I spend the next couple hours trying to steel myself to face the dragon. Girding my loins, like they used to say. Girding my skinny-ass loins.
***
The family lounge is just as dusty and sad as ever, but it’s more full of people than I’ve ever seen it. We’re arranged in a funny kind of square, everybody else sitting on the couch and a bunch of folding chairs they brought in for the occasion and me in my wheelchair. They’ve shoved the TV off into a corner so that the families can face off, O.K. Corral style. Me, Mom, and some lawyer I never met are lined up on one side. Sylvie’s mother and father are on the other, sitting on the edge of the couch. In between the families, like referees, some guy in a suit and Mrs. Jacobs, who gives me just the smallest of smiles, are perched on their chairs.
Sylvie’s father has his head down so I can’t see his face. I kind of wish he’d look up so that he could see my stitches and bruises. Maybe he’ll feel better—like he got in a few good licks before they pulled him off me. Too bad he can’t see the green lights or hear the kazoos buzzing in my ear. I think he’d be pleased with that kind of internal damage—invisible but enough to drive me crazy.
The guy in the suit speaks first. “Thank you all for coming. In my office, we’ve been calling this the Hatfield and McCoy meeting—our little joke.” He gives this little awkward laugh, and when no one else does, he coughs and goes on. “I thought that both families, however, would be represented by attorneys.” He looks at Sylvie’s parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Calderone? Have you brought your lawyer?”
Sylvie’s father’s head comes up. He still doesn’t look at me. He speaks quietly, perfectly civil and in control. “I am an attorney, Mr. Ellis. We’re fine.”
The lawyer on our side—some guy my mom found on the Internet apparently, a guy who looks like he graduated from law school five minutes ago and who clearly can’t afford a decent suit, judging by the shiny blue pants he’s got on—starts babbling, and then everyone is talking at once. I sit back and try to stay focused, but it’s impossible. I realize that I can’t follow any of this conversation because the buzzing in my head is so loud and the green lights have floated right into the middle of my vision. Front and center, everything is green and everything is jumping around. There are, like, little banners of light skipping around, and it’s making me dizzy. I mean, I can tell that there’s lots of discussion, back and forth, and everyone is talking in nice, calm, friendly tones. I can hear about one-third of that. But that’s not what matters, anyway. People’s voices can lie. So I focus in on dragon-man and I listen really hard, and after most everyone else has shut up, I hear him say, “Okay, then, that’s the deal. I have offered my profound apologies to the Casey family. Ms. Casey has accepted my apology and, in turn, she has apologized to my family on behalf of her son. We have agreed that, given the kinds of stress we are all suffering, it’s all too easy for emotions to run riot, and we have all pledged to work hard at controlling our actions, no matter how we feel. And, most importantly, we have come to an amicable solution: Our family will stay on our side of the hall. Your family, Ms. Casey, will stay on yours. The lounge is neutral territory; however, we will take care not to use it at the same time. Thank you, everyone.” People start to stand up and mingle around, like they’re thinking about shaking hands, but not quite sure that’s appropriate.
I keep staring at Sylvie’s dad. It’s like, all of a sudden, in the middle of all of this perfectly civilized hubbub, there’s no one in the room but him and me. Everyone else fades to little gray shadows, their mouths moving but nothing coming out. I keep my eyes on him. And his eyes swing around to me. And they are, like, burning holes in my skin. I can smell smoke. It’s not cigarette smoke—it’s something rising off him. I can see it, if I look real close—curls of ashy black are lifting off his suit jacket and circling his head. In the middle of everything, he raises one hand, shapes it into a gun and points it at my heart. His lips pull back around a horrible smile, and he goes, Bang. And then everything goes dark. Like my eyes just crapped out, boom. I mean, I’m conscious and all. But not exactly. I hear all sorts of voices, but they’re all really far away. I’m pretty sure there’s a bullet in my chest, it hurts so bad. Then Mrs. Jacobs is bending over me, giving me sips of cold water and patting my shoulder. “Richard?” she keeps saying. “Richard, are you all right?”
