by Brent Runyon
Wait, Tina just said something. “What?”
“Do you like Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“Um . . . I was thinking about the movie and how funny it's going to be.”
“You were?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I'll put the order in.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Tina's talking with the guy behind the counter. He's older than me. Like in college or something. I bet he's thinking about her breasts. He's probably going to ask her out. And she'll say yes. He just looked at me. Looked right at me and I didn't have a chance to turn away first. He looked right at me and saw all the big purple scars and these bandages and I couldn't do anything.
I hope he doesn't ask Tina what happened to me.
Here she comes. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yup.”
“How are you feeling?”
My face is purple and everyone is staring at me and I itch all over like I've got bugs crawling under my skin. “Pretty good.”
We go back outside and get in the car. Maybe we should just go back to the hospital. No, we shouldn't. We shouldn't. We should go to the movie. Bill Murray and Richard Dreyfuss. I just hope I'll be able to sit in the seat for the whole time. I think Tina is worried about that too because when we get to the mall and park the car, she asks me if I want to bring an extra cushion so I can sit on it.
I say, “No thanks.”
“It's going to be a long walk from here to the movie theater. Do you think you're up to it?”
“Sure. No problem.” How long a walk? I hope I don't fall down and faint in front of everybody.
I've never been to this mall before. It's huge, with glass ceilings and big holes cut in the floor so you can look down at the shops below.
Last year, before everything, when I used to go to the mall near my house, I would stand next to the open balconies and look down. I used to wonder what it would be like to fall. Would I be scared or would I just relax and enjoy the view as I fell? Would I feel it when I hit the ground or would my neck just snap against the floor? I used to like that feeling, of being right on the edge, ready to let gravity do all the work, but now I don't even like looking at the holes in the floor.
Here we are at the movie theater. I should pay for the tickets. No, I don't have any money. Okay, Tina can pay, just this once, but next time I'll be the man. She hands me the tickets to give to the usher. All right, I can do this.
The usher is Indian, and I can see him looking at me as I walk. He's looking at my face. He's looking at my hands. He's going to say something. I can tell he's going to say something. He's going to ask me. He better not ask me. If he asks me, Tina, you tell him. Tell him I got hurt in a house fire, and if he asks what started the fire, say electricity. Say that.
He takes the tickets out of my hand and looks at me again. Don't say anything. Don't say anything.
“Theater four is on your right. Enjoy the show.”
What? Oh, okay, he didn't ask me anything. He didn't say anything. “Where do you want to sit?”
“I like the aisle.”
“Back here?”
“Yeah. This is good.”
Laura and I sat in the back of the theater the only time we ever went on a date. We saw Ski Patrol and I spent the whole time trying to put my hand up her denim skirt, but I never got farther than halfway up her thigh.
I look at Tina's jean shorts. No, it's never gonna happen. Just enjoy the show.
The lights are going down. Here we go. Oh God, Bill Murray is so funny. He's walking along the street and he looks like he's afraid to touch anything. He's holding the door open with a handkerchief. I wish I was that funny.
Richard Dreyfuss is a doctor who is going on vacation with his family and Bill Murray wants to come too so he can be cured by the great doctor. The only good thing about leaving Children's is that I'll never have to see Dr. Rubinstein again.
Now Bill Murray's shown up at the vacation spot where Richard Dreyfuss is. Okay, here we go, here comes the comedy. Here comes the funny stuff. I don't know, I'm not really laughing. I'm sure it'll start to be funny in a few minutes, though.
Dreyfuss is trying to get Bill Murray to go back home, but he won't. And he's trying again, but he won't. And he's trying again, but he still won't.
Now Dreyfuss is kind of going crazy, he can't stand it anymore, and he's going to get Bill Murray to go home no matter what. He's tying Bill up, and he's pouring something on him. What is that? Oh God. That's not gasoline, is it? Don't be gasoline. Don't be gasoline. Don't put gasoline on him. That's not funny. This is a comedy. Don't put gasoline on him. Please don't burn him. That's not funny. Please don't. Don't burn him. Maybe I should close my eyes. I shouldn't watch this. We should have seen a different movie.
I feel sick. This is the worst. The absolute worst movie I've ever seen in my life.
Oh, now the house is blowing up. It's on fire. Everything is on fire. I didn't want to see a movie about fire. I wanted to see a funny movie. This is terrible. Tina shifts in her seat like she's uncomfortable. I wonder what she's thinking.
Finally it's over. Thank God. Thank God, it's over.
“What did you think of the movie?” asks Tina.
“It was good. How'd you like it?”
“I liked it.”
“Good.”
“Let's go pick up our ice cream.”
“Yeah.”
Back in the car and we're driving. I look down at my Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt.
I say, “Hey, Tina, did I ever tell you about the time when I got lost in D.C. by myself?”
“I don't think so.”
“It was my brother's birthday and we were all supposed to go into D.C. to go to the Hard Rock Cafe for a celebration. We took the Metro in and we were supposed to meet my dad there, 'cause he works in the city, you know. I remember I was mad at my mom and my brother and I just wanted to be alone, so I walked up to the very end of the track, up where all the electrical equipment is, like the fuse boxes and all this other stuff.
