The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley

by Shaun David Hutchinson

  “Don’t you have friends outside the hospital?”

  I can’t read her, can’t figure out what her endgame is. She hasn’t mentioned Rusty yet, which means she might not know that I visit him. Protecting Rusty is as important as protecting myself. “I have friends out there.” My trembling legs threaten to give out, so I slide around the chair and sit. “Do you?”

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  I lean back, resting my elbows on the arms, trying to appear casual, even though my heart is racing and my pits are drenched in sweat. “It’s only fair.”

  Death looks thoughtful, as if she’s trying to determine what to do with me. “Andrew, this is my job. I’m a counselor. I help people.”

  “There are people outside the hospital who need help too.”

  “There are people everywhere who need help. But this is where I work.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, she says, “All right. Let’s just call your parents. If they don’t mind you being here, and you fill out the proper volunteer forms, I’ll consider the matter settled.” She reaches for the phone on her desk.

  “Wait. They’re sleeping.”

  “What’s the number, Andrew?” Death stares me down, and her commanding tone offers no quarter.

  “I won’t spend so much time here anymore.”

  “The number.”

  “Please.”

  Death lifts the receiver just as the cell phone in her hip holster vibrates. She ignores it the first time, glaring at me instead. Her eyes are pinpoints. She knows. The expression on her face insists she knows. Maybe not everything, but she knows there’s something to know, which means she won’t ever give up trying to find out what that something is.

  “You going to get that?” I ask, barely able to keep my voice from cracking.

  Death answers the call. I can’t hear what the other person is saying, but she nods a couple of times and then says, “I’ll be right there.” She returns the phone to the holster. Looks at me.

  “Stay,” she orders. But she doesn’t move. She’s poised to move, but she remains half in her chair, half out of it. “I’ll be five minutes.”

  “Okay.” I keep my voice small, submissive, so that maybe she won’t hear my lie.

  Death leaves without another word. I monitor the sound of her footsteps as they fade and disappear. My first instinct is to bolt, but the lure of those folders on her desk is too strong. I need to know if she has any paperwork about me, so I rifle around.

  I don’t recognize any of the names. I assume they’re people who are or were in this hospital at one time or another. Maybe they’re people that Death is scheduled to take.

  I’m about to make my exit when I find names I do recognize. It’s my family’s folder, stuffed into the middle of a stack. Unimportant to anyone but me. I open it up and let its contents spill out onto the paper-littered desk. I start reading.

  It’s just stuff I already know. How they died, who they were. Of course, there’s no way these pieces of paper could ever truly tell the story of my family. They don’t say that my father was a kind, compassionate man—except when sports were on TV and he became a lunatic. And they don’t say that my mom was the worst cook in the United States of America—except when it came to chocolate. They don’t mention how I was the only person in my whole family who could watch a horror movie without once covering up my eyes. They leave out that my sister, Cady, wanted to be a tightrope walker when she grew up and how she always worked without a net.

  This file isn’t the story of my family. It’s just a file. I gather up the pages, start to put it back in the stack, when I glance up at her corkboard. There are layers of papers tacked to it. Memos and photocopies and pictures of a slobbery bulldog, but the corner of one catches my eye. I lift the papers covering it and tear it down. It’s me. My face. My hair is longer now and unkempt, and they drew the eyes too far apart, but it is me. Only it says I’m missing. Not dead: missing.

  My grandparents, my real grandparents, are all dead and I don’t know who claimed the bodies of my mom and dad and Cady, but they never came to claim me. I doubt there’s anyone looking for me. I doubt there’s anyone out there who cares.

  But if Death ever realizes that under my shaggy hair and dead eyes is the boy from the sketch, it will ruin everything. I’ll have nothing left.

  I take the folder and the missing poster and run out of Death’s office. I find a cubicle with a shredder and I feed its hungry metal jaws. I watch as my family, my face, are sliced up into rubbish.

  My family is dead, and I no longer exist.

  I leave before Death returns.

  Today, I’m the one whistling.

