I reached for the phone, dialing her number with shaking hands. Behind me, Angus bawled, with no indication of slowing down. I plugged my other ear with one finger as the ringing sounded in the other. Two. Three. Four.
“Hello?”
Only a tenth of a second to realize I’d made a mistake. She sounded exhausted, the familiar irritation creeping around the edges of her voice. “Hello? Who is this? Hello?”
“Ma.” (I need you.)
“Bernadette?” A rustling on the other end; was she in bed? Or had she fallen asleep on the couch and was righting herself ? Patting the corduroy throw pillow with the zipper down the side to get more comfortable? “Bernadette, is that you?”
“Ma.” (Please listen to me.)
“What’s wrong? What’s that crying in the background? Is that the baby?”
“Yes.”
“Is he okay? What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, is he hungry or wet?”
“No.”
“Oh, Bernadette, he probably has gas again. You’re just going to have to walk around with him and keep patting his back. It’s the only way it’ll come up.”
“Ma.” (Please. He’s not the only one screaming.)
“What, Bernadette? If you think for one second that I’m coming over there . . .” She inhaled angrily. “You’ve made your bed, young lady. Now it’s good and time for you to lie in it.”
I was as numb that night as I feel right now. How could I have let myself believe that Ma would have any other reaction to the admission I just made? And what does it mean now that it hasn’t come? Where does that leave me, what else can I do?
I walk across the room and stand over Angus; his blankets are flung to one side of his bed, one bare foot dangles over the edge. I rearrange his leg along the mattress, draw the sheets and blankets up around his shoulders, and tuck them lightly under his chin. He wrinkles his nose and turns away from me. I run my fingers absently through the curls on the back of his head, and then lay down, arranging myself around his tiny form, and hold him tight inside my arms.
Hours later, sleep arrives, an unexpected mercy.
THE SOUND OF voices from downstairs wakes me with a start. I’m still in Angus’s bed, but he is missing. I look down at my watch. Eight-thirty. Shit. I have to get Angus to preschool by nine. And then I have to get everything ready to take James up to the apartment. I might as well just stay there with him, now that Ma has thrown me out. No one has to know. And Angus will be safe here with her—at least until I can figure out what to do next with James. My unconscious brain takes over, moving my legs, propelling me down the staircase. The couch in the living room is empty, but I can hear the sound of Angus shouting in the kitchen. “I can get dressed by myself!”
“Now you listen to me, young man . . .”
I bound into the kitchen, breathless, frightened. Ma startles at the sight of me, and then runs out of the room, snatching at her eyes. “Everything okay?” I ask Angus, who is sitting on the floor, clad only in his Ninja Turtle underwear and one red sock. “Why’re you getting dressed in the kitchen?”
“Nanny made me. She said she wanted some company while she made breakfast.” He yanks a green sock up along his other leg, but makes no move to touch the pile of other clothes sitting in a heap next to him.
“Oh, okay.” I sit down in the chair opposite him, and rest my arms against the table. “You all right? It sounded like you were yelling a minute ago.” Angus ignores my question a second time, deliberately extricating his blue cargo pants from the pile and tugging on one leg at a time. “Angus?” I’m getting annoyed. “What’s going on here?” He stands up, plucking his shirt off the floor, and comes over to me for help. I pull it over his head, and kiss the top of his hair when it emerges through the opening. But he yanks it away, turns around so that his back is facing me.
“Angus?” I say softly. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
He stands very still and lowers his head.
I come around to the front of him, kneel down so that I am at eye level with his face. When he was a baby, Ma used to say that he had ocean eyes, because they were blue and green with a little gray mixed in there, too. Now, they look like a storm above the water, a splitting of clouds over the sea. “Tell me, Boo. What is it?”
He stares at the floor. Lets a tear drop out of his eye without moving to wipe it away.
I lean down, maneuvering my head under his, so that I am staring up at his face. It is pink, his eyes squeezed tight. “Are you mad at me?”
