Some of the mellowness is fading in the face of her ire, but I’m determined to hold on to it. This is the best I’ve felt in weeks.
“It said I’m not supposed to drive,” I say calmly. I’m not going to let this skinny, frizzy-haired woman take away this blissful peace any sooner than it has to go.
“No ma’am,” she says. “We cannot release you to a taxi. It’s against the law. You have to have someone you know and trust drive you home. You could get robbed, or God knows what.” Even in my mushy state, I know that what she says isn’t enforceable. They can’t keep me here against my will. And what if the taxicab driver was my friend? But it’s too hard to muster up a fight.
“Don’t you know anyone who’ll come get you?” Her tone implies that I must be even more pathetic than she first thought. As much as I hate condescending endearments, I suddenly realize they are not the worst thing after all. I could use a “sweetheart” or “honey” right now. I want my mom.
Mo doesn’t have a car.
“Call Emmett,” I say. “The tattoo shop on East Cannon.”
She humpfs at me and leaves, twitching the curtain closed behind her.
I shut my eyes and try to drift back to that sweet, mellow state, but it’s already fading.
When I hear the curtains sliding, I assume it’s the nurse again, but when I open my eyes, Dr. Messa is rolling a stool over to sit next to me. He’s holding a folder and he looks serious.
“Miriam, how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. My heart rate has picked up again. This won’t be good news.
“The findings from the scope, the evidence of ulcers and inflammation, along with your symptoms, mean that I am now confident in my diagnosis. I’ve taken biopsies, which I’ve sent to a lab, and those will take a few days to come back. But it’s safe to say you have Crohn’s disease.”
He places the folder on his lap and opens it. There are bright color photos of what, even to my untrained eye, are obviously pictures of the inside of my colon. I feel myself blush. I want to cover them, for decency’s sake.
Dr. Messa doesn’t notice my distress. He discusses various parts of the photos, explaining what a normal lining looks like, showing what mine looks like. Pointing out the individual ulcers—the cause, apparently, of all my misery. They don’t look awful. They don’t look like they should cause sleepless nights of agony.
He’s talking, but at some point I don’t hear the words anymore.
Eventually, with no questions from me, Dr. Messa closes the folder and rises.
“You might not remember everything about this conversation,” he says. “If you have any questions, call the office. In fact, go ahead and call tomorrow and make an appointment. I’m writing a prescription right now for Asacol, which you’ll need to take in the morning and at night. It might be that’s all we need to keep your symptoms in check. If you don’t see an improvement in two weeks, we’ll discuss further options.
“I’ve included some packets for you to read about your disease. They should help you understand what’s going on, and the implications of this diagnosis.” He pauses, looking expectantly at me. I nod, though I’m not sure what he wants from me.
“I’m told your ride will be here soon. You’re free to go as soon as he arrives.”
He pats my hand, the first humane gesture he’s shown me, and then walks out, leaving the curtain open.
The same frizzy-haired nurse comes in. She takes out the IV and wordlessly bends down, reaching under the gurney and yanking out the bag with my clothes. She hands me the bag, and after making sure I can stand on my own two feet without collapsing, she leaves, pulling the curtain behind her.
I dress slowly. Every movement careful, like a drunk or someone afraid of falling. Putting my own clothes back on helps ease the sense of disassociation, but still, I’m lost.
I have Crohn’s. I am a crone. I’m sick. I am diseased. Medicine. Implications. Every word feels heavy and nauseating.
I want my mellow numbness back. I want to sleep forever.
“Miriam, can I come in?”
Emmett’s deep voice is incongruent here.
“Sure,” I say. But my voice cracks and I have to say it again. “Come in.”
He pushes the curtain aside, filling up the space with health and strength.
“What a fun morning you’ve been having,” he says. “I can’t believe you almost didn’t invite me.”
It’s the perfect thing to say. I smile.
“Are you ready to split?” he asks.
I nod.
“Then let’s go.”
