I took my phone back out and dug around to see what I’d missed. Even a string of angry texts from Naomi would be something to make me feel less alone. She had texted, but I couldn’t read the tone. She asked where I was, asked if I wanted to talk. That was it, really. She didn’t send any follow-ups, no worried texts, no angry ones. No one else had tried to contact me.
I debated who should know about Dad. I called Mom, but I only got her voice mail. This didn’t seem right for voice mail. I tried calling Mellie and got the same. I could send a text message to her, at least. Dad’s in the hospital … Stop by? She had probably expected it like I did, but she didn’t live with Dad. She hadn’t even seen him in years now. But she deserved to know.
I checked Facebook. The East Bridge page had been taken down, or was removed. I didn’t know if anyone commented on my picture, or even saw it.
There wasn’t a ton of activity online without it. Maybe everyone had moved on. There wasn’t much going on in the hospital, either. There was a receptionist fielding a few calls. Every now and again a doctor or a nurse walked by. They must have really hid the high drama, the buses full of injured bloody people, sobbing and screaming. That must all take place in the back somewhere. The X Games were on a TV, image after image of bicycles crashing, skateboarders dragged along concrete. I wondered if that was a dark joke by the hospital people and applauded them if it was.
I continued my game of Worst-Case Scenario. Worst-case scenario, my dad died that day. I’d go live with Mom and Seth and try to stay out of the house as much as I could. I’d still go to the same school, and I’d spend a lot of time there. I’d spend a lot of time with Naomi. Worst-case scenario, Naomi wouldn’t talk to me anymore. She had to be mad at me. I wouldn’t even listen to her when she tried talking to me. Worst-case scenario, she started dating someone else. Someone confident and cool, someone in control of his life, someone strong. Worst-case scenario, she was done with me forever. And Jason was done with me forever. Worst-case scenario, I went back to school, and everyone laughed at my red swollen face and held a parade for Lester and his friends.
This was a bad game.
A nurse in a white lab coat walked by, a short Indian woman with large, expressive eyes, and just as she was about to pass me, she turned to look at me, and from the look on her face, she saw mine. I must have looked like a beaten-down homeless ragamuffin who snuck in for shelter, nestled into some corner with my head down avoiding human interaction. At the very least, it was an easy assumption that I came here for me and not my dad.
“Oh my goodness,” she said.
“You should see my dad,” I said, only just after realizing the implication of domestic violence.
“Is someone helping you?” she asked. “Come here.” I got off the couch, and we walked down the hall to a small office. The nurse told me to hold an ice pack to my cheek for a few minutes.
“I figured it’d heal on its own,” I said. “Never got a black eye before.”
“Well, that’s some black eye. It covers half your face,” she said, opening a cabinet and reaching for something. “It’ll heal, but a little help and guidance won’t hurt it, either. So, was it a fight or a trip down the stairs?”
“Fight, I guess,” I said. She wet a towel with warm water and gently rubbed it over the wounded area. It felt nice.
“I wish I could convince you the drama passes,” she said. “There’s nothing worth breaking bones over. You take any Advil?” I shook my head. “You want an eye patch?” she asked. She dropped three Advils into my hand and filled a small paper cup with water. “Pirate look might scare off the other kids.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “But thanks for the Advil, and checking it out.”
I walked back to the visitor area and sat on the couch. Mellie had texted that she was on her way. Mel’s college was about an hour away from the hospital. At least I wouldn’t be alone for too much longer.
“Walter?” I heard. It was a doctor, making his way over. He looked young, like a TV doctor. Made me think of Dad getting annoyed with all the young guys who’d been hired on the police force. He’d probably hate this kid taking care of him. The doctor didn’t have the biggest smile, so I imagined his news would be less than great. “I just wanted to fill you in, if you’ve got a minute.”
I nodded. He stayed standing, I remained sitting.