He nods, lifts his head finally. “You were mean to Nanny,” he chokes out. “I heard you last night. I was only pretending to be asleep when you laid down with me.” I can tell by the way his nose is wrinkling that it hurts to say this to me. “You make her cry all the time. The other night, before we went to the church. And then last night, too. I don’t like it when you yell at her. I don’t like it when Nanny cries. I love her!” He throws his arms around me, hooking his tiny chin over my shoulder. His sobs are long and forlorn sounding.
I let him cry for a moment, and then pull back so that I can look at him. “Listen to me, Angus. Nanny and I have a hard time getting along sometimes. And lately it’s just been harder than usual. But when the two of us move into our new place up at the lake . . .”
He takes a step back, pulling his hand out of mine as if I have just burned him. “Just you and me?”
“Just you and me,” I say, trying to make my voice happy and light.
“Not Nanny?” Angus asks.
“Well, no. She’ll stay here, Angus. This is her home.”
“I don’t want to go, then!” Angus tips his head back and hollers.
I grab both of his wrists—too hard—and yank him forward. “She can visit, Angus. As much as she wants. We can have her—”
“Noooooooooooooo!” Angus screams. “I don’t want to leave Nanny!”
“All right!” I hiss, although it is the wrong thing to say. It’s misleading, and I know it. Most of all, though, I don’t want Ma to know that he is freaking out about leaving her. The slightest bit of ammunition on her end of things right now will just make it worse between us. If that’s even possible.
The screaming halts abruptly. “All right?” he repeats.
“I’ll think about it.”
“What does you’ll ‘think about it’ mean?” Angus asks. His face is blotchy from the screaming, his blue eyes wet around the edges.
“It means exactly what you think it means. I will think about it. Now put on your shoes. We have to go, or you’ll be late for school.”
I’m almost out the door when I notice Angus kick one of his magic sneakers under the table. “No magic sneakers today?”
He shakes his head, reaches silently for a pair of tan bucks that I bought him a few months ago. They have a large Velcro strap over the top of each, orange rubber soles.
“The magic sneakers are too small for you now, huh?” My hand is on the door. Well, I knew the day would come. Eventually.
“No.” Angus’s face transforms into a grim map of determination as he slides his foot into one of the suede shoes. “They’re not too small. They just don’t work anymore. And they’re stupid.”
I TURN THE radio to a news station on my way over to Mr. Herron’s, keep it on WALL, even though it is in the middle of a commercial jingle. I think back to Ma this morning after the scene with Angus was over, how she avoided my eyes as Angus and I took a seat at the breakfast table, leaning in close to Angus for a kiss instead. I waited for the little twinge, some small thread of remorse, to snake its way through me for the things I said last night, but I felt nothing at all. Maybe I’m cut from the same cloth as James, I think, making the turn onto Mr. Herron’s street. Or even James’s father for that matter. Maybe the Rittenhouse men and I have more in common than I ever thought possible.
Angus hadn’t said anything more on the way to school either—at least, not until we got into the parking
lot. Then I turned around, looking at him over the back of the seat until he raised his eyes. “Angus. Listen to me, okay? I’ve been thinking about the situation with you and Jeremy.”
“What’s a ‘stitch-u-a-tion’?” he asked.
“The whole thing going on between you guys. You know, with him not being so nice to you lately.”
He dropped his eyes again, staring down at his suede bucks, and chewed the inside of his cheek.
“It was wrong of me to yell at him the way I did yesterday. You can always come to me for help if you need it, but I’m not going to interfere like that anymore.”
“What’s ‘interfere’?”
I sighed, closed my eyes. “Butt in. I’m not going to butt in again if it’s something I think you can take care of yourself, okay?”
Angus still hadn’t moved. Not a blink, not a breath, except for the inside of his mouth, which was working his cheek like a piece of gum.
