Ally blurts out what they’re all thinking.
“Wouldn’t it be awesome if you could fight Gemini?”
41. Teratophobia / ter′ă-tō-fōˈ-bē-ə / fear of monsters or deformed people
“Hey, check this out, Short Bus,” Kevin says, pulling Ally’s sleeve. Unfortunately, Drake Murray’s nickname for her had stuck. Kevin’s goggling at a pyramid of Stryker Nash dolls at the end of the boys toy aisle in Wal-Mart. They all have the trademark green sea-monster faces and orange banana hammocks that Stryker wears as his costume. At the end of the next aisle, they see something they can’t believe.
Ally Forman dolls!
Her lawyer had mentioned a surprise he’d had in the works—this must be it. Ha!
“N-no w-w-way!” Ally’s bodyguards, sporting classic badass CIA garb, scan the curious faces of middleclass shoppers on their way to grab toilet bowl cleaner and greeting cards. “Mom!”
Lois turns around and sees the hundred mini Allys with the big sunglasses and gold jumpsuits. All she can think is how all those dolls are here because of her daughter. Her special, special daughter. She really did it, she realized her own dream while helping others reach theirs. Lois has never been more proud (really, she has, but that’s just what she thinks at the moment). She grabs Ally in a big hug. Then she’s blindsided by the urge to buy every single one of the dolls, of course.
A crowd forms around them like a summer rain cloud.
Ally Forman has become a household name.
Shoppers grab dolls and clamor for her autograph.
The Heavyweight Heroes of Horror flood every consumer market faster than you can say “Strykerama.” Stores cannot keep enough lunch boxes, bedding, or t-shirts in stock. A cartoon series and video games are in the works; Ally has just inked a sweet deal with a huge toy/electronics conglomerate who wants to help her pimp out the Triple H even further. Pandemonium ensues at every meet and greet the publicists organize. Since Stryker is back on a strict training regimen, and has his own PR schedule, Ally has hired two personal bodyguards to follow her everywhere she goes, the badasses in CIA getups, because she attracts so much attention.
The entire nation is gripped by the Heroes of Horror phenomenon. People no longer have to wait for Halloween to dress up like bloody zombies or vampires. Stores stock costumes and face painting kits year round. You can go in the grocery store and see a couple of werewolves, a chainsaw-carrying serial killer, and a family of mummies. Everywhere, there’s at least one Frankenstein’s monster. And his bride.
And vampires, of course, run the streets all hours of the day and night.
Man, I wish things would have been like this when I was human.
It’s so much fun.
Not to mention Profitable—catch the capital P?
Ally makes enough money to keep the group home running until the end of the world.
And she is happy.
Not just happy, like I’m-waiting-in-line-for-the-flying-elephant-ride happy, but truly and genuinely my-dreams-have-all-come-true happy. She had never even dared to dream that she could be a player in the real world of wrestling. It all feels so surreal.
What makes her happy about the whole wrestling thing is not the money, or being on TV, or people asking for her autograph; it’s what she’s done for others.
Jason had been so excited when she first bought the VNO. The look on his face was definitely priceless. She will remember that for the rest of her life, and longer. It nearly killed her when he got mad at her over the immortality thing. She never meant for that to happen. And she wouldn’t have paid him so much if she had known about the medical insurance thing. If only he’d get better.
Okay, but back to the happiness, right?
Stryker is way more successful than he’s ever been. He’s even talking about buying a new house. He’s getting his body back in shape, he’s not drinking, and Ally suspects he’s even got something going on with Debra, the nurse. Exciting stuff.
“I hate the dolls,” he tells Ally. She’s kicking his virtual ass at Wii fishing.
“G-g-get the…the mystery fish!”
He hooks a guppy. Ha ha.
“The dolls are…are…are cool. You’ve never looked s-so good,” she says, laughing.
“Shut up,” he says, smiling, casting his virtual line.
Debra walks into the media room, carrying a small shrink-wrapped rectangle. “Hey, you two, look what I got.” She holds up the package.
“A Stryker pillow case!” Ally laughs. “Take it out.”