  With my family’s file and my sketch destroyed, I begin to feel that Death may never figure out who I really am. I’ll never be truly safe, but I’m safer than I was last night. I wait until the breakfast shift is over before visiting Arnold. The moment he sees me, he shakes his head and points at the doors. “You can’t work here anymore, Drew. I’m sorry.”

  Aimee is hunched over the cash register, peering at me through strands of hair that hang across her face. But it’s not just her; I feel like everyone in the cafeteria is staring at me.

  “Why not?” I ask, though I already know.

  Arnold’s face is red. “I can’t pay you under the table. The law is the law.”

  “Come on, Ah-nold,” I say. “You’re not going to let some suit tell you what to do, are you? You need me.”

  “I could lose my job,” Arnold says.

  “Who’s going to draw your menu board? I mean, come on, what are those?” Arnold must have drawn the picture himself, because it looks like a pair of testicles wearing chef hats are on the menu for today.

  “Swedish meatballs. Bork, bork, bork.” He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes are downcast, and he’s fidgety. “Listen, I don’t like this any more than you do. You’re a good worker, but I have to think of my family. If you want to let me pay you like a normal employee, I’ll rehire you on the spot.” He spreads his hands, helpless. “Otherwise, I’m sorry.”

  This is exactly what Death wants. I’ll fill out paperwork and she’ll have my phone number and address so that she can call my parents. I wonder who else she’s talked to. Will I be barred from the ER? Peds? Will Steven still let me visit Rusty?

  Death is tricky, but I’m trickier.

  “This is some 1984 shit going on here,” I say to Arnold. “What would your son think of you bending over for Big Brother like this?”

  Darkness descends over Arnold’s face. Totally the opposite reaction I was hoping for. His lips purse, and his eyes tighten at the corners. Whatever love he had for me fled the moment I invoked his son’s name.

  “Good-bye, Andrew.” Arnold’s voice is clipped. He turns to leave, but I call out, “Wait!” and that holds him still for a second longer.

  “I need the money, Mr. Jaworski. And I need more books. I’m almost finished with Frankenstein.”

  He keeps his back to me when he says, “I can’t give you a job . . . but you can borrow books anytime.”

  He trudges away, shoulders slumped, like he’s slogging through wet clay.

  Unsure of my next move, I grab some lunch, make very small talk with Aimee, and snag a quiet table to work on Patient F. It’s the only thing that will clear my head. I should stay out of sight, but the truth is that I kind of want to see Death. To let her know that she won’t win. Which is stupid, really stupid, but this small defiance is all I have right now.

  “Drew?” I look up, startled. Nina stands over me. She’s got a tuna sandwich in one hand, her purse in the other. Her hair is tied back, and she’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

  “That’s my name,” I say, stilling my pencil over the paper. I’m trying to keep my face blank because I’m not sure what to make of Nina yet. She’s the best friend, and she seems to be doing everything she can to make certain that the bullies who lit Rusty on fire are brou
ght to justice, but something tells me her drive isn’t entirely altruistic. There are two things that fuel the human soul to relentless action: revenge . . . and guilt.

  Nina motions at the chair beside me with her chin. “Do you mind if I sit? I could really use a break.”

  “Go ahead.” I start to put my sketchpad away, but Nina holds up her hands.

  “Don’t stop on my account.” She steals a quick glance at the panel I’m working on, acting like she hadn’t been looking over my shoulder for a good half minute before interrupting me. “You’re quite talented. Rusty said so.”

  I’m not sure that I like that she and Rusty talk about me. Rusty is mine. I don’t want to share him with anyone else. “I’m okay,” I say. “A little heavy handed on the shading. And the story is a mess.”

  Nina shakes her head. “Not according to Rusty. He said your—Patient F, is it?—stuff is twisted but really compelling.”

  “Compelling?” I ask. It doesn’t sound like a word Rusty would use.

  “Oh, yeah,” Nina says, barreling right along. She peels the plastic wrap off of her sandwich. If she’d asked, I might have told her that no matter how bad Arnold’s Swedish meatballs are, they wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, been worse than the tuna sandwiches.

