Sammie & Budgie

by Scott Semegran

  The belongings we had were practically the clothes we had on our backs, except for good ol' Sammie Boy, who had all of his prized possessions including the buck knife, Zippo lighter, popsicle stick, a quarter, a Doctor Strange comic book, his sketch book, and other trinkets and treasures he had been collecting for the past few months. He had all his crap spread out on the round dining table like a vendor at an art bazaar, his things neatly positioned and grouped as if to dazzle potential customers, or to at least impress the hospital staff. Nat was lying on her cot, staring at the ceiling, her purse underneath her crossed-arms like a mummy waiting for the cover of its sarcophagus to be sealed up for eternity. Little Jessie kicked and punched the couch as if her violent blows would convince the couch to give up its mattress in a more congenial fashion. It didn't. The couch held onto its springy innards with conviction and determination like an oyster protecting its pearl from a pesky deep-sea diver. When Dr. Yang returned to check on us, he got a kick out of little Jessie's temper tantrum. He thought her fit was quite amusing.

  "Did you watch The Little Rascals when you were a kid?" he said, sitting on my bed next to me, his clipboard resting on his lap. "Your daughter's persistence reminds me of the one they called Spanky, the leader of their gang. Did you watch them?"

  "Yeah, sometimes," I said, sitting up. Using a remote control, I maneuvered the top-end of the bed to prop up with the push of a button and, once in the position of my liking, I could sit up with the assistance of the mattress. "They would show The Little Rascals on Saturday mornings along with The Three Stooges and The Marx Brothers."

  "Those were hilarious! I just loved those old black and white shorts," he said, flipping through some papers on his clipboard. As I watched him rummage through the papers, I hoped that he was actually looking at papers pertaining to me and not some other patient who was a father with a last name starting with 'B.' He read through a few things then set the clipboard back down on his lap. "I want to apologize for earlier. I am extremely sorry for confusing you for another patient, which I'm sure seemed unprofessional and inconsiderate on my part. But let me assure you that I have the proper paperwork now and will do everything in my power to keep it that way."

  "OK," I said, shifting in place. My lower back was sore and the stiffness I felt down there was making its way up to my neck and head.

  "Do you accept my apology?"

  "Of course. I don't really have a choice, do I?"

  "I guess not," he said, slightly aggravated by my answer. But what else was I going to say? I was in a spot, wasn't I? I really didn't have a choice but to trust him. "The hospital is busier than usual today. I'm not certain why. Just a fact. Do you have any questions for me?"

  I looked over at my family: Nat on her cot staring at the ceiling, Sammie at the table organizing his trinkets, and Jessie wrestling with the couch. I couldn't help but wonder most about my boy, Sammie with his head wrapped in gauze and bandages looking something like a patient in a 1950s horror film. Would the accident affect his mental abilities? How was I going to explain that to the doctor? I sat there for a moment contemplating my dilemma, my vision blurring as my thoughts tumbled on themselves inside my head.

  "Well?" the doctor said, impatiently rapping his fingernails on the clipboard.

  "How bad is my son's head injury? He has quite a few bandages on his head."

  "Well, I'm still waiting for the results from the CT scan. It's really hard to say without that."

  "You see, my boy..." I said, hesitating to go on, worrying if what I was about to say would sound crazy or batshit or hysterical or what. Nat stopped staring at the ceiling and sat up on her cot, her purse on her lap. Sammie stopped organizing his things and set his eyes on me. Jessie finally pulled the folded mattress from the couch, its stiff hinges and springs squealing to life when its folded legs popped in place and propped the mattress up on the tile floor. It lunged out of the couch, quick and fast like a cat unexpectedly barfing up a hairball. Fff-ack!

  "I did it!" Jessie said, excited. But when she realized I was talking to the doctor, she quietly sat on her bed, crossing her legs with her arms on her knees. "Sorry."

  "What about your boy?" Dr. Yang said, turning his attention to me. "Is there something I should know about your son?"

  Right then and there, as if jumping from a burning bed, good ol' Sammie Boy leapt from his chair, sprinted across the maternity room, then jumped in my bed. He placed his hand over my mouth, muzzling what I was about to say, what he knew I would say about him: our secret.

  "Don't say it, Daddy!" he said, hissing in my ear. "Please, daddy. Don't."