“But listen to me, Boo. If Jeremy bothers you, I want you to stand up for yourself, okay? Don’t let him push you around. Don’t just sit there and take it. It’s okay to fight back. Okay?”
Still nothing.
“Angus!”
Finally, his eyes flitted up again, meeting mine. He looked frightened.
“Are you listening to me?” I asked softly. “Did you hear what I just said?”
He nodded and slid over sideways, opening the car door. “I just want to go to school now,” he said. “Bye, Mom.”
IT’S MIDMORNING, BUT the sun is still hovering behind a shroud of clouds, deciding whether or not to come out. The air feels lighter, as if a warm front is moving in, and I roll down the window, rest my arm on the sill. Up ahead on the right is the Owen Street bakery with the green-and-white striped awning out front. Maybe I will stop, buy five or six of the big cinnamon rolls that Ma and Angus like so much. We can heat them up in the oven tonight after dinner, drizzle them with the plastic cups of vanilla icing the bakery provides for such purposes. Ma will put on a pot of hazelnut coffee; Angus will smear the frosting off with his fingers and lick them clean. My heart swells a little at the thought of it—until I pull into the parking lot and stare at the front of the store. Who am I kidding? Cinnamon rolls and coffee? Do I really think that is going to help anything?
I steer the car in the direction of Mr. Herron’s house, turn up the volume on the radio: “. . . who beat the victim at a local bar last Wednesday, is still at large. Police are saying they have a few leads, but are still asking the public for their assistance. It is imperative that anyone who sees Mr. Rittenhouse call the New Haven Police Department immediately as he is still considered armed and dangerous.
“It has also been confirmed by the New Haven police that the victim has been moved out of the intensive care unit at General Hospital and is expected to make a full recovery.”
A sudden thought: now that Charlie is recovering, James won’t be charged with murder. Assault, yes, but still. There’s a big difference.
Years of difference.
And then, like a light, something comes to me. I step on the brake as it does, my body jerking forward from the abruptness of the movement, and just sit there in the middle of the street, breathing hard.
Mr. Herron’s street is at the next stop sign on the right. There’s no telling what he will say if I call him now and say I’ll be late. Especially since I’d had to leave an hour early yesterday. He’ll definitely have my paycheck adjusted. Maybe he’ll fire me. Or maybe he won’t.
A car horn beeps behind me. “Hey!” a guy yells. “Let’s move it!”
Yes, I think to myself. Let’s move it. Right now.
Quickly, before I change my mind, I make a hard left.
Chapter 32
The large hospital is all the way on the other side of town, the towering ten-story structure rising like a mountain over a sea of trees and houses. Wide glass doors appear as I get closer, the word EMERGENCY splashed across the front in red. They are flanked with small, neat bushes, a bordered path of unopened tulips. Behind the glass there is only the dimmest of lights, and a stillness I know belies an unseen panic somewhere inside.
I park the car on the street, a hundred feet or so from the front doors, and just sit for a minute, my hands on the wheel. Am I really going to do this? There is nothing to be gained by going in there. I can’t change what happened any more than I can force what will happen in the future. Instinctively, I reach inside my pocket, pull out a cherry ChapStick. I run it along my lips, once, twice, a third time. It tastes faintly of James, and something stirs deep in my belly. Capping the ChapStick, I throw it on the seat, push open the door, and, propelled by some unnamed force, get out of the car.
THERE IS NO one at the information desk; all the chairs in the waiting room are empty. I guess it’s still too early for visitors. Or maybe even patients. I stand in the middle of the enormous room for a moment, just looking around dumbly. A huge portrait hanging above the waiting room chairs looks like something Angus did once a few years ago with finger paints; across from it is a picture of Monet’s Water Lilies. The carpet is a navy blue color, and the odd, combined scent of antiseptic and mashed potatoes lingers in the air.