I wave a hand. “I’m okay,” I say. “I’m fine.”
But no one hears me, and next thing I know I’m in my bed, my mom hovering around, her skin as white as her mask.
The cop, Glen, keeps popping his head in, even though they’ve canceled his watch and he’s off duty. He keeps asking if there’s anything he can do to help, and when she thinks I’m asleep, Mom finally lets him come in, and they watch TV together for a while. She even laughs, once or twice, at something he says or something on the tube. I like it that he’s here, keeping her company. He’s a nice guy, sounds like to me.
Eventually, Glen goes home and it’s just me and Mom, and she sits for a long time, holding my hand, real quiet. I mumble at her that I’m okay and say she’s got to get some sleep. They’ve brought in a fold-out cot for her, with pillows and blankets, so she’s probably relatively comfortable over in her corner when she gives in and lies down. The hallways get quiet. I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to sleep, though. There’s this constant thrumming in my head, and my chest feels all hollow. I think I know why that is—it’s the place where Sylvie should be, tucked against my chest. It’s just too empty and cold.
I look out the window and the sky is completely black, no stars, no moon, no nothin’. Seems about right to me, and I just keep staring into the emptiness, for a long time, wishing like hell there was something I could do. Something I could change.
***
Things are supposed to look better in the morning, that’s what everyone always says, right? Wrong. They don’t. They only look brighter in the sense of lots more green lights flashing around the edges of everything I look at. I can’t even drink coffee; it burns my throat and tastes like metal. To please Mom, I take a couple sips of her tea. One good thing—the only good thing—is that Mom is allowed to take off her mask today. Some infectious disease guy told her when she’d been fever-free for forty-eight hours, she could. And somehow, she convinced them she was a perfect 98.6, two full days, although her cheeks still look all hectic to me. Mom has a few tricks of her own, I guess. It’s nice to see all of her face, I got to say, and she kisses my forehead about a million times before I make her stop. Then she helps me into my chair and I sit there, making all kinds of stupid plans for getting over to Sylvie’s side of the hall. I mean, how crazy is that? Having to scheme to get across the hall? Come on. It’s one little hallway, man, not the Sahara.
But Sylvie’s as far away as if they carried her off to the other side of the world and locked her in a tower. I think about that for a while; in all the stories, the beautiful maiden is shut up in a tower or her castle is surrounded by giant thornbushes. There’s a deep snake-filled moat and three-headed dogs or some such nastiness guarding her. And, lots of the time, she’s sound asleep, too, under a spell. But the prince still gets to her, right? The prince dude accomplishes it, every single time. He climbs the tower walls or cuts through the brambles, whatever it takes. No matter what, he gets there. He wakes her up with a kiss and, whammo, they’re off to happily-ever-after land. Sometimes, of course, the prince has to fight a dragon or two on his way, too. I mean, that’s standard procedure. So, really, what’s my problem? I love the girl; she’s in danger; I’ve got to get there and wake her up. Hallways, lawyers, dragons—doesn’t matter. It’s like algebra, that’s all. I just have to figure it out, step by step. I have to focus, that’s all.
When Edward comes by to see if I want a shower this morning, I say, “Sure,” even though I can hardly stand the idea of hot water on my skin. But here it is: shower = step one. Getting to the shower gets me out into the hall, and even though the shower room is on my family’s side of the hal
l, maybe I can coax Edward to roll by Sylvie’s room. Maybe at least peek in, right? Maybe she’ll be awake and I can at least wave.
So Edward gets the shower stuff and he rolls me into the hallway and Mom takes off for the cafeteria, figuring I’m well-guarded. The minute she’s gone, I say, “C’mon, man. Have a heart. I don’t want a shower, I want to see her. One little glimpse, that’s all.”
Edward keeps steering a straight course for the shower room, so far to our side of the hall that my left elbow is damn near scraping the wall. He leans over and talks into my right ear. At least he’s got the one that can hear; the man is a nurse, after all. “No. You have to stop getting other people caught up in your misdeeds, Richard. We can lose our jobs, playing around with you.”