I walk very slowly, but he seems in no hurry. For some reason, I can’t make my legs move quickly. After a moment, without asking, he takes my hand and I grip his tightly. I don’t look around. I don’t care where I’m going. I just follow him down some corridors, past various doors and finally outside to the parking lot.
He opens the car door for me, closes it once I’m inside, then gets in and drives without asking questions. I close my eyes and doze.
When the car comes to a stop, I realize we’re at the back of his shop, at the entrance to his apartment.
He catches my look.
“They said you shouldn’t be left alone today. Easier to keep an eye on you if you’re here. If that’s okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
Some of the mellowness has returned. I want the name of whatever Dr. Messa put in my IV. It’s wonderful.
I climb up the stairs, with Emmett right behind me. Without waiting for an invitation, I kick off my shoes and crawl into his bed. The sheets are cool and they smell like him.
I dive into sleep like an alcoholic stepping into a pub. This is where I need to be.
I sleep for maybe an hour. When I wake, my neck hairs are standing on end and I know immediately I’m not alone. But Emmett’s not here. His steady, caring gaze is gone. Someone, or rather something, else is here.
Miriam! a voice booms in my head. Miriam! Arise and look before thee!
I sit bolt upright, clutching the sheets as Emmett’s room disappears. My ears are ringing from the command and my eyes widen as I realize I’m looking at a courtroom with a trial in session. I catch a fleeting glimpse of Jason in the defendant’s chair, his face stony, his whole attitude cold and sneering as he leans back. He is wearing a brand-new coat and tie. Then I see Judge Bender presiding from his seat on high. The courtroom is packed with spectators, and it takes me a moment before I realize the judge is sentencing Jason.
I’m woozy with motion sickness, or something like it. I cannot tell where my body begins; it’s almost as if I’ve lost it during the transfer here. The vision, if that’s what this is, isn’t clear. It’s like looking at something underwater. Sizes shift, magnified and minimized, blurry and clear, like someone’s adjusting the focus. I see the avid, hungry looks of the spectators, like a mob at a witch trial. Then I hear the judge. I focus on him; his face is florid against his long black robes. His eyes gleam with righteous satisfaction. The picture warps less now that I’m looking at him. My view of the judge makes me think that I am sitting in the jury box. But there is no jury, just me.
“I hereby sentence you to five consecutive life terms,” he announces. I hear a muffled response from the spectators, but I don’t turn to look. He bangs his gavel five times, the booms echoing oddly in my ears. “Jason Way, for the crime you have committed, for the blight that your presence is on society, for the threat you will always pose wherever you are, you will be locked away in a cell for the rest of your natural life.”
I turn to look at Jason. His expression hasn’t changed, and I realize this is the outcome he expected. What heinous crime has he committed? In what is part lecture, part sermon, Judge Bender continues.
“Deviants like you force the rest of us to put up walls. You force us to take steps to enforce the most basic, fundamental laws common to all God-fearing societies. The repercussions of your actions will reverberate through our town, our state
and our country.” My brain is racing, trying to figure out what this means. Is this a vision of the future? Is this what I’m supposed to save Jason from? “One day, after many, many years of contemplation,” the judge thunders, “you will face a judgment greater than mine. And when you do, may God show greater mercy on you.…” My mind is struggling to think. What did he do? When will this terrible crime happen?
As if the power that brought me this vision can tell I’m no longer paying attention, or perhaps because I’ve seen all I need to see, as suddenly as it all began, it’s over. I’m back in Emmett’s bed, the sheets tangled around me like ropes, my heart pounding like I’ve run a race.
I flop back on the bed, gasping for breath. I frantically try to think. Jason’s only a teenager, a surly, maladjusted boy, true, but not a vicious one. What horrible crime could he possibly commit in the near future? What can I do to stop him?
But the drug is still in my system and it pulls me under. I fight it, but my thoughts grow more and more sluggish. Against my will, my body relaxes. My eyelids droop. And my racing thoughts fade to nothing.
XVI.
