I actually see the factory as I speak.
“All that rickety machinery,” I say. “Copper-colored BBs sliding down a chute, the ringing sound they make. The trees framed by the grimy windows. And that guide, remember him? The old man; he must’ve been eighty. A cigarette dangling from his mouth. ‘Sixty-five million BBs manufactured here every day!’ he says, the cigarette hopping. Remember, Dad? You go, ‘That’s a hell of a lot of BBs to stick in a lot of kids’ ears,’ and the guy looks at you like you’re crazy.”
I swear Dad smiles. He’s with me. So I keep talking. “Okay, now,” I say, “back in the Jeep. We’re driving across Kansas. It’s summer—July, I think—and all we see for miles is corn and sky. A farmhouse now and then, a barn, a tractor. We stop at a diner in a small town for lunch, and you flirt with the waitress. Remember? Her name is Darleen.
“I say, ‘Dad, can I get two cheeseburgers?’ She steps back and gives you a funny look. ‘Dad?’ she says. ‘This is your kid? No way. You’re not old enough to have a kid this age.’ You shrug, like it amazes you, too. We’re heading for Colorado, you tell her. To raft the river, hang out. ‘Well, don’t drown,’ she says. ‘Hey, thanks,’ she says when you tip her five dollars for a five-dollar lunch. ‘No kidding, thanks. You guys made my day.’”
The nurse comes in and out, smiles at me, takes Dad’s temperature, adjusts his medication, empties the urine from his catheter bag. A couple of times she brings in extravagant displays of flowers. From Grandma, from the union.
I know exactly what Dad would say if he could speak: “What do they think this is, a funeral?”
Mom comes to the doorway every now and then to check in on us. She looks sad, like she used to look waving from the driveway when Dad and I took off on one of our trips. But she couldn’t come with us anymore; I understood that. And she understood, too. Dad and I still needed each other. Like now. I keep talking. Dad’s with me; I know it. He watches me; his hand grasps mine. The alarm doesn’t go off once.
I don’t know how much time passes. We get caught in the blizzard on April Fools’ Day. “Back in Colorado, Dad. On our way home from skiing. The Jeep can go through anything; that’s no problem. But we have to pull off when you can’t see anymore.
“It’s another small town where we end up. A dumpy motel. By morning, the snow’s drifted up to the fenders of cars in the parking lot. Even the interstate is closed. No way we’re going anywhere. We sit in the motel coffee shop, shooting the breeze with all the other stranded travelers. By afternoon, you’re squirrelly and we hike the half mile to town. Cars along the streets are buried in the snow, but there are dozens of jacked-up trucks and Broncos cruising around. The snowplows on the front of them look like armor, like knights’ shields. Their tires are about as tall as we are. You’d need a ladder to climb into the cabs, they’re so high up. ‘That’s what we need, Jax,’ you say. ‘In one of those babies, we could go anywhere.’
“There’s a guy vacuuming the lobby of the movie theater. He’s about your age. He’s dressed in tight jeans and cowboy boots, an old flannel shirt. We stagger in there. He’s the owner, it turns out. ‘I’ll pay you a hundred bucks if you’ll show us a movie,’ you say to him. ‘Any movie. We’re going crazy.’ The guy laughs. ‘Hell, I’d do it for free,’ he says. ‘But I already sent last weekend’s movie back to Denver.’
“The radio’s on loud, and the two of you get to talking about music, about the sixties. Pretty soon, he says, ‘I’ll tell you what: there is something I could show you. It’s weird, though. Previews. A couple hours’ worth of them I’ve spliced together.’ He shrugs, grins. ‘A six-pack, a little weed maybe. Some popcorn. You roll the film, and what the hell do you know? You think you’ve seen a hundred full-length movies in a row.’
“So we spend the rest of the day in the dark theater, just the three of us. The Great Escape; Breakfast at Tiffany’s; Fantasia; To Sir, with Love; The Longest Yard; Old Yeller. We get totally into it, cheering, hooting, faking sobs—
“Dad,” I say. “Dad, do you remember that?” Suddenly I’m exhausted, near tears. My back is cramped from leaning over the bed. Outside, the sky is beginning to darken.