“Misdeeds?” The word itself feels weird in my mouth. “Give me a break, man. Me and Sylvie, we’re in love. We did what people do when they’re in love. That’s a misdeed?”
He doesn’t even slow the wheelchair. He backs into the shower room in one smooth motion. Once we’re in there, he sits down on the shower chair himself. His wide ass hangs off the sides, and he looks like a giant crouched on a tricycle, his knees to his ears. He folds his hands and lets them hang down in front of him, knuckles almost touching the floor. “Listen,” he says. “I sympathize, I really do. Young love. It’s very touching. But I cannot get in any more trouble. Me, Jeannette, all of us—we’re under, like, a sacred oath not to let you near Sylvia again. And to keep her father away from you. Our first responsibility, we have been reminded, is the safety of our patients. Not, I have been told, playing matchmaker to a pair of kids. Safety, Richard. That whole medical mantra, remember? First, do no harm.”
“Yeah, right,” I say. “Tell that one to the chemo guys who poured, like, cyanide and arsenic combined into our veins. Tell it to the guys who radiated our asses until our farts lit up. Come on, everyone knows radiation is deadly, right? Do no harm, shit.”
He holds up a hand. “Nevertheless. It’s my personal mantra. And there is now, I’ve been told, a formal agreement between the Hatfields and the McCoys. A line you cannot cross. And that is what I’m going to do, honor the line in the sand. Do not mess with me, young Richard. I can’t help you.”
I wish I could stare him down, but I can’t. And to tell the truth, I understand. I can’t get these good people in trouble anymore. Whatever I think of to do, I have to do myself. I am, after all, a big boy. Damn near adult. So I just nod. “Okay, got it. But, really, I don’t want a shower, either. My skin feels like it will peel right off if water hits it.”
He shakes his head. “Fine. Let’s just sit here for a while, so they’ll think I’m doing my job. Okay?”
“Okay.” And that’s what we do. It’s warm and sort of steamy in there, and Edward scoots the shower stool over to the wall and leans back, closing his eyes. I hunker in my chair, trying to think. But instead, I keep falling asleep, my head flopping to my chest.
***
Rest of the day, I just laze in bed. By late afternoon, even Mom seems to have had enough of sitting next to me; she gets twitchy and restless. She goes for a lot of walks, staying, I’m sure, on the Casey side of the hall. Sometime right around dusk, when she’s out there pacing, the phone rings. I pick it up, and have to remember to switch it to my right ear, which feels unnatural. “Richard here,” I say and then I smile: it’s Phil.
He says, “So, my liege lord, should I kill the fucker for you? Because I can. Because I most certainly will, with my bare hands. Any son of a bitch who would beat on a sick kid—”
I laugh. “Nah. Let him live. He’s got enough troubles. I’m a magnanimous despot—I can show mercy.”
“Shit. I was looking forward to it. But your wish is my command.” He sighs, then his voice brightens up. “Hey, man, look out your window in about three minutes, okay? Hold on.” He goes away, then comes back. “Your grandma wants to say hello.”
Grandma says, “Sweetie, I want you to know that I did it.”
“Did what?” My head is pretty damn swimmy, and I really don’t know what she’s talking about.
She sounds sort of taken aback that I don’t get it, but once she launches into her explanation, I can tell she’s excited, her voice rising. “Your father, Richard. I found a lawyer who says it will be a cinch to find the guy and get in touch. And put the screws to his miserable ass. The lawyer says that we might not even need a court case—that the idea that we might sue him for paternity of a boy conceived by one of his students, with him such a hot shot in the school system now, why, that might just be enough for a honking big out-of-court settlement. For your mom, Richard. For, you know . . . later.” On that word, her voice stops short.
I think about it. “So it’s like blackmail, right?”
She huffs. “No, no. It’s perfectly legal, according to this guy I found. And Phil’s in on it, too.”
“Great. That’s a comfort. Phil will probably just show up at the guy’s house and steal the silverware before beating the guy to a pulp.”
“No, no. We’ll do it right, Richard. Wait a minute . . .”
Phil comes back on. “I swear, my liege. For you, for Sisco, we’ll do this all legal. No funny stuff. Totally legit.”