  "Sorry, Sammie, but I have to. I have to tell the doctor."

  Sulking, good ol' Sammie Boy descended from the bed like Gollum retreating beneath the Misty Mountains and lurched back to the round table where his precious belongings waited for him. As he played with his things, I told Dr. Yang everything I knew about my son, his special cognitive abilities, and his ability to see things before they even happen. I told him about the afterschool counselor, the scratch ticket, and the fire on my balcony. I then told him about the old man in the cemetery and the connection my son had with my dad, Colonel Burchwood. I told him everything like a P.O.W. spilling the beans after hours of ruthless torture, telling him every detail about my son's miraculous ability to see the future. As I told him everything, Dr. Yang returned a glance somewhere between skeptical and quizzical, not leaving room for unbiased interpretation. He interlaced his fingers on his lap, steadying himself for the barrage of questions he was about to unleash on my unsuspecting and fragile psyche. He then crossed his legs as most pompous know-it-alls do, wrapping his hands around the propped knee, his body wound up in a state of complete denial.

  "Now, let me get this straight... you think your son can see the future?"

  "Yes," I said, as sure of my answer as I was sure my name was Simon Burchwood.

  "I see," he said, looking down at the clipboard on his lap, rifling through the clipped papers, looking with persistence for something that maybe he didn't see before. "The future, huh?"

  "Yes. Yes!"

  "And this is something you can prove with absolute certainty?"

  "Well," I said, wondering exactly how I would do that, proving it. How would I go about convincing Dr. Yang that I wasn't a nut bag? I looked over at good ol' Sammie Boy, who at this point, had his face in his hands, and I could see the red of his flushed cheeks pressing into his palms.

  "Maybe, I should order additional testing for you, Mr. B--"

  "Burchwood! My name is Simon Burchwood!"

  "Yes, Mr. Burchwood. Thank you for reminding me. I think the trauma of the accident--"

  "I can prove it," I said, throwing the bed sheet off my legs. Dr. Yang quickly stood up and stepped out of my way as I hopped out of my bed and hobbled to the round table where my son sat, embarrassed. I placed my hands on good ol' Sammie Boy's shoulders, squeezing them firmly. "I can prove it with a game."

  "Daddy, no!"

  "Sammie, show him how we play Thump. You know? The game you like?"

  "I don't want to," he said, lying his head on the table and covering it with his arms, as if shielding his head from rain drops or hail or even gamma rays from outer space.

  "Do you have the quarter with you?"

  "Yes," he said, reluctantly uncovering his head. He reached into the mass of belonging he had on the table then held up a quarter. I nodded then he pushed the rest of the things on the table to the side, giving him room to thump the quarter. Dr. Yang joined us at the table as I directed Sammie with what to do.

  "Now, do your thing. Guess which side will come up."

  "But Daddy--"

  "You can do it, son. Don't be embarrassed," I said, patting his back.

  He propped the quarter up on its side on the table top with his little index finger, George Washington's profile revealing itself, flashes of light reflecting off its silvery surface. He cocked his other index finger, ready to thump the coin so it could spi
n on its side along the surface of the table. He took a deep breath then said, "Heads."

  He flicked the edge of the coin with his finger and it spun like a dreidel, drifting out to the center of the table, wobbling on its edge as it spun in a circle. We all watched: me, Dr. Yang, Nat, and Jessie. And as it toppled over, there was a collective gasp, as we waited for the result of the spin. I knew that Sammie would prove me right. I just knew it. But when the coin stopped tap-dancing, it revealed the opposite of what he said.

  "Tails," Dr. Yang said, dryly.

  But I didn't want to be proven wrong so I insisted that Sammie try again. And again. And again. And each time, he guessed wrong, at least five times in a row. Before Sammie could get off a sixth try, Dr. Yang interrupted him.

  "That's not necessary," he said, writing something on his clipboard. "I think you all could use some rest. Your family has been through a lot today. We can visit again in the morning." Then he abruptly left the room.

  Sammie, dejected and embarrassed, picked up the uncooperative quarter, examined both sides of it, then placed it with the rest of his things. I stood behind him, placing my hands on his shoulders, and said, "Sorry, son. We tried."

  "Sorry, daddy. I didn't mean to disappoint you."