Stryker’s face goes red.
Debra pulls the case out of the package and unfolds it. She holds it up and studies the silkscreened image. “Hmmm…”
“That’s awesome,” Ally says. “I have to have one. Can I have that?”
Debra raises an eyebrow at Stryker. “Sorry, kid, this one is mine.” She smiles at Ally. “I’m going to go put it on my pillow right now.” She wiggles her eyebrows at Stryker and runs out of the room.
He groans and hands Ally the Wii remote, clapping her on the shoulder on his way out.
Trip out.
Ally knew she was right about those two. She smiles to herself and hooks the mystery fish.
42. Ouranophobia / ow-rănˈ-ō-fōˈbē-ə / fear of heaven
He looks so peaceful, lying there in the broken sunlight that seeps through the dusty window. Fragile threads of silver weave their way through the thin patches of dark brown hair at his temples. She feels the memory of his pudgy arms encircling her waist, his sloppy kiss on her cheek, his peals of laughter. A sad smile touches her lips for the briefest second. Her baby, her eternal little one. An unseen javelin impales her heart and she slumps in her chair, dabbing her eyes with her coat sleeve. Ropy blue veins wind around his skeletal forearms, some of them plugged with transparent plastic tubes carrying agents to kill some cells and numb others. She looks at his withered face, atop the rumpled blue hospital gown. Only in sleep he doesn’t complain of nausea or dizziness or pain. His eye sockets seem to have grown exponentially, occupying more than half his face. His cheek and jaw bones jut through the wax of his skin, giving him a simian appearance that will haunt her for all eternity. Where had his innocent little boy face disappeared to? A mother should never be forced to endure such a torture as watching her own child being so ruthlessly decimated. Where is God, Trish wonders.
There is no answer.
“Mrs. Gibson.” The doctor appears at Trish’s elbow. “Would you mind stepping out into the hall with me for a moment?”
The doctor escorts her from Jason’s bedside out into the sparkling linoleum corridor. Trish wishes for a pair of sunglasses to cut the harsh afternoon glare. Jason’s heart monitor beeps through the door.
“Trish, remember we talked ab—”
“Is it time?” she shouts, cutting off the doctor’s words. “He can’t go. I won’t let him,” Trish shakes her head, sobs into her hands, gnashes her teeth.
The doctor gives her a competent, professional hug. His stiff arm lies across the top of her shoulders. It is more of an irritation to Trish than a comfort and she shrugs him off. He clears his throat and looks around, hoping no one saw the awkward attempt at good bedside manner. He’d never been very demonstrative.
“You should start assembling Jason’s friends and relatives.” Like all doctors, he hates this part of the job. “I’m sorry.” He explains, in a stiff robotic tone, that Jason has developed hemorrhagic pneumonia, most likely during the first or second week of his induction chemotherapy, when his immune system was compromised.
There’s nothing they can do.
He’s sorry.
Trish leans against the cold, mint-green, cinderblock wall as the doctor walks away. She slides slowly down the pitted concrete, heels of her hands pressed to her eyes. Her strangled sobs have a feline quality, and the nurses gathered at their station pretend not to notice her. One kind soul, though, breaks ranks and brings her a box of tissues, giving her a fleeting pat on the shoulder. Trish
sits on the floor and blows her nose, listening to the cyclic electronic pulse of her son’s monitor. Her sobs echo through the cold hall. Her shoulders shake, pale streaks are cut into her make-up, her nose runs over her upper lip.
With shaking hands, she pulls her cell phone from her purse and calls her husband. He’ll gather everyone and get them to the hospital. Part of her wants them to get there soon, another part doesn’t want anyone to come at all. She lays her head on her bent knees and waits.
Ally is at the gym with Stryker and a couple of the other wrestlers when her cell phone rings. She looks at the little gray screen. It’s Jeff.
The Call.
She crumples to the floor, hitting her head on a dumbbell. She doesn’t notice the blood until someone presses a towel to her hair. Even then, she stares blankly at the crimson smear and thinks only of Jason. Stryker carries her to her waiting car and the driver speeds them to the hospital. Other wrestlers follow in their own vehicles.
