Somebody Up There Hates You

by Hollis Seamon

  But I guess I am because I’m close enough to the nurses’ station to see what happens next: my mom and Sylvie’s mom converge. They’re both going to ask the nurses for something—the families are always up there, asking for another blanket, a pitcher of ice water, pain meds, whatever. What I see is all a little blurry and tinged with green but clear enough. The two moms are standing on their sides of the big square where the nurses gather—each mother on her side of the hall. But then, like some sort of magnetic force or something gets turned on, they keep going toward each other. Like, some kind of planetary pull. Gravity times ten. My mom and Sylvie’s mom, they forget about whatever they needed and they look at each other, you can see the moment when their eyes, like, lock.

  It’s like watching a ballet. They’re like twin dancers, those moms. Mine is tall and blonde; Sylvie’s is short and dark. But that doesn’t matter at all. They each move around the nurses’ station, coming up to the far end of the square. Then each one takes three steps forward and they meet in the middle—I’m sure it’s the exact middle—of the hallway. Where the line is, the dividing line. For a second, each mom stays on her side. And it’s like everything on the whole floor freezes. Aides stop carrying trays, nurses look up from their report-writing and their hands go still. Visitors are glued to their spots, Br’ers stop scurrying. Everyone watches. There is not a sound, except some quiet harp notes drifting in from the lobby.

  Then my mom and Sylvie’s mom reach out their arms and take one more step. And they fall into each other, wrapping each other up in the tightest embrace you ever saw, ever. And there is a sound like you never want to hear, ever in your life. Those two moms just start to wail. It splits the air in our hallway, that noise. It rends our air. It is unbearable. And it just won’t stop. It’s so awful that you’d think that even Somebody Up There would cover his ears in shame.

  In the midst of the paralysis that noise creates, I make my break. Not, it turns out, to Sylvie’s room, like I planned. I’m not thinking; I’m fleeing.

  I don’t know how it happens, but I’m in the lobby. The harpy has dropped her hands from her harp, hearing that wail. She’s half-standing, her hand over her mouth. When she sees me, she straightens out. Straightens up. She takes command. “Richard,” she says. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  The elevator is empty, and we go down fast. I don’t think she’s talking, but I’m not sure I could hear her even if she was. On the first floor, she pushes me so quickly that we’re at the edge of the ER before she stops. We’re facing the little ER waiting room, and in there are a whole bunch of people making the same sort of noise that my mom and Sylvie’s mom made. A whole bunch of people hanging on to one another and just howling. The harpy takes a quick left turn, heading in another direction. I can tell that she’s not making choices here; she’s just heading in any direction that’s away, away from these places of hideous noise.

  I hold up a hand. “Please,” I say. “Take me outside, okay? I want to be outside.”

  She wheels around and pushes my chair out the sliding glass doors, and once they shut behind me, the noise stops. It’s cold out and the air hurts my nose, my throat and my chest at first. But I just keep gulping it down—cold, fresh, painful, outdoor air. And it feels good on my skin that’s always so stretched and dry now. The harpy takes my chair across the parking lot to a little verge of frozen grass that sits uphill of the hospital. She sets the brake, turning the chair so I can look way off, down the hill, toward the river. She takes off the white shawl-thing she’s been wearing and wraps it around my shoulders. She says, bending to speak directly into my good ear, “Take all the time you need, Richard. I’ll wait.” Then she backs away and I’m all alone.

  That’s what strikes me as so strange: How long since I’ve been left alone? No one hovering, no one jumping up into my face? A while, that’s for sure. I pull the shawl around me and let the wind fill my ears. It covers up the buzzing. I look down the hill at the city of Hudson—a bunch of lights strung in a loose rope down to the river. There’s a train leaving the station down there, heading south to the city. It sounds its horn, long and deep. I close my eyes and think about all of those people on that train, off to the city. Maybe they’re planning some Christmas shopping—my mom took me once when I was little, and I can still see those decorated windows, with all kinds of moving toys inside them. Me and Mom, we stopped in front of every one and stood there for a long, long time. My favorite window was full of silvery robots, all marching around, filling stockings. A robot Santa sat in a metal chair, constantly sipping from a metal flask. In another one, there wasn’t a whole lot of order that I recall; it was just a big heap of crumpled-up wrapping paper and torn-open boxes, each one with a new toy sticking out of the top. A little kid’s vision of heaven. But maybe the train passengers are just going to visit someone. Maybe they’re going to work. Doesn’t matter. It makes me feel happy, thinking of them—just plain old people, living plain old lives. And just beyond the train tracks, the river, doing its own thing, like it’s been doing forever. Fish swimming around in the cold water, doing whatever fish do when winter’s on its way. That’s nice, too.