“Can I help you?” I startle at the voice, spin around frantically. “Over here.” A woman has appeared behind the information desk. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just went back to refresh my coffee. What can I do for you?” She sits down in a small blue chair, gives me a cursory look with a flick of her eyes. Next to her computer is an empty Styrofoam coffee cup ringed with pink lipstick and a half-eaten box of chocolate glazed doughnuts.
“Um, actually, I’m looking for someone.” I lean over the small lip of the counter, lower my voice. Am I going to regret this for the rest of my life? Will an alarm go off if I say his name? “Charles Wilkins? He’s been here for a few days. Do you know what room he’s in?”
“Charles Wilkins . . .” The woman leans forward, punching a few keys in the keyboard. She studies the screen, her flamingo earrings swaying lightly. Both birds have one leg propped up under them and large, yellow beaks. “Hmm . . . It says here he was in the ICU for two days, but then . . .” She taps the keyboard, glances at the screen once more. “Apparently, he was transferred to another floor. Yesterday, as a matter of fact, at three P.M. He’s on the fifth floor now, room 512.”
“Thanks. Can you tell me where the elevators are?”
“Down the hall to your left.” The woman sits up straighter in her chair. “But you can’t go up there now. Visiting hours don’t start until noon.”
“Oh, I know.” I nod obligingly, and hightail it down the hallway. “I’m just going to duck into the gift shop. Thanks for all your help.”
THE ELEVATORS OPEN directly in front of the nurses’ station, a wide, brown semicircle filled with charts and chairs and two nurses in uniform. Both of them look up as the elevator bell dings, and the larger one, who is wearing a lab coat covered with SpongeBob characters, frowns as I step out. “Can I help you?”
“I’m just here to drop something off for my coworker.” I lift my purse, praying that they don’t ask me to take anything out. Inside is a wallet—which contains my driver’s license, two dollars and seventy-eight cents, a coupon for a free Happy Meal with the purchase of one Big Mac—my keys, a tube of Blistex, four of Angus’s Matchbox cars, and a few more of those lavender wipes from Jane. Nothing even remotely related to Charlie. “It’s just some papers from the office that he asked for. It’ll only take a second.”
The large nurse raises her eyebrows. “Patient?”
“Charlie?” I try to make my voice light. “Charlie Wilkins?”
The smaller nurse takes a step forward now. She’s wearing a long, white cardigan, and her hair is pretty, kind of a goldish-red color, half of it pulled up with a clip. “You can leave them with us,” she says. “We’ll make sure he gets them.”
“Oh.” My eyes sweep the floor around her white clogs. “I was kind of hoping to give them to him my
self.”
The nurse looks at me skeptically. “You’re not family?”
“Well, actually, I’m his cousin. We grew up together. That’s sort of how Charlie got me the job in the first place. You know, ’cause we’re . . . close.”
Shit. Where the hell did that come from?
The two nurses exchange a glance. “All right,” the smaller one says. “Just for a few minutes. And if he’s sleeping, please don’t wake him up. He needs his rest.”
“Absolutely.”
Room 512 is all the way down past the nurses’ station at the apex of the curve around the hall. Charlie’s door is ajar, the linoleum inside a pale gray color, speckled with bits of blue. The walls are white with blue trim, the left one centered by a red leather chair. An empty bed, stripped of sheets, peeks out from behind a dividing curtain; beyond it is an enormous window only partly shrouded with dark blue drapes. Through the space between them is an enormous span of rooftops, and for a brief moment, standing there looking out at a faint thread of smoke winding its way up from the chimney of one, an ineffable loneliness fills me. Far above the roofs a band of white sky stretches out, thin as cotton, pale as silk. No sun or clouds in sight. Emptiness.
Slowly, I turn my attention to the rest of the room. Another bed on the opposite side of the curtain is not empty. My heart speeds up as I catch sight of a pair of feet forming narrow tents beneath a white hospital blanket. I take another step inside the room, silently regarding the outline of knees, a hollowed stretch of thigh, and then, suddenly, like something from a dream, the rest of him.
The Odds of You and Me Page 25