“So your dad is in a diabetic coma,” the doctor said. “With diabetes, when the blood sugar gets to a low-enough point, the body and mind can lose consciousness. It could be set off by dehydration, exhaustion, shock. Stress.” He counted those off on his fingers. My dad was a prime candidate, in other words.
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked. It had to be on the top three questions doctors received. His face wasn’t promising.
“I can’t say,” the doctor said. “I can tell you that, personally, I think it looks good. We have him on IVs, he’s getting the nutrients he needs, and you got him here early. But unfortunately I can’t tell you for sure how long he’ll be out, or in what kind of shape he’ll be in when he wakes. The sooner he wakes, the better.”
He must have seen the tear roll out of my eye because he quickly added, “But again, personally, I think it looks good.”
After a couple episodes of the TV show Jackass in the lobby, the glass entrance doors slid open and Mellie walked in with a nervous strut. She eyed me and made a beeline over, and dove into me with a hug.
“Ow!” I said. Her shoulder rammed into my bruises like a bulldozer.
“Oh Jesus!” she said, seeing the browns and blues on my face. “I just glomped your face! I’m so sorry! What on earth happened to you?”
“I got hit,” I said. I guess I had to figure out an explanation for that, because I’d be getting it a lot at school. Or at least a funny line. Walked into an oncoming truck. She came in like a wrecking ball. I told Mellie about the blackout and the argument with Naomi, and the walk home. I told her about the past few days. I told her about Dad and how he’d passed out on the floor and all the sweat. We had time now, so I told her everything.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she said. “Everyone has diabetes now. This is probably routine for them here. They probably get, like, four of these a day.” Mel and I were slouched on opposite ends of the couch, taking up the whole thing. Mel’s legs on top and mine sliding to the floor.
“Ha-ha,” I said. “It’s not, like, a head cold.”
“I know,” Mel said. “Just trying to lighten the mood. Stay positive. They’ll fix him.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for coming anyway. I wasn’t sure if I should bother you.”
“He is still my dad,” Mel said, looking at me from her end of the couch. “I’m still your sister and you’re still my brother, even if we’re in different states. We’re still a family, no matter what happens. So none of us are ever alone.”
“It doesn’t feel that way,” I said. “Sometimes.”
“Well, I’m glad you told me. I’d have been pissed if you hadn’t.” Mel held my hand. “He’s my dad, too.”
*
Dinner did nothing to combat the stereotypes of hospital food. Mel had a meat product served with a gelatinous vegetable serving, and, not trusting that combination, I went with the Styrofoam-textured grilled cheese, which I could only take a few bites from.
The TV was still on in the waiting room. Made sense—it was a hospital, it was not like they shut the doors for the night at 10 p.m. or anything. The TV was showing a marathon of the game show Wipeout, more scenes full of bodily injuries. Well-played, hospital. We watched some of that, and then Mel fell asleep. My swollen face hurt twice as bad when I was lying there doing nothing. Advil was no help. Trying to sleep in a waiting room was even worse. And, of course, not far away there was my dad, lying in a coma. That was a surreal thought. I decided to walk around the hospital aimlessly.
Nothing seemed to be off-limits, so I kept walking, and thinking.
I thought about Dad. Like, how could
you be told you had a disease and willfully do nothing to fight it? Maybe you didn’t like doctors, but when you were ill, you went anyway. You went to your doctor, you took your medication, you changed your diet, you exercised. You might hate all those things, but were they really worse than dying? The idea that he just sat there and let his body rot away, and was so passive about it all … And what was I doing?
You’re sticking your head in the sand like an ostrich, Naomi would say. Maybe we’d play the question game again. Why are you so mad at your dad?
Because, he’s being stupid, I’d say. He thinks he can shut his eyes and somehow he’ll wake up and the diabetes will be gone, and he’ll be back to working full-time. Maybe he’s back with your mom—I don’t know—and everything will be great again. But what if he shuts his eyes and they don’t open at all?
Naomi would put her head on my shoulder, her arm around my waist. Things don’t fix themselves when they’re broken.