“And I started thinking about how if I wanted to blow up the Metro station, a good place to put a bomb would be right there on the power supply. It would probably blow the whole thing up.” She's not going to think this is weird, is she? I should laugh to make the story sound less scary. I laugh, but she doesn't, she's just listening.
“Anyway, while I was up there, the train came, and I didn't hear it, and my mom and brother got on, but I didn't.
“So, I got on the next one and rode it all the way into D.C.”
“Yeah?”
“And so”—I'm laughing again, and I think I hear Tina chuckle too—“I walked all the way across D.C. trying to find the Hard Rock Cafe. All the way from Foggy Bottom to Metro Center, which is like four miles, and I still couldn't find it. I did find the Louis Farrakhan rally, though. And the funniest part is that just when I gave up and got back on the Metro to go home, I was within one block of the Hard Rock Cafe.”
“I bet your parents were worried.”
“Yeah, they totally freaked out. I thought I was just doing what anybody else would do.”
She shakes her head and looks at me out of the corner of her eye. We're back at Ben & Jerry's. Tina says I should just wait in the car while she goes and gets the Vermonster, then we'll go back to the Burn Unit and share it with everyone else. Sounds good.
Here she is. She opens the door and puts a giant bucket in my lap. “Doesn't it look good?” says Tina.
It looks like the best thing in the world.
“We'd better hurry back before it melts.”
“Yeah, let's go home,” I say.
“Home?”
“I mean the Unit.”
That's weird. I wonder why I said that. I'm glad there aren't any psychologists here. They're always trying to make it seem like when you say something, that you actually mean it, instead of it just being a mis
take.
Here we are. I can't wait to go and tell everybody about how good it smelled in the ice cream place and how fun it was to sit in the movie theater. I'll tell them I really liked the movie, but I'm not going to say anything about the fire part.
I'm kind of tired and we have to take the wheelchair up with us anyway, so I sit in it and Tina wheels me over to the elevator. It's so quiet and peaceful in here after eight o'clock, when visiting hours are over. We're in the elevator alone, Tina and I. I should say something about how grateful I am and about how I'm so happy that she was the one that took me out into the world. I want to thank her for everything she's done for me. For all the times she helped me when I was hurting. I want to tell her about how much she meant to me even before I could talk and how she made me feel better just by looking at me.
“Tina?”
“Yes, Brent.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.” I don't think she knows what I'm thanking her for.
“Thank you for everything.”
“You're welcome.”
We've got family therapy today. Dr. Rubinstein thinks it's important that we get together as a family and talk about the effect my hospitalization has had on everyone. So we're meeting in her office at two, which is in three minutes.
Mom is wheeling me down and Dad and Craig are going to meet us there. I can't wait to get back upstairs and eat some more of the Vermonster. A lot of the ice cream has melted and now it's just a big mush, but it's still good. I'm going to eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner from now on.
Here we are. Dr. Rubinstein's office reminds me of her, small and cold, with lots of diplomas on the wall. She says hello to me and my mom and points to where Mom should put me and the wheelchair, right in the middle between three other chairs.
Dad and Craig come in. They both look a little nervous, but they say hi and try to act like they want to be here. Everybody is very serious. I can tell right away, this is not going to be fun.
Dr. Rubinstein starts. God, I hate her voice. “Thank you all for coming, and I'm glad that you were willing to sit down together and discuss what has happened in your family in the last few months. I think it is vital that you as a family express your feelings to each other and begin the healing process.”
Mom is smiling with her head tilted sideways. Dad looks gruff and uncomfortable. Craig is looking straight at Dr. Rubinstein. He looks so angry.
She's still talking. “Let's begin with you, Brent. Why don't you tell your family about how you were feeling before your accident.”
What? I can't even believe she just said that to me. What did she say? I'm not going to answer that. I don't even know what she's talking about.
I look down at my hands. My hands. My hands.
Look how the fabric of the Jobst garment is like a layer of skin on top of my skin, the color of my skin, but it's elastic. Elastic and fantastic.
It's interesting that my hands only got burnt up to the first knuckle. And the fire didn't get to my palms. I must have been making fists. Let's see, if I make a fist, it almost perfectly covers the part of my fingers that isn't burned. That's very interesting. There's also the little circle of normal skin on my right elbow. I wonder how that got there.
And my armpits, those are normal, and most of my stomach, and the insides of my thighs, and my penis. I must have curled up like a potato bug after I lit the match.
“Brent, what are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope.” I wonder if they can hear it in my voice, what I was actually thinking about.
“Do you want to say anything to your family?”
“Not especially. Not right now, thanks.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Great, how are you?” Everyone loves sarcasm.
“I'm fine, Brent. Your parents and your brother want to know what was happening with you before your accident.”
“So?”
“Do you have anything you'd like to tell them about that?”
