteen minutes.

  The doors opened on the fourth floor, and he pushed through the ICU’s swinging doors. He ignored every sign asking him to check in at the nurses’ station and marched straight to room 413.

  “Gramps? Hey—” Evan pulled back the curtain and stopped cold.

  His grandfather lay in the bed, covers tucked to his chin. Around him machines beeped and rattled, and a purple bruise floated along the entire right side of his face. One leg stayed buried under the crisp white sheets, but the other poked out, revealing the heavy cast that covered him to the knee.

  “Gramps?” Evan inched closer, but Gramps didn’t stir.

  Where was his father? Evan had tried to call him from the airport to say he’d made it, to tell him Matt was driving him straight to the hospital, but no answer. Instead, Evan left his dad a terse voice mail and spent the rest of the drive to Peoria staring out the window at cornfields.

  Fifteen minutes.

  He pulled a chair to the bedside and forced his eyes to stay on the unmarred side of his grandfather’s face. Gramps had fallen getting off the bus at the Senior Village. One minute he was on his way to poker with “his boys” and the next he’d been flat on his face, unconscious and broken.

  “I’m sorry,” Evan said. “I should have been here to take you. It was all for nothing anyway. Dad was right.” The words burned like acid on his tongue. “But if you wake up—when you wake up—I’ll take you. It won’t be a problem.” He leaned in to brush a speck of lint from his grandfather’s cheek. “Just wake up, okay?”

  He wanted it to be like the movies. He wanted Gramps to hear him and come fluttering back from wherever he’d gone.

  Except he didn’t. He lay there, silent, his chest moving with the rhythm of the machines.

  Ten minutes.

  Mo
re lint. Except the hardened yellow fleck wouldn’t budge from the corner of Gramps’s mouth. Evan leaned in further. Wait. Not lint. Please don’t be something disgusting.

  Gramps eyes flew open. “Here’s Johnny!”

  Evan fumbled backwards, groping at anything he could find.

  “Don’t pull out my catheter!”

  Evan’s butt hit the floor as he let go, and a lightning bolt of pain struck his left leg. “Shit.”

  “Evan? Evan?” The hospital bed began moving. Gramps peered over at him from the side. “I was only messing with you. Didn’t think you’d pee your pants over it.”

  He tried to breathe through the pain, but all he saw were the proverbial stars. “Jesus, Gramps. I thought you were in a coma or something.”

  “No. I was just out for a bit, but they found all my marbles. Just got a broken ankle.”

  “Dad?” His father’s voice entered the room, but from this angle all Evan could see were his work boots. “They were out of pepperoni slices so I got one mushroom, one sausage. I thought Evan would be here by now.”

  Evan winced at his dad’s tone. He didn’t have to say the next words—Evan already knew what they would be. Must think he’s too important to come home.

  “Oh, he’s here alright.” Gramps jerked a finger toward the floor. “Caught the kid trying to clean the mustard off my face, so I gave him a little scare.”

  Mustard. Of course.

  Evan hobbled to a standing position. “Hey, Dad.” He gave a quick wave and flopped back into the chair. He might have come home, but he wasn’t quite ready to clear the air. Not yet. Parents were supposed to encourage their kids, push them toward their dreams. Evan’s dad? Not so much. He’d held Evan’s dreams in his fist, tightening his grip with every dig. Why would you want to do that? he’d asked. Waste of time, he’d said. Not for people like us.

  “Are you okay?” his dad asked.

  He winced as he nodded. “Just twisted something I think.”

  “I’m calling the nurse.” Gramps pressed the call button before anyone could protest. “Give me the sausage. I don’t want any of that fungus stuff.” He took the slice of pizza and folded it in half. “Now, what’s this about not going back?”

  Evan untied his shoe and pulled up his jeans. Everything felt too tight. And not only because of the massive swelling in his ankle. His lungs felt too tight. His lips. How much did his father know about what happened? He definitely wasn’t up for explaining it all right now. Or maybe ever.

  “Just seeing if you were dead or not,” Evan said.

  Gramps squinted at him between bites of pizza. Clearly, he wasn’t buying it. Evan gave his head a tiny shake.

  “Mr. Abramson? What do you—did the doctor clear you to eat pizza?” The nurse stopped in the doorway and adjusted his stethoscope.

  “Sure did. And the bratwurst I ate earlier.” Gramps sounded so sure of himself, Evan almost believed—only for a half second—that the old man was telling the truth.

  The nurse frowned. “What do you need?”

  “My grandson here fell. He needs someone to look at his ankle. You got any other nurses on duty? Maybe a pretty one, blonde? You’ve had your fill of brunette nurses for a while, haven’t you kid?”

  Why weren’t visiting hours over yet? “I’m okay, really.”

  “Let me see.” The nurse came around the bed and stopped short when he saw Evan’s ankle. He poked it with one finger, and Evan gasped with the heat of the pain.

  “Wow. That’s swollen.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to get a wheelchair and send you down to the ER. You need an X-ray.”

  “Send a blonde one. Of the female variety!” Gramps called after him.

  But much to his grandfather’s disappointment, the same guy came back with a blue-backed wheelchair. “Hop in.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Get in.”

  His ankle did hurt like a bitch. Maybe in the ER they’d give him enough pain meds to knock him out until this So Late It’s Early business ended. Which, at the rate things were going, would be pretty soon.