Lois is in the middle of getting her hair cut when The Call comes in. She bolts out of the salon with wet, uneven hair.
Earl is sorting the recycling while talking hockey with Kevin. He hangs up the phone and holds his son. His healthy, living son.
Sylvia is in physical therapy. She sits up on the exercise ball and reaches for the phone, already knowing who’s calling. She’ll have to fetch Mara from work.
Debra brings Wendell, Donald, and Samantha from the group home. They are all in tears.
A miasma of doom permeates Jason’s room and the corridor just outside. Everyone knows the final hour is coming to a close. No one is anywhere near ready.
Trish and Jeff hold Jason’s hands. His eyes flutter open. Beads of sweat trail down his face like tears. His unfocused eyes slide over his parents and friends. He looks at his mom. She’s crying. Good, he thinks.
“Mommy. Ah’m thick,” Jason croaks around the sores eroding his mouth. He whimpers, sending flashes of hot pain through the souls of everyone present. He looks around the room, seeing all his friends there, all gaping at him with tears on their cheeks. “Sthop loogin at me!” No one knows what to do, whether they should leave the room or cast their eyes to the floor. They look at each other, hoping to find the right answer. A nurse finally speaks up.
“Why don’t we all step outside for a few minutes,” she says.
Trish and Jeff are left alone with their dying baby. Jason’s brother and his family are on their way, flying in from Philadelphia.
They won’t make it in time.
I sit on the freshly waxed corridor floor, across from Ally, Lois, and Stryker, smelling the horrible hospital smell that lives forever and ever in my nostrils. Earl stands a few feet down from me, next to Jason’s door. I can feel anxiety and pain radiating from everyone present. I have nothing to whisper, nothing to offer any of my charges but simple insufficient pity.
I feel as helpless as these desperate humans.
A priest rounds the corner down the hall, near the nurses’ station. He walks toward our group with a measured yet purposeful stride. A spectral guest floats alongside him, invisible yet somehow tangible to this man in black.
I, of course, recognize my Superior at once.
The Superior is a buzzing, faceless form, in constant motion, not unlike a swarm of bees, and from it emanates a chill that penetrates bone. I watch humans shiver as he passes by. I am not surprised by this entity’s appearance, although I do feel deflated as my eyes come to rest on the dirty rags that contain its fluttering mass. I was really hoping for a different outcome, letting my vestigial human emotions run rampant.
Come on, get it together.
This will be a hellacious day for Ally. For everyone, certainly. But for Ally especially.
An idea strikes me as I grope for some way to show Ally some bit of good in this tragedy.
I wonder.
The priest and my Superior enter Jason’s room and shut the door behind them. After half a minute of self-deliberation, I slip in to confer with the Boss. If he will allow it.
Sir, I say, I beseech you.
A horizontal line of three glowing coals, set where you’d expect eyes, sear what you would call my face as he turns his attention on me. I am scared. I have never dared to approach a Superior in all my existence. It’s intimidating beyond all compare. I feel like a child tugging on the tattered shirt tail of a heavily armed serial killer. I don’t know what this…thing could possibly do to me, but I am one hundred percent positive that I do not want to find out.
Let my Dear One bear witness, I say, please, Sir.
An electrical buzz pulsates through my every particle. I feel like I’m going to fly apart. The Superior does not like being approached by an inexperienced underling. But, I had to try. For Ally.
She is Worthy. She can learn from this. I don’t know how else to teach her, I say.
The orange coals glow red and I am blasted off my feet, flying backward until I make contact with the wall. No one hears the impact.
In the ancient tongue of all angels and archangels, he tells me to bring her in. Her large friend, too. He, too, can make a difference, the Superior says in a spooky gravelly voice.
Yes, Superior. I am forever grateful. Give me strength, forgive my transgressions.