“No.” If you ask a stupid question, you'll get a stupid answer.
“Do you think there's anything they should know?”
“No.”
“What were you thinking about? What was making you so unhappy in those days?”
“I don't remember.” That's true. I don't remember. I don't remember anything about myself back then.
“You don't remember?”
“No.”
“Why do you think that you don't remember?”
“I don't know.” I really don't know.
Mom says, “We'll love you no matter what, honey.”
“I know.”
“We want to know whatever you want to tell us.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to think about it for a few minutes?”
“Sure.” I'll think about it. And I'll think about how my fingernails got so thick when I was on all those vitamins and how now, since I've been off them, they've gone back to normal thickness, so that there's a ledge on my fingernails. What's the word for that stuff at the end of your nails? Cuticle. Cuticle. I have cute cuticles. That's funny. I'll remember that.
“Brent?” That's my mom's voice, but I'm not going to look up.
“Yes.”
“Have you thought of anything you want to tell us?”
“No.”
“It's been five minutes.”
“No, it hasn't. It's been more like one minute.”
“No, honey, it's been five.”
“Well, what time did you ask me?”
“Twelve-thirty-five.”
“And what time is it now?”
“Twelve-forty.”
“So that's five minutes.”
“I know it is, honey.”
“But you said it was ten minutes.”
“No, I didn't, honey, I said five.”
“Well, if you said five, then you would have been right, but you said ten.”
“I didn't say ten, honey, I said five.” I can hear her getting annoyed at me, but I can tell she doesn't want to yell.
“Goddamn it, Brent!” Oh God, I forgot my dad could yell like that. He sounds like a lion when he yells like that. I'm not going to look at him. I'm not going to say anything.
“Brent! Answer the question!” He's calmed down a little. I think he remembered where he was.
No one can make me say anything. No one can make me talk. I think I'd do well in one of those prison camps where they tie you down and torture you. I can't imagine that they could come up with anything more painful than this. I think it would be kind of relaxing, actually.
“Well,” Dr. Idiotstein says in Idiot, the native language of Idiots from the island of Idioticus, “our time is up for today, but I'd like to thank you all for coming and I think that we've made some progress today.” If that's progress, I'd like to see regress, or egress, which means exit. Remember what P. T. Barnum said, This way to the egress. That's where I'm going.
Mom pushes me back to my room. We're silent the whole way.
Last day. Last night. Last night in the Burn Unit. We're going to have a party so that everyone can come and say good-bye, all my friends that I've made over the last four months. It's June 11th, and I was admitted on February 4th. God. I don't know, I got so used to everything and everyone, it seems like my home here now. I know this sounds crazy, but I don't really want to leave, I really don't. I don't understand why I can't just stay and live here with the nurses and do my rehab here.
So, here we go, the party's all ready. They made a poster that says GOOD LUCK, BRENT. All the letters look like they're made of balloons. It's kind of like the poster I made for Mom on her birthday, but this one is a lot better.
There's ice cream and cake and everyone is here and they're all smiling at me. I don't know how to thank them all. I can't thank them enough. I can't say thank you enough times.
I don't know how to tell them all how much they
mean to me. Becky: helped me learn how to use my arms again. Dawn: taught me how to walk. Dr. Rudolph: put my skin back together. Barbara: cleaned my wounds and called me Gorgeous. Lisa: helped me go to sleep at night. And Tina. Tina, you did everything for me. You held my hand and you told me I was going to be all right and made me laugh and took me outside the hospital and made me feel normal.
Mom has little presents, wrapped in bags with tissue paper coming out the top, for Lisa, Barbara, and Tina, my primary nurses. I feel like I should say something.
“You guys, uh, I just wanted to say thanks for helping me, you know, get better. I just wanted to thank you for everything. And everything.” The words aren't good enough. They're all smiling at me. “So, here you go. I just wanted to say thank you. So, thanks.”
They all open them at the same time. They all got the same thing, a little plastic Snoopy dressed up like a nurse with a hypodermic needle. It's perfect. No, it's not. It's dumb. It's so dumb, I can't believe it. It doesn't say what I wanted it to say. It doesn't say, I could never have gotten better without you. It doesn't say anything.
They all say thank you and give me big hugs. Mom gets the Polaroid from the nurses' station and gets us all together. Lisa kisses my left cheek. Barbara kisses my right cheek. Tina kisses the top of my head. I close my eyes, pucker my lips, and kiss the air.
June 12, 1991
Alfred I. duPont Institute
Wilmington, Delaware
Mom is saying something to Dad. The car is slowing down. I open my eyes. We are driving past a huge stone wall that has to be ten feet tall. There's something on top of it. What is that? Is that broken glass? It's got broken glass on the top of the wall. They're taking me to a fucking prison or something.
“What is that broken glass supposed to do?”
“What?”
“There's broken glass on the top of the wall.”
“Oh, I didn't notice it.”
“You didn't? How could you not notice a bunch of broken glass on the top of a huge stone wall?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know? Well, why is it there?”
“I'm sure it's just to keep people out.”