  He slid from one chair to the other. “This is your fault, old man.”

  Gramps waved him off. “If you’d left my mustard alone—”

  “Alright you two,” Evan’s dad said.

  “Don, you stay here with your dad,” the nurse said to Evan’s father. “We’ll extend visiting hours for you—just this once—until this one’s out of X-ray.”

  Evan leaned back in the wheelchair as the nurse pushed him toward the staff elevator. Every time he thought things couldn’t get weirder, they did.

  “So you said the L word and she freaked, huh?” The nurse pushed the elevator button as they waited. “Happened to me once. Sucks.”

  When did all these people start watching So Late It’s Early? When he’d announced he was leaving home to do an internship on the show, the most common response had been a blank stare. Followed closely by questions about late-night infomercials.

  “It was just a bit,” Evan said. “For the show. You know, ‘don’t believe everything you see on TV’ and all that.”

  His phone vibrated, and Evan twisted until he could free it from his pocket without putting pressure on the ankle.

  Clint: How’s your grandpa?

  Evan: An asshole. But I think it’s going to be fine. Thanks for checking.

  He started to slip the phone back into his pocket, but another message came through.

  Clint: Glad to hear it. Check this out.

  Evan stared at the video Clint had attached. He had no idea what it was, but the still on the screen told him who it was—and he wasn’t sure he could face even more pain right now.

  “Oh. That’s her, right? Go on, hit play.” The nurse was practically breathing down his neck.

  “Maybe I’ll watch it later.”

  The man reached over and hit play.

  Evan was certain this was some sort of privacy violation. HIPAA or HIPPOS or something like that. Or maybe just a violation of common decency. But once the video started playing, his train of outrage derailed.

  Marisol stood on a chair on what looked like a crowded patio. Anyone else would have looked like a crazy person, but she looked commanding. In control. Focused. “When I was a little girl, I lived in a very small village. We did not have electricity or doctors. But we did have a woman who’d become our village’s health leader. When I started showing the signs of diabetes—losing weight, being thirsty all the time—she recognized it. Without her, I would not be here today.”

  The crowd applauded. When they were done, Marisol kept going. Her expression stayed serious but sincere. Her voice kind but sharp as she talked about her life and her work and her goals for Nicaragua. Then the screen cut to black.

  Evan stared for three full seconds before he hit play and watched it all over again. This was her presentation. The one she was supposed to do for James. The one she’d worked so hard on. He had no clue why she was giving it from the top of a chair on a patio, but it didn’t matter. If the rest of it had looked like that clip, she’d nailed it. Marisol didn’t need James’s help. If anything, the host could take a pointer or two from her.

  Evan: Tell her I said good job.

  A paltry response, but it would have to suffice.

  Clint: She doesn’t know about the show last night.

  Evan: Good.

  Clint: I guess that means don’t tell her?

  “What? You have to tell her,” the nurse said. “How will she know how you feel if you don’t tell her?” He swiped the phone from Evan’s hand.

  “Are you serious right now? Give me my phone.”

  “Just. One. Second.” He handed it back with a wink and a smug smile. “You’re welcome.”

  Evan looked at the screen. Tell her everything. “Awesome. Thanks.” He hoped the sarcasm was thick enough to cover that tiny hole where actual hope had spouted out.

  The nurse looked all too smug. “X-ray
is this way. Don’t be surprised if you have to sign a few casts on the way.”

  An hour later, Evan had signed two arm casts, one doctor’s prescription pad, and a cafeteria worker’s apron. He also had an aircast of his own and an appointment to come back in a week for another X-ray. If there was ever any question of whether he was back in Peoria to stay, it had been answered loud and clear.

  “Here’s your stuff. Someone called your dad. He’s on his way down.” A new nurse smiled and handed him a plastic bag of his belongings. “Sorry about things with that girl. You were too good for her anyway.”

  In what world was he—a random kid from Illinois who played make-believe with camera equipment—better than someone who’d overcome tragedies and chronic illness and still found a way to save other people’s lives? He loved making up stories and seeing them come to life through the camera. But it wasn’t even in the same ballpark as what Marisol did every day.

  “Thanks.” He dug through the bag in search of his phone. Maybe there’d be an update from Clint. Or even from Marisol.

  No, he wouldn’t let himself hope. But as soon as the screen showed no waiting messages, disappointment settled into his gut. She hadn’t called. Clint had told her “everything” and that wasn’t enough.

  “Both of you now, huh?” His dad walked in with his hands in his pockets, and the lines around his eyes looked deeper than Evan remembered. “You were always two peas in a pod.”

  “Huh?”

  “You and Dad. Both broke your ankles. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you did it on purpose.”

  Evan nodded. He didn’t know how to deal with this situation. Whether he should apologize or keep up his righteous indignation. Whether he should acknowledge what they both seemed to be thinking—the last time they walked together through these doors, they’d been irretrievably broken.

  “You hungry?” his dad asked.

  “Sure.” Evan shoved his wallet in his back pocket. And his phone. The flash drive full of So Late clips was all that remained in the plastic bag. The flash drive he’d been carrying around for God knows how long. Stupid. “Can you wheel me that way?” He pointed to the trash cans.