No, they don’t, I’d say. They just stay broken. He’s being so stupid.
Are you being stupid? Naomi would ask me, stepping away. Are you going to let us stay broken?
There was a large window at the end of the hallway, next to a staircase. The ground below was orange from the streetlight, the buildings and trees across the street were black, and the sky was a dark blue with a tiny piercing of moon. I followed the exit signs, one in the hall, one down the stairs, and out a set of doors until I was under the moon.
There were no exit signs to follow outside, so I kept walking forward until the hospital was long behind me.
Chapter Sixteen
The hospital was just blocks from the High Hill section of the city, heavily populated but empty at this time of night. Or morning.
I felt like the ghost of Sam Spade, or any of the detectives Dad and I had watched. Haunting the city, shadows twisting around each building, darkness battling artificial light. I hadn’t slept in a long time.
I was somewhere between person and animal. Between the detectives and the crooks they chased. I wanted to find this criminal. If I could just catch this kid doing what Dad said he’d done, it would make everything right again. Everything I believed would be confirmed, and the world would be right and I could trust and feel safe again.
Naomi hovered in the front of my mind, taking up most of the real estate there. Maybe that chapter of my life was already over. Maybe a relationship with someone like Naomi wasn’t something I was capable of handling, or was ready for. She wanted someone to fight for her, not get nearly killed over her.
I knew that Naomi had nothing to do with what had happened, but at the same time she was so connected to it all. To me, at midnight out in the streets, looking for dangerous people, love equaled a bruised and split-open face. Love was a concussion with a promise for more.
Down the hill, the storefronts on Main Street were all lit up for Christmas, even when the lights inside the buildings were off. I wondered if I’d be alone at Christmastime.
I heard a noise on the other side of the building I was passing. I heard voices. I stopped moving, tiptoed along the wall, and listened. I heard someone laughing. A dog bark. The last time I followed voices on a dark night things had ended poorly, but that didn’t stop me. I followed the wall and peeked around the corner, but there was nothing but streetlights and the hill off in the distance. I followed that wall, along the street front, still hearing the voices, and peered around that corner. But it was just an alley. I could still hear the voices, but I looked up, I looked down the street, I ran down the alley. Nothing. Not even a bedroom light was on.
I wasn’t a ghost haunting the city; I was a damaged human being haunted by ghosts. Was Calvin Temple even real?
I knew at some point the thief would strike again, and I wanted to see it with my own eyes. I wanted proof. I wanted to know what all this was for. I knew the Basement pretty well, and that was where the majority of the crime had happened. I stood a chance of seeing it, if it happened while I was out there. If anything happened at all.
I was my dad, out on the street, looking for that kid to be doing that thing. I wanted Calvin Temple to be the criminal and I wanted Dad to be the supercop, the ace detective. I was walking in my dad’s shoes and thinking how he would think and hoping he was right, but I was chasing a phantom. There was nothing there. I didn’t like the feeling. I didn’t like being Dad.
That Halloween party I went to with Naomi, watching Lester talking to her, convinced he was bothering her, that he was up to no good. I was being my dad, the same person I kept saying was wrong. I had him pegged, flagged. He was hitting on my girl. And what did I focus on? The laughing. She was laughing so hard with him.
I turned around to walk back to the hospital. I took out my phone, and I listened to the voice mail Mom had left me.
“I’m just thinking about you, how much you’ve changed. All in good ways, better than I could have hoped for.” I had felt different, but the feeling had been short-lived. “I’m so glad you came over, and I hope we can do it again. And I’m glad you brought your friend over. She’s really a sweetie.” She was … “I feel like a huge weight is off my shoulders. Do you feel that? I was really sick and really worried for a long time, and I want you to know how much better you made me feel. Anyway, I should get to bed.” So should I. “I love you. Talk to you later.”