  I lean my head back and open my eyes. I’m looking at the sky, hoping for stars. But it’s a heavy-cloud kind of night, I guess, because there’s not a one. Sky’s black as can be. Even so, if you look up long enough, stars or not, it always feels like you’re falling into the sky, right? You know, it’s like antigravity or something? I keep my face pointed up, waiting for that to happen, and I feel something cool and wet touch my cheek. I hope I’m not crying. I mean, I don’t feel like I am, but maybe I can’t even tell anymore. Maybe I’m always crying. But then there’s another cold wet kiss, then another. Then a whole swirl of them, and I get it. It’s snowing. First snow of the year. I open my eyes as wide as I can, and I open my mouth, too. The little flakes fall faster and faster and, looking up, it’s amazing. They’re coming toward me, I get that, they’re falling. But it feels like I’m lifting, going up toward them. Like I’m the one moving. I hold my arms out in front of me and it’s just like flying.

  ***

  I don’t know how she knows, but just about when I’m so tired and so cold that I come crashing back to earth, the harpy comes back. She grabs on to the handles of my chair and takes me back inside. In the elevator, she brushes the snow off my shoulders and the top of my head. She takes back her shawl and shakes it. The pile of snow that lands on the elevator floor lasts only for a second.

  In the lobby, the first thing I see is my mom and Sylvie’s mom, sitting on the couch, holding hands. They’re leaning together, with heads on each other’s shoulders, and they’re both sound asleep.

  In the hallway, the harpy disobeys the agreement. It occurs to me that this is a woman with no patience for rules, and that’s cool with me. She just pushes my chair right into Sylvie’s room. There’s no one in there—no guardians, anyway. What there is is the silent girl on the bed covered with a patchwork quilt.

  The harpy rolls me over to the bed and she says, “Take your time, Richard. If her father shows up, I’ll take care of it. I will not allow that son-of-a-bitch to bother you.” She goes into the doorway, and I see that she’s standing there with her arms folded on her chest. Like a sentry. I’m getting to like this woman.

  I stay there for a long time and I try to say everything I need to. That’s a lot, but I think I get most of it in. It takes a while.

  But you don’t need to hear it all, and I don’t want to go into how I call to Sylvie. How I talk to her and tell her I love her and all of that. Tell her it’s snowing outside. Tell her about the train and the people going to the city, describe the store windows, all lit up for Christmas. Tell her what it feels like to fly. It’s too, I don’t know, personal. And way too damn big for any words I can come up with.

  I roll over and kiss her cheek.

  It would be nice to say that she woke up, that she opened her eyes and said, “Hey, Rich-Man.” That my princely kiss brough
t her back to life.

  But I’m not going to start lying, not now.

  She didn’t move and she didn’t speak. That’s the truth.

  But, like Edward said, there’s something happening in that room. Like there’s a force field around her. Something pulsing and beating, and I know she’s in there. Still there. Like she’s just biding her time in there. Like she’s waiting to rip the spell she’s under to shreds. Like she’s waiting to be born. And when she is, she’s coming out all elbows and knees, kicking and screaming at anybody— anybody—that gets in her way.

  When the harpy comes to roll me out of the room, we stop for a second in front of Phil’s picture, the one he drew of the grown-up Sylvie, lying on a bed with her baby. The harpy reads the words I couldn’t see and Sylvie never showed me. She points to the baby’s tiny shirt and says, “Little Richard.”

  And who am I to say that’s impossible?

  ***

  I think I see light in the sky outside my window, but it doesn’t do much to wake me up. All day I kind of slide between dreams and whatever real life is—I mean, there’s not a whole lot of difference. Either way, there’s lots of swirling green light and lots of pure black darkness creeping in from the edges of my vision, like curtains being pulled in. I hear someone say “pneumonia” and I feel my face being wiped with cool cloths. My head gets lifted up and someone drips water into my mouth.