WHEN I WAKE AGAIN, the afternoon sun is streaming through a gap in the curtains. I lie still for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, assessing how I feel. I slowly sit up and look around the room. As always, there’s nothing to show that my vision wasn’t some painkiller-induced nightmare. Except that I do know better now. I feel sick to my stomach. Someone has given me a swift kick in the pants. Clearly, I’m not doing enough and that needs to change.
I chew on a fingernail, wondering what to do. What with my new diagnosis, the vision, my lack of success in getting to know Jason and Mo butting in, I’m at a loss for what to worry about first. When my stomach grumbles, a more immediate concern becomes clear. I’m starving.
It’s been thirty-six hours since I’ve had a solid meal, and I’ve had nothing to drink all day. So I’m not only hungry, I’m parched as well. As I swing my legs over the side of the bed, I notice a glass of water on the nightstand. I gulp it down, the cool water sliding down my throat.
Wearing the same loose drawstring pants and soft cotton shirt that I wore to the procedure, I pad downstairs in bare feet, holding the empty glass. I find Emmett in the small kitchen tucked behind the shop. We’re both surprised to see each other, but he recovers first, coming to take the glass from me and carefully looking at my face.
“I’m okay,” I say.
“You slept for so long I called the doctor. He said if you didn’t wake up by three to call back. It’s five minutes till.”
At the mention of the doctor, I frown a bit. I’m not ready to deal with that yet. I wish the morning’s news were a bad dream I could brush away. But then again, my bad dreams can’t be brushed away either, so it’s really hopeless.
“I’m starving. Are you cooking something?”
He accepts the change of subject. “I figured you’d want something easy on the belly. Do scrambled eggs and toast sound all right?”
“Mmm, tasty.” My mouth waters at the thought of food. “Can I help?”
“Sit and watch,” he says, heading to the fridge and pulling out four eggs.
“I can do that.”
I sit at one of the two stools beside a tiny round table and watch him. Like with everything else I’ve seen him do, he’s wonderfully competent in the kitchen. In clean, quick movements he cracks the eggs with one hand, whisking them with the other. With his back turned to me and his attention focused on the eggs, I take this moment to get another good look at his tattoos. I can’t seem to get enough of them. I could ask about them, but I don’t. If I ask questions, then he might too.
He plates the steaming eggs next to golden toast and places the dish in front of me. He then sits down with his own plate. I like that he made some for himself too. I hate eating when other people aren’t.
I ask about the shop. We make small talk. We eat our food.
“Saw your buddy Jason yesterday,” he says. “Hanging out with Mo.”
At Jason’s name, the eggs curdle in my mouth. It takes an effort, but I swallow them.
“Really?” I say casually.
Had Mo spent all of yesterday with him? I’d been so relieved that Mo wasn’t in the apartment that I never thought what he was up to. A part of me thinks that I should give Mo the benefit of the doubt. If Mo gets Jason to open up, then I’ve a better chance to break through as well. And unlike me, Mo might not have any ulterior motives in getting to know Jason better. But I can’t deny that I’m uncomfortable with this new friendship. I am worried for Mo, but also scared of what he could do. It’s hard to think of him as an adversary, yet until I know where Mo stands with the devil, I can’t trust him. And now that I know Jason’s on the brink of a horrible crime, Mo’s interest in Jason is even more disturbing. I push away my plate. I’ve only eaten half my portion, but my stomach is uncomfortably full and I’ve lost my appetite.
“I’ve been asking around a bit,” Emmett continues. “Your buddy Jason is an interesting character. He goes to Warfield, did you know that?”
I nod. All the paper’s interns come from Warfield. Hamilton has a very well-respected public school system, something the town is quite proud of. But despite this, Warfield is where anyone with any aspirations to the town’s upper class sends their kids.
“I thought that was strange. Jason’s not exactly a Warfield poster child,” Emmett continues. Which is so true, and something that I hadn’t really thought about. Warfield students are all rich preppies, usually driving brand-new Mustang convertibles or giant Dodge Rams. Not to generalize, but they all seem to have that subtle superior smirk that suggests they are secretly laughing at you. Jason, with his hip-hop clothes, snarky manners and awful hair, is as out of place with the Lacoste crowd as a plastic spork at Williams-Sonoma.