*
I opened the Internet on my phone when I got back to the hospital, sitting at an empty table near the windowed wall. The Facebook page was still down. I couldn’t find the phantom burglar. All evidence of this whole ordeal went down with the Facebook page, face bruises aside, and everything seemed to be back to normal. Everything was okay, except for my messed-up face and my anger.
Everything else in the world had disappeared, but my rage was alive.
Chapter Seventeen
When Mel woke up, we got breakfast, just the two of us. The food was much more tolerable than our dinner food had been. At least they were clearly pancakes, and eggs, and I devoured them both.
“I miss you like swearwords I shouldn’t say in a hospital,” Mel said. “How’s Naomi?”
I twisted my mouth a little and looked to the side.
“Oh,” Mel said. “Have you talked to Mom?”
“Just a little,” I said.
“Dammit, Walter, don’t be that person,” Mel said. “You’ve got everything in the world going for you. You piss me off because you’re so much like me. I started seeing a therapist.” Mellie was quiet for a minute and let that thought hang in the air. “It’s been really good. You may want to sometime, too.”
“Therapist?” I asked. She had tattoos. I’d thought that was her therapy. “Why?”
“What do you mean why?” Mel asked. “Because I needed someone to talk to. Because I wasn’t thinking normal.”
“So what? No one’s normal,” I said. “Normal is stupid anyway.”
“That’s exactly what my therapist said, that there is no normal. But—and this is why I think you could benefit as much as I have—the way we were raised was definitely not normal. We think it was, because it’s all we knew, and all we had to compare it to was TV shows, and everyone knows that’s all crap.”
“It was normal before Mom cheat—before Mom and Dad split up,” I said. I tried to finish my eggs before they got any colder. “I don’t need therapy.”
“Someday you’re going to figure out that our logic is a little faulty, and I’m just suggesting you be a little proactive about it,” Mel said. “Ever ask yourself this: Who raised us? I mean, who taught you confidence? Who told you how handsome you were when you were growing up, who taught you how to talk to girls, or stand up for yourself, or fix a car or even how to drive? No one. Dad was a workaholic. Mom was depressed. Who told you you’re worthwhile, that you’re special? No one told you these things growing up. No one told me, either. So that’s the voice in our heads—it’s saying, I’m not special. I’m not worthwhile. I’m not handsome. I don’t know how to do this. I’m
not a part of this. But that’s what you learn in therapy. Walter, you are special. You are worthwhile. You’re handsome, and you’re sweet, and the world is yours if you want it. And that’s the truth. That’s what we should have learned a long time ago. That’s what I’m trying to learn now.”
I smiled uncomfortably. I didn’t take compliments well. Maybe therapy fixes that, too.
“You think I’m just talking out of my ass—therapy nonsense,” Mel said. “But Naomi saw it. I could tell. She knows how special you are.”
“I don’t think you’re talking out of your ass,” I said. We did raise ourselves, and we did a pretty poor job of it, too. In a way, I’d been thinking similar thoughts myself, just not that precise. Hearing Mel voice them was like jumping to the back of a book and seeing how it ends.
Dad was still out. The doctor had said the sooner he’s up, the better, and now it had been twenty-four hours. Was that considered soon, or no? That was too vague. Was it already too late? Sitting around the hospital made time drag; the importance of time made it all hurt. I needed to get out for a bit.
*
Nate skipped school. Something, he told me, he can now do as a single bro. With nothing much going on besides old episodes of Celebrity Boxing (where did they even find that?), I left the hospital and met Nate at the court. Not for a fight, but for some actual basketball. We were trying to sink the ball from half-court, both shocked to see the hoop didn’t fall right off the second it got hit.
“This is fun,” Nate said, chasing after the ball. “Can I toss this to you? I’m worried I’m going to make your face look worse.”
“Not possible,” I said. “Toss it.”
It felt good to be out of the hospital, out in the sun, away from the drama, even just for the morning. I dribbled the ball to about halfway down the court and hurled it. Nowhere near the net. I followed the ball and passed it back to Nate.
Bright Lights, Dark Nights Page 20