  I turn my head away because I’ve just started this cool dream and I want to stay there, inside it. It’s me and Sylvie waiting in line in some big shopping mall, waiting to see Santa. There are big red and green balls hanging down and fake snow piled around our feet. There are a million little kids running around, shouting and laughing. Sylvie and I, we’re not little kids, though. We’re ourselves, teenagers. Sylvie’s hair has grown back—it’s not long, but it’s gorgeous, all these little dark curls around her face. She’s smiling and we’re holding hands. We kiss each other every three seconds or so. Long, sweet, laughing kinds of kisses. She tastes like Cherry Coke. I am so into her that I’m not noticing how the line’s moving, but all of a sudden, we’re there, at the foot of this huge red chair, and Santa is pointing at us. And Santa is that robot one from the store window. He’s all metallic and he’s got this big steel smile on his face. He goes, “Ho, ho, ho,” but to me, his voice is like Darth Vader’s—it comes out of that steel-mesh smile and gives me the absolute creeps. I pull on Sylvie’s hand and say, “Let’s get out of here.” But not her—oh, no, she’s not scared. I watch as she climbs up on the robot Santa’s knee. She sits there, all flirty and pretty, waving at me. She smiles at me and some kind of little robot elf takes her picture—a big flashbulb goes off in my face, and for a minute I can’t see anything. But I can hear. Santa-Robot’s loud, fake-cheery voice asks Sylvie what she wants for Christmas. I hear her say, “I want to be there, big guy. I want to be for Christmas.” I can’t keep hold of her voice, though. Or her face or anything. The dream floats off and I keep getting pulled back into this hot, dry room.

  Faces keep floating into my vision, too: Jeannette, Edward, Kelly-Marie, Br’er Bertrand, Mrs. Jacobs. It must be pretty crowded in here. But it’s impossible to tell if they’re really there or not. All the faces flit around, coming and going like wobbly balloons. Except for Mom; her face is always there and is always real, even when I’m asleep. Someone keeps saying, “Please, Richard. Try. Try.” I want to say, I’m sorry, but I want you to shut up now. I’ve tried and tried, and I’m done, okay? So I’m not a hero. Sue me.

  You know, you can think that, though. You can be pretty much ready and all—and Somebody still has a laugh or two planned for you. I mean, really. There might be a couple surprises, even yet.

  It’s dark out when I wake up: blam. Wide awake. My mom always says that all teenagers are creatures of the night, like we’re all vampires or whatever. Guess it’s true. I’m full of energy, like I could run a marathon. It’s pretty quiet in my room now: everyone who’s been floating around all day must have gone home. My mom is asleep on her cot. The only face I see is Edward’s, and once again I don’t think it’s his shift. But he’s sitting there anyway, snoring in the chair. The curtains in my eyes have been opened; there’s lots of green, but no more black.

  “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low so that I don’t wake Mom. I lean over the side of the bed. “Is this the most boring room in the place or what? Why’s everybody asleep? C’mon, man. The night is young.”

  Edward sits up and looks completely confused. “What?” He looks at me and his eyes get big. “Richard? Hey, man, nice to see you awake.” He stands up and puts his hand on my forehead. “Whoa. Still pretty hot, though.” He picks up a thermometer.

  “Put that away. I’m fine.” And it’s true. I do feel okay. I mean, relatively. I’m pretty light-headed and, I don’t know how to describe this, heavy-chested. But really, not bad. Must be what big-breasted women feel like, it occurs to me, most of the time. Just sort of weighty there in the front.

  He puts the thermometer down. “Really? You feel okay?”

  “Yep.” I sit there for a minute. And then I say, “Hey, Edward, you ever feel like something’s going to happen? Like there’s something you’re supposed to do? Like, something you forgot about, but it’s important?”

  He just raises his eyebrows. “I guess.”

  “Well, I got something to do. I’m just not sure yet what it is.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, anything I can do to help you do this thing?”

  I think about that. “I think I better be mobile, you know? I better get into my chair. Got to be ready.”

  Edward huffs a little about that, but I’m already swinging my legs—my fat, bloated, don’t-seem-like-my-own legs—over the edge of the bed. So he tsks and humphs, but he gets the wheelchair and he lifts me into it. And I mean lifts: I don’t have to move a muscle, and just for a minute, I let my head rest on his shoulder. “Thanks, man,” I say.