I think again. “Even so. She’ll be really, really, really pissed at you. And at Grandma. You realize that.”
There’s a couple of snorts and then both of them say, “She already is.” And then they both laugh, kind of sad-laugh, really. Then Phil goes, “She won’t speak to us. Won’t let us in to see you. Won’t take messages. So, really, what the hell.”
I lean back in the bed, contemplating Mom’s future— “later.” If they can pull this off, she’ll have some funds. And maybe a nice guy like Glen the Cop will hang around. It’s easy to see he’d like to. That’s good, that’s all good. Or it might be, if I had one drop of faith that any of it would actually work out. But what’s the freaking difference, anyway? Faith or no faith, things are always going to happen to everybody we love, “later.” Not a damn thing we can do about it. All we can do is try to nudge things in the right direction, I figure, while we still have time to nudge. Like I got any choice: I realize, a little late, that once I started this ball rolling—talking to Grandma like I did, bringing up the question of who fathered my sorry ass—that there’s not a chance in hell that she and Phil wouldn’t run with it. Not a chance. Once again, maybe I didn’t quite think this through, didn’t quite consider consequences. What a crapshoot everything is. All you can do is roll the dice, right? “Sure,” I say. “Go for it.”
“All right! Now, go on, look out the window. But don’t hang up. We got liftoff. Look!”
So I sit in bed, hanging on to the phone and looking out into the darkening sky. In a few seconds, this huge round helium balloon comes up, hanging in front of the window for about three seconds before it blows away. But that’s long enough for me to see it: a huge silvery circle with HAPPY BIRTHDAY! in big swirly red letters on it. “Cool,” I say into the phone. “Very cool. Thanks, you guys.” I don’t want to hear what they say about it being a little bit early, and I sure don’t want to say good-bye, so I just go, “Oops, gotta go. Docs are here,” and I hang up. And I watch as the tail of the balloon, a long long strand of silver ribbon, follows it up and up and up. Up, up and away.
17
AFTER ALL OF THAT, I’m exhausted. But restless, too. All antsy. Thinking about rolling the dice, nudging fate—that just makes me madder and madder that I can’t get to Sylvie. And being mad gives me some energy, so I struggle myself into the wheelchair and I roll just into the doorway and sit there. I keep thinking there will be a few seconds when I can do it. I can roll over there quiet and fast. Supper trays are coming, and it’s a busy time. Everyone’s got to be distracted for a few seconds sometime. I just have to be patient and watchful. I’ll get my chance.
I can’t see into Sylvie’s room from my doorway. I can only see the rooms straight across the hall: the woman in the coma and the former two
old guys, now one old guy. It’s so stupid; I mean, it’s all of about ten feet wide, that hallway, but it’s like the Rubicon or the Red Sea or something. Or what’s the one that runs by hell—the Styx? I feel like if I even attempt a crossing, alarm bells will go off.
But if I roll just a little ways, up to the nurses’ station, I might be able to lean over—from my side, of course—and at least get a peek. So I start off on that little jaunt, very careful to stay on my designated side. And right away, I can feel how much I’m slipping. I can barely roll the chair, my arms are so weak. And whenever I lean forward, my chest hurts, right where Sylvie’s dad fired that invisible bullet. I have to squint to even see my feet, my eyes are so dim. And when I do sort of get the feet in focus, they’re weirdly swollen and puffy inside the clean white socks my mom makes me wear. They’re, like, all sausage-like down there. I understand—I’ve been around hospitals too long not to: add swollen feet to the fact that I hardly ever have to pee anymore and you get what they like to call renal insufficiency. Even we peasants understand that equation: fat feet = kidney failure. And when you get kidney failure—well, let’s just say you haven’t got a whole lot of time to be a hero. And the whole time you’re trying, your mind fogs in and out, too, what with the poisons mounting up in your blood. But, what the hell, not so much worse than moats and boiling oil, right? Nobody said being the prince was easy. I just keep wheeling, slow as molasses. Not sure I’m even moving forward, to tell the truth.
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