The Superior whispers to the priest, who asks Jason’s parents if there is anyone else they’d like in the room as he recites Jason’s Last Rites. For reasons unknown to them, they ask that Ally be brought in. And not just Ally, but Stryker as well. When Trish and Jeff had discussed this moment, numbed by an extra dose of Xanax, they agreed that they should be alone with Jason, sharing his last breath as a family. The Superior changes their minds.
The priest opens the door to the hallway and beckons the two inside, with me following, leaving stunned and questioning faces in our wake. Ally walks to Trish and hugs her. She trails a finger down Jason’s wasted arm. Fresh tears leak from his eyes when she touches him. Stryker hangs back, not sure why he’s there. He’d never been very close with Jason and wonders why the Gibsons would call for him at such a critical and personal time.
I stand facing the corner, inhaling layers of dust accumulated in the crevices of the textured wallpaper, regaining my composure.
I am sorry she has to see this.
“Peace be to this hospital and all who dwell in it,” the priest begins.
As the priest reads from his Book of Common Prayer, Jason coughs out a great glob of blood. Trish and Jeff both cry out. A nurse rushes forward with a towel and dabs at Jason’s mouth.
The priest clears his throat and speaks louder, reading scripture, offering absolution to the young innocent man dying right before us.
I can hardly hear the priest over the Gibsons’ wailing.
I feel extremely ill. I don’t know why. I’ve been through this countless times.
The Superior drifts to the wall at the head of Jason’s bed and bends its shapeless torso over the boy’s face.
Jason screams. He sees the fluttering swarm and the glowing coals.
I do not turn from the corner, but I listen and I see with more than eyes.
I hate my afterlife.
As Jason’s weakened body convulses on the bed, his parents cling tighter to his hands, determined to keep him from leaving them. Ally steps backward, crying and grimacing. The priest shouts above the din. Blood bubbles from Jason’s slackening mouth.
And then, it happens.
The Superior’s body flies apart like a flock of seagulls spooked by a thrown rock. It forms a funnel and draws a brand new boy, twisting and ghostly, like a wisp of smoke, out of the skeletal mass that was Jason.
Ally’s eyes float to the new young man’s handsome face. A smile lights her lips and dries her tears. The young man hovers above Jason’s dying body, held buoyant by a carpet of fluttering insect-like creatures. He smiles at Ally.
He is Jason.
The Jason that should have been. The Jason with the perfect number of chromosomes, the Jason with rou
nd blue eyes, the Jason with the physique of a long distance runner.
Ally thinks he’s a ghost. She’s almost right. She hardly believes it.
My favorite song plays in my head: Nick Cave’s “Death is Not the End.” (Yeah, I like Nick Cave—you got a problem with that? My Boss does, but, you know, I am what I am.) I wish Ally could hear it.
“Jason!” Ally shouts. “Is that really you? OMG, you’re hot!”
Trish and Jeff look at Ally, their mouths gaping, brows furrowed. The priest stares at her too. Jason’s physical body goes still in his bed. His mouth and chin shine red and there’s big crimson ring on the front of his gown, left by a burst blood bubble. His eyes lose focus and stare at his mom. That’s all the Gibsons are left with. It’s all the priest sees. (And he calls himself a man of faith.)
Stryker, however, sees the new Jason, and he smiles and takes Ally’s hand. They stare in wonder, smiling at their friend, reborn and whole and beautiful and happy.
“What are they doing? Get…get them out of here!” Jeff yells, his face wet and strained red.
“Yeah, Ally,” Jason says, “it’s really me! Look at me, Ally, look!” He looks down at his new image, studies his hands, his muscular forearms. “I am totally made of awesome!” He looks directly at Ally and appears to think for a second. “And, you know, it’s totally like I…I just know everything! It’s amazing!”
He laughs and it sounds like bells tinkling at Christmastime.
Trish struggles out of her husband’s death grip.
“I’ll always love you, Ally,” Jason says as the carpet of insects carries his new perfect form toward the hermetically sealed window. He smiles one last time and then, he’s gone.
“I love you, too, Jason!” Ally shouts, jumping and clapping.
Trish closes the distance between them and slaps Ally hard across the face with a resounding thwap. “How dare you? You sick…”
Short Bus Hero Page 20