  “Rusty’s really into books. He reads more than anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life. Did you know he got a perfect score on the verbal portion of the SATs?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Nina takes a bite of her sandwich, chews, and swallows. “He’s a regular Einstein,” she says, then makes a face. “Ugh. That’s a terrible sandwich!” She takes another bite and grimaces. “Really bad. But I’m so hungry. Anyway, he’s whatever the literary equivalent of an Einstein is. So if he likes your comic, it’s got to be good.”

  I tap the end of my pencil against my cheek, waiting for Nina to get to the point. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person to engage in witless banter without a reason.

  “So.” Nina grins. “Are you and Rusty, like, a thing?”

  “A thing?”

  “Like, a couple. You know?”

  The question socks me in the gut. It’s not what I was expecting. Does Rusty think we’re a couple? I mean, I never dared think that he might, that he would feel the same way I do. Especially since I’m not even sure how I feel. It’s my duty to protect him from Death. My feelings are irrelevant.

  “Forget it. It’s none of my business. I was only asking because he’s really fragile right now, and I’d hate to see him get hurt.” She takes another bite of her tuna sandwich before realizing that it’s the same disgusting sandwich as before. I can see the battle waging on her face. She wants to spit the bite out, but she’s afraid that might be rude. She swallows. I admire her courage.

  “We’re not a thing,” I say. But I can’t help wondering if we could be.

  “Oh.” If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she looks disappointed. This is the same girl who seemed like she wanted to punch me out last time I saw her. “Well, either way, just be careful with him, okay?”

  “Rusty’s stronger than you think.” It’s a stupid thing to say. I mean, of course he’s strong. You don’t survive the trauma of being turned into a human Molotov cocktail unless you’re a fight-to-the-death kind of person.

  “I know,” Nina says as she eyeballs the rest of her sandwich. Her hunger is battling her revulsion, and I’m not sure yet which will win. “I just wish I’d been there when it happened.”

  I stop tapping my pencil. “You mean with Rusty?”

  “I was late getting to the party. I only arrived a minute before the ambulance did.” Nina wraps up the remains of her sandwich and pushes the gross mess to the side. “If I’d been there, I would have stopped it. I would have. And Rusty won’t even tell me who did it.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know. They snuck up behind him.”

  Nina shakes her head, gives me a funny look. “He was burned from the front.” She sighs and looks at her hands in her lap. “I think Rusty’s scared. I think he knows who did this to him, but he’s afraid they’ll retaliate if he tells.”

  Nina keeps talking, but I’m stunned by this new knowledge. Rusty offered to tell me who had burned him the last time I was there. Part of me wishes I’d asked. Not that knowing would change anything.

  But why would Rusty tell me that Nina was at the party if she wasn’t? And how could he have been burned on the front of his body if the boys snuck up behind him? The questions zoom in my skull, pinballing about, demanding answers.

  “It was good talking to you, Nina, but I have to run.” I think I interrupted her, and she’s kind of glaring at me, but I give her a little wave, grab my notebook, and take off to find Lexi. She’s been watching the news coverage of Rusty’s incident since it happened. If anyone can help me sort out what’s true and what’s not, it’ll be her. But when I get to Peds, Lexi isn’t in her room.

  “Treatment,” Nurse Merchant says. She’s sitting at her station, bent over paperwork.

  I turn toward Trevor’s room. “How about Trevor?”

  She smiles. “He’s awake. But don’t stay too long, Drew. He’s had a rough couple of nights.” She goes back to scribbling on her forms, as if I’m not even here.

  If Death has spoken with her, Nurse Merchant isn’t giving it away.

  Trevor’s eyes flutter open when I walk in, and he tries to grin. “Droopy Drew. What’s up, buddy?”

  “You look like crap.” I toss my sketchbook on the bed. It bounces off of Trevor’s legs; he winces. “Sorry.”

  “No big. It’s the experimental protocol they’ve got me on. I feel like my bones are shredding. Like I’m made of bruises.”

  I go to the windows and throw open the blinds. It’s what Lexi would do if she were here. The sky outside is streaked with gray clouds, and the sun is so bright that I have to shade my eyes with the back of my hand. “It sounds like the cure is worse than the disease.”