“Maybe he’s there on scholarship,” I say, getting interested despite my grim mood.
“But the scholarship kids at Warfield are unreal,” he says. “They’re either athletes, world-class athletes—Warfield has sent two kids to the Olympic trials—or they’re brainiacs, scary-brilliant kids. Doing college physics in the tenth grade. One girl published a novel. They’re so smart it’s ridiculous. And then we have Jason.…”
He lets that hang in the air.
“He might be really smart,” I say. “He got the newspaper internship.”
Emmett gives me a look.
“Some geniuses have very poor social skills. It’s the whole social IQ thing, totally separate from intellectual IQ.”
Again Emmett gives me a look.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “He’s a jerk. He’s not athletic, he’s not scary smart. He doesn’t come from a rich family. What’s he doing at Warfield?”
“Exactly,” Emmett says, with a smug smile that says I’m finally catching on. “So it turns out, he’s not there on scholarship. They don’t waste them on losers. His mom pays full tuition. And she’s a mail carrier.”
“Wait, how much is tuition?” I’d assumed it was crazy high, but maybe I was wrong.
“Fifteen grand a year.” Okay, so I wasn’t wrong. My university didn’t cost that much.
“Ouch.” I think for a minute. “And how much does a mail carrier make?”
Emmett makes a face. “Forty? Fifty a year?”
I think about what it would mean to have your mom spend more than a fifth of her income on your high school tuition.
“I bet she has high hopes for her son,” I say. I don’t know if it’s some lingering effect of the drug or knowing what’s in store for Jason, but I’m suddenly crystal-clear on Jason’s situation. “I bet she’s always telling him that he’s going places, don’t you think? Can’t you just hear her say that he’s going to be someone really important one day?”
“And I bet his schoolmates prove to him every day that she’s wrong,” rumbled Emmett. I think about my vision and Jason’s future. I don’t like where this is heading.
I glance at Emmett, wonderi
ng for the first time what sort of person he was in high school, which group he belonged to: goth, jock, druggie, nerd, prep—he doesn’t fit in any easy category. It’s hard to imagine him being bullied, but there’s a bitter, knowing tinge to his voice that suggests otherwise.
“So let’s assume he’s an outcast,” I say, following this train of thought. “A total loser, letting his mom down. Maybe he hates her for putting him where he doesn’t belong, for expecting all these things of him that she never expected from herself.…” I’m thinking out loud, hardly censoring my words. “Does he hate her or does he just hate himself? How am I supposed to help him? What am I supposed to do for him?”
“Why do you have to do anything?” Emmett asks.
My obsession with Jason perplexes him. I shouldn’t have said so much, and I can’t think of a good explanation. Looking down at my hands, I see the outline of the tape that held the IV from this morning. I rub it self-consciously.
“This morning, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s,” I say. He thinks I’m changing the subject, but really I’m not. “The doctor kind of thought that’s what’s wrong with me, so I’ve been reading about it before this procedure. It’s an autoimmune disease. It means my body’s immune system has gone nuts and is now attacking me. In my case, it’s attacking my colon, shredding it, destroying it. But it could attack any part of my digestive system. If we can’t find the right medicine to stop it, my own immune system will kill me. There is no cure,” I huff with silent, bitter laughter.
Emmett stays perfectly still, listening intently, like he’s scared to spook me.
“So I’ve been thinking a lot about our bodies, how complicated they are, how there’s so much we don’t know about how things work, why things work the way they do. And I’ve been thinking about God. We don’t really think about how much we owe to God—I mean, our existence, our lives, our bodies. People used to think that when things went wrong, when disease came, it was God’s will, His punishment. And now we say it’s a virus or it’s genetics or it’s pollution. But maybe it’s all the same thing, you know?”
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