  "You didn't disappointment me, son. If anything, I'm very proud of you for trying. Maybe next time."

  "Maybe," he said. "I don't know."

  "Me neither," I said, limping back over to my bed then sitting on it, pulling the thin sheet over my legs, hairy and white like Bratwurst sausages. "Maybe I'm going crazy."

  Nat stood up, placing her bag down on her cot, then crossed the room to my bed. She sat down next to me, a look of concern on her face.

  "I just realized, like, maybe we should call the nursing home and let them know what happened. You know? With the accident? We did come down here to, like, see your dad and all."

  PeePaw. I completely forgot about my dad. He was the reason we were in the car before the accident, the reason we were in this mess we were in at the hospital. Well, not literally the reason, but we were on our way to see him. The fuzziness of my memory was not serving me well. I didn't know what to do or what to say and I could sense that Nat saw that on my face.

  "Do you want me to call Autumn Grove for you?" she said, placing her hand on mine. The instant the skin of her palm touched the top of my hand, the floodgates of emotion opened inside me and the tears burst from my eyes and I cried and cried like I hadn't cried in a long, long time. I cried like a baby in the arms of my kids' nanny. It felt good to cry, I ain't gonna lie. So I did. I let it all out right then and there in the maternity ward of the hospital somewhere in San Antonio, Texas.

  ***

  ***

  Later that night after crying like a little baby for a good ten or fifteen minutes in Nat's arms, me and my little family settled into the nightly routine of the hospital, one where any number of nurses and technicians and doctors and cleaning staff just barge into your room wanting to look at medical equipment screens or ask you questions like 'How are you feeling?' or 'How is the temperature in the room?' or 'Do you want anything to eat?' or 'Is the screaming next door bothering you?' or to take your pulse or to check the level of intravenous bags or to take food trays away or whatever. Forget trying to get some sleep in a hospital because it just isn't going to happen. A hospital is the last place you should go if what you need is a good night's sleep. In that sense, a hospital is more like a torture chamber or an insane asylum than a place to heal because of all the noise and the racket and poking and prodding and squeezing and pricking going on. It's true. On top of that, every moment you stay in a hospital gives you a greater chance of catching something that will actually kill you like a staph infection or a virus or pneumonia or whatever creepy ailment may be floating around in the air, like an evil fairy biding its time so it can swoop down your throat and viciously infect you. Is that what you want? If not, then stay the hell away from hospitals.

  And like any good family would do, my kids and Nat made themselves at home in the maternity room as soon as all the medical funny business slowed down. At one side of the room, Nat and little Jessie setup a makeshift taekwondo dojang complete with a yoga mat that Jessie found behind the couch as a floor mat, some couch cushions and random pillows as punching and kicking bags, and an aluminum walking cane with its handle removed as a fighting staff. Nat didn't really know any of Jessie's taekwondo routines but it didn't matter. She was a good sport and allowed Jessie to pummel her regardless of her inexperience as a martial arts instructor. In the middle of the room in front of the bed I was lying on, good ol' Sammie Boy had spread out a blanket on the floor and laid all his things on it. From my vantage point in the bed, if I leaned over to one side or the other, I could see one of his arms or legs moving about on the floor, moving things around on the blanket. I wasn't really sure what he was up to but he was being quiet so I didn't mind so much. But then, after a few more moments, the sound of paper ripping and crumpling came from his play area in front of my bed. I knew then that he was up to something.

  "Sammie? What are you doing?"

  "Nothing, Daddy."

  "But I hear something down there. Are you tearing paper?"

  Nat and Jessie were engrossed in their made-up taekwondo routines. They didn't bother to see what Sammie was doing. But I knew he was up to something. The sound of kids tearing paper is not a good sign. Ever.

  "Daddy? Can I ask you a question?"

  "Yes, son, after you tell me what you are doing."

  "I'm opening a present."

  "A present?" I said, sitting up in my bed, craning my neck to get a better look at my boy. I couldn't see him, though, and decided to just get out of bed and sit down on the blanket with him. I had one machine attached to me with a wire clamped on the end of my index finger (checking my pulse, I think) but the wire was long enough for me to stand up, walk to the end of the bed, and sit down next to my son. My relocation to the floor caught Jessie's attention.