“Dad?” I say again. He blinks his eyes, tries to speak, but because of the tube in his throat, he can only moan. His hand moves on mine, tries to squeeze it. But he’s too weak. He closes his eyes.
All I can think about now is when the trips stopped. It was my fault. I had to work; I had summer school; I didn’t want to desert Brady. Anyhow, I thought Dad didn’t really care. I’d always figured the trips were something he’d cooked up to do with me after the divorce because he thought he should. But then Christmas day, when I gave him the Elvis shirt, he said, “It’s been a long time since we took one of our weird trips, Jax.” He gave me that funny look, like it made him sad.
“Dad?” I say, my voice cracking. “There’s a lot more places we can go, you know? Remember—on Christmas, you said we should go to Graceland. A long time ago, you promised we could go. It’s really weird there, man. Really, really weird. Elvis is buried right by the swimming pool. This girl at school told me it’s so tacky you can’t even believe it. We can go when you get better. This summer we can go. Dad, you’ve got to get well. I mean it; you promised.”
twenty–seven
I spent the whole night there. They’ve cut back on his morphine, like the doctor said they would, and as the drug wears off, Dad grows restless. Once his hand comes loose, and he reaches for the tube in his throat. When I catch it and hold it, he struggles against me until the nurse comes and fastens it down again. I can still calm him by talking, but I’m so tired I can’t concentrate enough to tell any more stories. I just keep telling him where he is, what’s happened. I say, “It’s me, Jackson.” He makes guttural sounds, trying to speak in spite of the tube, but I can’t understand him. “They’ll take it out in the morning,” I say. “If you do everything you’re supposed to do, they’ll take it out in the morning. Dad, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.” I say these things so many times, they begin to sound like something I’ve memorized, like a prayer.
Finally, he sleeps. I try to doze off myself, get some rest, but I can’t make the pictures in my head go away. All day, I’ve been trying to make Dad remember happy, funny times we spent together. Now all I see is sadness. Dad’s things in cardboard boxes in our yard, Dad loading them into Tom’s pickup truck, climbing in himself, pulling away. Mom and I watching from the window. Those first empty weeks and months after he’d gone.
“You’ll get used to it,” Brady said.
That seemed worse than missing him. It still does. How could I actually get used to life without my dad?
It’s after seven before night begins to drain from the window. It’s a gray day outside. I can see people moving around in the slushy parking lot below. Cars creep along the street: people on their way to work, I guess. I’m mesmerized by the traffic light. Green, yellow, red. Green, yellow, red. I don’t know how many times I watch it change before Mom and Kim appear in the doorway of Dad’s room, sleepy and disheveled.
Dr. Marshall arrives at eight thirty. He studies Dad’s chart and consults with the nurse in a hushed tone. When they’re finished talking, he turns to us and says, “I’ll have to ask you folks to step out for a few moments. We can remove the tube, as I hoped. It won’t take long. If you’ll wait in the lounge, I’ll come in and let you know as soon as it’s over.” The nurse pulls the curtains on the window that looks out on the hall and closes the door behind us.
When the doctor comes to tell us everything is all right, Kim bursts into tears. She covers her face with her hands and takes a few deep breaths, trying to get herself under control. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Crying at good news—”
“It’s okay,” Mom says, and puts her arm around her.
When she calms down, we go back to Dad’s room.
He’s still in the neck brace—he will be until they’re absolutely certain his head’s okay—so he can’t move. But the nurse cranks his bed up slightly, so he can see. He is conscious—you can see it in his eyes—but obviously still not really with it. It’s as if he doesn’t see me or Kim at all, as if he looks straight through us to where Mom is standing in the doorway. It almost makes me cry, the way it’s just like the fantasy I had last night. He’s forgotten she isn’t his wife. Pure happiness is the only thing you could call the look on his face.
“Ellen,” he says, croaks really. His eyes fill with tears. The next words come out excruciatingly slowly. “Aw, babe—come here, come on.” His hand moves in the restraint, as if to beckon her.