  Trevor struggles to sit up. I grab him another pillow and put it behind his back. “Thanks.” He wriggles a bit to settle into a comfortable spot. “You got no idea, dude. If the cancer doesn’t do me in, this shit they’re pumping me full of sure will.”

  “You’re not going to die, Trevor.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Trevor fingers the edges of my sketchpad. “You see Lexi yet?”

  I shake my head. “She’s getting treatment.” I look at Trevor, really look at him. At his thin frame and his bulging eyes and his pale, moist skin. “Why haven’t you asked out Lexi yet?”

  “Drew—”

  “How come?”

  “Where am I going to take her? We’re in a hospital.” He looks out the window, not at me.

  “Lexi won’t care about that.” I fall into the chair, prop my feet up on Trevor’s mattress.

  He shrugs. “I care. I don’t want this for her. I’m chained to this piece-of-shit body. She shouldn’t be too.”

  I nudge Trevor’s foot with my own until he looks at me. “That’s not your choice.”

  “Whatever. She probably doesn’t even like me.”

  Which I know isn’t true. I also know that Trevor knows it isn’t true. Whether he’s waiting for me to argue the point or agree with him I don’t know. Either way, it won’t help him. There’s only one way to help Trevor, and I’m not going to be able to do it alone.

  “So,” Trevor says, “did you come down here for a reason, or did you just want to torment me?”

  “Definitely torment.” I throw Trevor my biggest snaggletooth smile. “Actually, you’ve got your computer, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I borrow it?”

  Trevor points at the cabinet in the corner. “No porn. My parents use it sometimes when they’re here.”

  I roll my eyes and retrieve the laptop. All of Trevor’s clothes are folded on the shelves, untouched and unused. “As if.”

  “Sometimes Nurse Merchant makes this big production of closing my door and telling me that she’ll
be back in an hour. Like she thinks there’s a chance I’m going to whack it in here.”

  “You haven’t?”

  Trevor shakes his head. “When your whole body feels like rotting meat, jerking off is the last thing on your mind.” I start to laugh, but Trevor’s staring at me, unblinking. His eyes are wide, even wider than normal, and his mouth is slack, like he’s stuck in a moment between words, replaying the same second over and over. I’m about to snap my fingers and say his name when he goes into convulsions. He pitches forward and arches his back. His body becomes rigid as a corpse. The bed rattles and shakes. I scream for Nurse Merchant. She appears instantly, turning Trevor on his side, saying something to me—I’m not sure what.

  I retreat into the corner, clutching the laptop to my chest.

  Trevor moves further and further away. He and Nurse Merchant tumble down a long tunnel, and I can’t reach them. There are more nurses now, and a couple of doctors. They’re all shouting and poking Trevor while his body tears itself apart. The gravity between heaven and hell, between life and death, is fighting for bits and pieces of my friend.

  Nurse Merchant takes my hand. I don’t remember when she exchanged Trevor’s laptop for my sketchpad, but I’m standing in the hallway hugging Patient F, wishing that I could pour my memories of Trevor thrashing about on the bed into the same stream of time Patient F uses to avoid thinking about his dead family.

  “Drew?” A young orderly wheels Lexi into Peds. Lexi looks at me and swallows, then she glances at Trevor’s room. “Drew?”

  “He’s alive,” I say, but I can’t say more. “I have to go.”

  I sprint through the halls, away from Lexi and Nurse Merchant and Trevor. I bust into the first bathroom I find and kneel at the toilet, puking up my lunch. Every time I close my eyes, I see Trevor slipping away, and a fresh wave of nausea wracks my body.

  When there’s nothing left in my stomach, I lean against the wall until the heaving aftershocks subside and I can breathe again.

  I leave the bathroom and wander through the hospital, headed nowhere. Seeing Trevor like that has wrecked me. It’s one thing to know, intellectually, that your friend is dying, and another to witness the process of death. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to watch it to the bitter end. I understand now why Trevor broke up with Siobhan and why he doesn’t want to burden Lexi with his feelings.