  "Daddy?! Are you OK?" she said, panting from kicking and punching the pillow Nat was holding. "Why are you out of bed?"

  "I'm fine. Just want to see what your brother is doing."

  "He's not doing jack," she said, turning to Nat to continue the barrage on the innocent pillow with her fists of fury. "Like usual." Her fists flew as Nat braced herself. But she was wrong; Sammie was doing something. It was just something she didn't care about.

  Sammie was holding a small box with red, green, and white plaid wrapping paper, an oversized glittery, gold bow on top with matching ribbon tied around it, some of the paper on the side ripped off, exposing a brown, cardboard box underneath the wrapping paper. I was confused as to where he got the gift and I didn't have any idea how it got there, in our room, in Sammie's little hands. Maybe I was still high from the drugs. I didn't know.

  "Where did you get that?" I said.

  "I found it."

  "Where did you find it?" I said, my eyes squinting to examine his response, scanning his face for signs of the truth.

  "Over there behind the TV," he said, pointing to the armoire where the TV resided, on the other side of the room.

  "Is it for you?"

  "I don't know. There wasn't a tag on it. Can I open it? I bet it's for you."

  "Let me see it," I said, extending my hand. Sammie reluctantly gave me the gift, his head lowering as I examined the gift-wrapped box. He was right; there wasn't a name tag on it. And not knowing or caring who was in the room before we arrived, I handed it back to him. "Sure, open it."

  Sammie's face lit up like a Christmas tree as he took the gift back, ruthlessly ripping the gift wrap off it, plaid bits of paper flying everywhere. Once the brown cardboard box was completely exposed, Sammie examined it for a place to open it. Seeing that is was sealed with tape, he reached in his myriad pf things for the Buck knife--unsheathing it from its wooden handle--and he slit the tape. When you're in the hospital, most of the things you worry about as a parent--like your
kid wielding a knife--are thrown out the window. It's true.

  "Please don't cut yourself," I said.

  "I won't, Daddy. I promise!"

  Opening the box, something wrapped in white tissue paper was wedged inside. Sammie turned the box upside down, giving it a slight shake, and the gift slid out onto the blanket, the weight of it creating a noise like the sound of a large rock landing on cement.

  "What is it?" I said, watching Sammie unwrap the tissue paper. It looked to be made of glass, yellowish and shiny.

  "Who would give a jar as a present?" Sammie said, giggling. He handed it to me. "Jar Shmar. What a silly present!"

  "It's not a jar," I said, turning the gift over, exposing the label, so Sammie could get a better look at it. "It's a candle, one of those candles you buy at the mall, the ones that smell like pumpkin pie or cookies or whatever."

  "Cookies!" he said, lowering his head to smell the candle, hoping it smelled like baked goods. The word 'cookies' caught the attention of Nat and Jessie (of course) and they stopped sparring so they could check out anything related to cookies. They came over to the blanket and sat down with us.

  "Did you say cookies?" Jessie said, all smiles.

  "It doesn't smell like cookies, Daddy," Sammie said, disappointed, his little nose scrunched up.

  "No, what does it smell like then?"

  "It smells like the beach."

  I raised the candle to my curious nose and good ol' Sammie Boy was right. It did kind of smell like the beach, what, with the scent of pineapple and coconut and sand and weathered wood and the humid wind blowing to the beach from the salty Gulf of Mexico water, with an undertone of an unknown aroma that was slightly unnatural and artificial, like burnt plastic.

  "I wish we had cookies," Jessie said, sulking. "All we have is this stupid candle."

  "Can I light it, Daddy?" Sammie said.

  "How are you going to do that?"

  "I have a lighter. Remember?" Sammie reached into his little bag and pulled out the Zippo lighter he found a couple of weeks before. Sammie's kleptomaniac behavior seemed justified now that he had a use for the Buck knife and the Zippo lighter that he serendipitously found while running errands with me. He opened the Zippo lighter with two hands--unlike a biker or punker or hipster who would open it with a single-handed fancy trick--and he awkwardly lit the candle. The initial flame grew tall from the candle wick like a toddler stretching in bed after a long night's sleep. Once the flame settled into a smaller, compact size, its glow illuminated our faces like a campfire would, our cheeks and chins shimmering in oranges and reds and pinks. "Can I turn down the lights, too?"