Kim looks as if she’s seen a ghost, or maybe it is that she looks like a ghost herself. She backs away from the bed, tripping over the chair behind us, and rushes out the door.
“Jackson,” Mom says. I know she means I should follow her.
Kim’s leaning against the wall just outside intensive care, her eyes closed. She has to make an effort to breathe evenly, I can tell.
“Kim?” I say.
“What am I doing here, Jackson?” she says, her eyes still closed. “He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“Remember what the nurse told us,” I say. “He’s conscious, not cognizant. All those drugs. He doesn’t have a clue about what’s actually happening.”
“Bullshit,” she says. “I’m nothing to him. No one. Another girlfriend. How many has he had, Jackson? How many women has your dad had since the divorce? Twenty? Thirty? A hundred? It could have been anyone waiting that night, praying he wouldn’t die. It just happened to be me. He’ll always be in love with your mother.” She’s shaking now, but she still doesn’t cry. She crosses her arms across her chest and hugs herself tightly. “Oh, Jackson,” she says. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I—I’ve got to get out of here for a while—”
Before I can say anything to her, she’s gone.
Soon Mom comes down the hallway. “Kim?” she asks.
“She left,” I say.
Mom nods. She obviously doesn’t want to get into why. Or to talk about Dad’s mistake. She looks awful, though. I think she’s been crying. “He’s resting,” she says. “The nurse was able to sedate him again. She said he’ll sleep now. He had such a hard night. Want to go down and get something to eat? We should eat.”
The cafeteria is more or less deserted. There’s still breakfast stuff out, but the workers are getting organized for the lunch hour.
“Oh,” Mom says. “Look, Jackson. French fries.”
It’s a joke with us the way we’re addicted to them. Sometimes that’s all we eat for supper: huge plates of French fries smothered in ketchup. I have to admit, these particular French fries look great. They’re big fat ones, cut in wedges. Next to them, there’s a vat of cheese sauce.
“Get some,” I say.
She looks at her watch. “It’s ten fifteen. God, I sound like an alcoholic trying to rationalize having that first drink. Hey, live dangerously, right? I’ll have an order of those,” she says to the attendant.
The man puts them on a plate and reaches for the ladle in the vat of cheese sauce beside them.
“Oh, I don’t care for the cheese sauce,” Mom says. “No cheese sauce, thank you.”
“They come with cheese sauce.” The man gestures toward another pan of French fries, the frozen crinkly kind. “If you don’t want cheese fries, I’ll have to serve you those.”
“But I don’t want those,” Mom says. “I’ll have an order of the cheese fries. I just don’t want you to put the cheese on them. I’ll be glad to pay for it, though.”
He shakes his head. “No, ma’am,” he says. “I can’t do that.”
Calmly, Mom says, “Could I speak to your supervisor, please?”
The man, clearly not too bright, shuffles off and returns with a stout, gray-haired woman.
“I’d like to have an order of those French fries,” Mom says. She points to the fat, wedgy ones. “But I don’t want any cheese sauce on them. Is that a problem?”
“We’re not allowed to make substitutions, ma’am,” the woman says.
“Substitutions?” Mom waits a moment before continuing. There are other people in line now, some looking on curiously, some looking away. Mom says, “I’m not asking you for a substitution. I’m asking you for—” She glances at me. “For a subtraction.” Her tone of voice is completely reasonable. “I’d like you to subtract the cheese from the French fries, that’s all. Of course, I’ll pay the full price,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “It’s just not allowed.”
Mom stands a long moment, her knuckles whitening on her empty tray. Then suddenly she raises the tray above her head, slams it back on the metal railing. “I don’t believe this,” she says, her voice still level, but loud. She turns and bolts for the hallway.
“You can have them! Ma’am, you can have the ones you want!” the cafeteria lady calls after her. She looks almost frightened, like she’s going to get in trouble for what Mom did. I feel like telling her and everyone in line that I’ve never in my whole life seen my mother behave the way she did just now. Like that would really negate the effect.