  I want to go into the hall. Don’t know why. I mean, I know I can’t get to Sylvie, and I know that my kiss won’t wake her up anyway. But I also know that I’ve got to be out there, to meet whatever’s coming.

  And it turns out that what’s coming is Sylvie’s father. He’s pacing the hall, staying to his side, when he spies me and Edward. He stands across the hall and glares at me. Even from here I can smell the smoke and alcohol on him. All around his head, a kind of orange light flickers. I shake my head and rub my eyes, but it doesn’t go away, that light. So I guess it’s real—dragon breath, held in. Maybe I’m the only one who can see it, but to me, it’s clear as day. He’s not quite breathing fire, but it’s in there, smoldering.

  18

  SYLVIE’S DAD STARTS TO walk across the hall. He steps on the invisible line and keeps on coming. I feel like Edward’s got his teeth bared. He’s, like, growling. Like he’s the papa bear and I’m his cub. I say, “It’s cool, man. No worries.”

  So Edward doesn’t move and he doesn’t push me away. He just keeps his hands on the wheelchair, ready.

  Sylvie’s father stops right in front of my chair. His suit hangs on him like some kind of wrinkled gray skin, way too big. It’s got this little pattern of lines, like I never saw before on a suit: I see, all of a sudden, that this skin he’s wearing is scaly. Reptile skin, I think. Like this gray thing is the old skin he’s shedding; underneath, he is golden, I decide, with black stripes. Like I always pictured the Great Worm Smaug. I shake the green bubbles from my eyes and say, “Good evening, sir.”

  “Richard,” he says. He smiles and bows to me, a little formal bend from the waist. His teeth are stained and his breath stinks. “I heard you were—let us say—rather unwell today. But here you are, looking hale and hearty, I am pleased to see.” Edward starts to speak, but Sylvie’s dad interrupts. “Would you perhaps like to pass these wee hours with a game of cards, Richard?” He looks at Edward. “In the family lounge, which is, of course, neutral territory? Are you up for a game of chance?”

  You bet I a
m. Chance is all I’ve got, right? But Edward is arguing: “I’m sorry, Mr. Calderone, but this young man is in no shape for —”

  “How about you let the young man speak for himself? How about you shut the fuck up?”

  I think that maybe Edward will leap over the wheelchair and strangle Sylvie’s father with his bare hands. So I have to intervene. “Hey. There is no call for that,” I say. “I am in perfect shape for a game of cards. Let’s do it. Let’s roll.” I start to push on the wheels of my chair. This is nothing but a bluff because I’m way too weak to propel myself, but it pulls Edward out of his paralyzed rage.

  He takes a deep, deep breath and says, “Richard, you will not go anywhere with this man.”

  Sylvie’s dad shakes his head. He smiles now, all friendly and reasonable. “I am so sorry,” he says. He rubs his eyes. “The strain, it makes me crazy. Forgive me.” He even looks a little bit sorry. Really, the guy is a shape-shifter. “All I’m proposing is a friendly game of poker. With others, of course. Just to pass these long hours.” He looks behind me and says, “You, sir. Perhaps you’d join us?”

  I turn around and there’s Mrs. Elkins’s son. He nods. “Absolutely. Yeah, sure.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll go set up a table.” Sylvie’s dad almost trots down the hall, he’s so pleased.

  “C’mon, man,” I whisper to Edward. “Let me play. I want to beat that man’s ass into the ground. I want to trample his face into mush. Please. Give me this one last chance, okay?”

  Edward groans. But he, too, wants to see that man beaten into jelly, I know it. So he’s going to let this game happen. Really, he has no choice, does he? You going to turn down the last wishes of a dying boy? I don’t think so.

  ***

  It’s confusing to me how everyone gets there. I mean, by the time I’ve calmed Edward down and we’ve arrived at the lounge, it’s sort of packed with people, all sitting around a folding table. There’s Mrs. Elkins’s son and Sylvie’s father and, to my complete and utter surprise, the harpy. Her white hair is in a huge cloud of frizz around her face, and she’s wearing something that looks like a long white nightgown. She smiles at me. “Hello, Richard,” she says. She’s shuffling cards and her hands move like lightning.