“Is she all right?” the man next to me asks. “Are you with her?”
“Yeah,” I say, and feel myself turning red. The only thing I can think to do is walk away.
“Oh, Jackson,” Mom sobs when I find her. “I’m so sorry. I made such a fool of myself. We’ll never be able to eat in there again. We’ll starve to death. Days from now, they’ll find us dead in a hallway.”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say. “We’ll get some of those glasses with noses on them. You know, like Woody Allen wore in that movie when he robbed the bank. No one will recognize us.”
She laughs, then, as I hoped she would, and for a moment it’s like it used to be before Ted—just me and Mom together. She hugs me hard. Still holding on to me, she says, “What would I do without you?”
She’d survive; Ted would help her. The thought is like a lead weight dropping inside me. I try to cover up how I feel by being a smart-ass. “Hey, with me out of the picture, you could exit from Dad’s life completely, exit this place,” I say. “It could turn out to be a good deal for you.” My voice doesn’t come out quite right, though.
My mom’s body sort of loosens, as if all the air’s gone out of her. She puts her hands lightly on my shoulders, pushes me just far enough so she can see my face. I turn away. I don’t want to see the tears gathering in her eyes again. But she very gently turns me back to her.
“Jackson, I know you don’t really think there’s any way in the world I could be better off without you. Do you?”
I shake my head.
“And your dad?” She half smiles. “Maybe I would be better off without him in my life. God knows, he drives me crazy. But, honey, it’s too late for that. We’ve been through too much together, Oz and I. I’d probably be here, no matter what. I need to help him get through this; we both do.”
“I know,” I say.
She sighs. “Honey, I think I need to go home for a little while,” she says. “Get cleaned up. I don’t know, just touch base with real life. I think we both need to.”
“Okay,” I say. It’s a relief to allow myself to be someone’s kid again, to do something just because my mom says I should.
twenty–eight
It’s still gray out, and I’m glad because, having been in the hospital so long, even this dull gray world seems alarmingly vivid to me. Have there always been so many shopping centers? So many billboards and signs? Cars seem to pass way too close. Our cabby, an older man, chats in a friendly way. He was in the hospital himself not long ago, he tells us. A triple bypass. It was no picnic.
“But those docs
are amazing,” he says. “Body mechanics. I’ll tell you what—they made a new man of me. Hope your husband pulls through,” he says to Mom when she pays him. Neither of us attempts to set him straight. We just stand on the sidewalk and watch him drive away.
I feel strange here, in front of the new house. “I still can’t believe we live here,” Mom says, seeming to read my mind.
For a moment, I want more than anything to be returning to our cozy old house, just the two of us. I want to stand at the window in my old room and see something utterly familiar. But all that is behind me. I follow Mom up the brick walk, into the foyer. There’s mail scattered all over the slate floor. Mom picks it up, sorts through it. She hands me a postcard.
It’s a picture of the state capitol building of Iowa. The cars parked on the street in front of it look twenty years old. I turn it over.
Jax—
Bulletin from the real world. Blew some weed in Strawberry Field, met up with some Deadheads there. We’ve been everywhere, it’s a blast. Tell Oz the Dead live. There’s nothing like the road, man. But I miss you.
Kick ass—
Brady
Relief floods through me. He’s okay. Then, almost instantaneously, I think, do I need this? What’s with Brady, anyway—sending me a postcard from Dubuque, Iowa, with no return address? He misses me? Bulletin from the real world? Give me a break. I pace around in my room, but in the end I’m too tired to work up a real, cleansing rage. The truth is, Brady couldn’t help me now—even if I could find him. I’d tell him about Dad and he’d say, “Jax, you ought to jet, like I did. Leave all this sorry shit behind you.” I’d tell him about Amanda and he’d say, “Man, you blew it. All that time you could have been fucking your brains out.” That’s when I get pissed. It’s as if he actually did say those things to me, and I start pacing again, smacking my fist against my hand. “You asshole,” I say. “You complete and total asshole. You don’t know jack shit about anything.”
Wish You Were Here Page 15