All That's Missing (5 page)

The nurse guided Arlo through the ICU and outside to a bright room with sofas and chairs and a television mounted on the wall. It took a few moments for Arlo's eyes to adjust to the light.

“The doctor and social worker will be here to talk to you in a minute,” the nurse said. “Would you like a pillow?”

“Social worker?” Arlo's heart jumped.

“You're here by yourself, aren't you?”

“I'm with my grandfather,” Arlo said.

The nurse gave him a tight smile. “Let me get that pillow for you,” she said.

She disappeared down the hallway for a few minutes. When she came back, there was a man with her.

“Sunil,” she said as she led the man toward the sofa where Arlo was sitting. “Over here. This is Arlo.”

The man smiled. “Nice to meet you, Arlo,” he said.

“Mr. Verma is the social worker,” the nurse said. “I'll leave you with him.”

Every hair on Arlo's neck stood on end. First the police. Then the hospital. Now a social worker. Forget the mud-and-stick dam. He was drowning.

“How are you doing?” Mr. Verma asked.

“I'm fine,” Arlo said.

“That's good. I'm sorry about your grandfather. How's he doing?”

“He's asleep right now,” Arlo said.

Mr. Verma nodded. “The nurses will take good care of him. You don't need to worry. And Miss Hasslebarger will be along in a minute.”

“Is she the doctor?”

“No, Arlo. She's with Child Protective Services.”

“I don't need protection,” Arlo said.

Mr. Verma laughed. “Of course you don't. She's with DHHS.”

Arlo swallowed. “What's that?”

“Department of Health and Human Services,” Mr. Verma said. “They have procedures to deal with situations like yours.”

Procedures
and
situations
were the kind of words Mrs. Gretzky used when she talked about Arlo's failing grades in math and what they needed to do about them.

Mr. Verma took Arlo downstairs and bought him two packages of peanut-butter crackers and a bottle of orange juice from the machines. Then he brought him back up to the lounge.

“I'm sorry we can't make you more comfortable,” he said.

“I'm fine,” Arlo said.
“Really.”

Actually, he would feel even better if Mr. Verma would leave him alone. But the social worker stayed and watched television until a red-haired man wearing green scrubs appeared about a half hour later.

“Nice to meet you, Arlo.” The man wearing green scrubs extended a hand for Arlo to shake. “I'm Dr. Kessel, the resident taking care of your grandfather. Do you mind if we talk?”

“Sure,” Arlo said. “I mean, no, I don't mind.”

“Excellent.”

Arlo's stomach rolled as Dr. Kessel leaned back against the sofa and flipped through a file.

“It says here neither one of your parents is living.” Dr. Kessel lifted his glasses and stared at Arlo. “Is that true?”

Arlo nodded. “It's just Poppo and me,” he said.

“I'm sorry.” Dr. Kessel looked as if he'd been counting on Arlo to correct an error, as if he were hoping Arlo would tell him,
Oh, no, my mom's right down the hall.

“That's rough,” Dr. Kessel said. “How do you manage?”

Arlo shrugged. “We do all right.”

Dr. Kessel took his time polishing the lenses of his glasses with the bottom of his scrub shirt. “How long have you been taking care of your grandfather?” he asked.

“I don't really take care of him,” Arlo said. “Poppo takes care of me.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Dr. Kessel held his glasses up to the light, and Arlo saw that he had dozens of tiny wrinkles around his eyes. He had this odd habit of twisting his watchband. Over and back. Over and back. As if he were nervous about something.

“I was thinking you could help me,” he said.

They were in big trouble if Dr. Kessel thought that Arlo knew how to fix Poppo's brain.

“Patient history is important. In most cases, families are the best source of information. It would help a lot if I knew how long your grandfather has been . . .”

Silently Arlo filled in the words.
Confused? Time traveling?

Dr. Kessel twisted his watchband. “I mean, you know they found him trying to get out of a Dumpster, right?”

“Poppo's fine. What happened tonight . . . he doesn't usually do stuff like that.”

Dr. Kessel scooted to the edge of his chair, balancing his clipboard on his knees. “I'm sure he doesn't. The thing is . . . your grandfather may not be able to stay by himself in the house anymore. You understand, don't you?”

Of
course
Poppo could stay by himself. “He's only alone while I'm at school,” Arlo said. “And he stays inside mostly. He watches TV and stuff. He never does stuff like he did tonight.”

“I believe you, Arlo. Really. I do.” Dr. Kessel looked straight into Arlo's eyes. “But something else has happened now. It looks like your grandfather has had a stroke. Do you know what that means?”

Arlo shook his head.

Dr. Kessel stretched his neck as if his shirt collar had grown too tight. “It means that blood spilled in his brain,” he said.

Arlo sucked in his breath. “You mean, like a heart attack?”

“Not exactly.”

“Is he going to be OK?”

Dr. Kessel looked at Arlo a long time before answering. “I hope so,” he said. “We're doing everything we can. And your grandfather appears to be a fighter. That always helps.”

Arlo's heart thumped. He thought about blood spilling out of vessels in his brain. He thought about waves of blood pumping through Poppo's head.

“Right now, things are stable,” the doctor said. “That's a good sign.”

“So he'll be all right?” Arlo asked.

Again the doctor hesitated before answering. “I have to tell you, Arlo, it's unlikely that he'll be well enough to be the primary caretaker for a person your age.” Dr. Kessel flipped through the pages on his clipboard. “You're how old?”

“Twelve,” Arlo said. After a pause, he added, “In a few weeks.”

“I see.” Dr. Kessel kept nodding, which made Arlo's stomach churn. “You don't need to worry. The social worker will make sure you're taken care of while we see how things go with your grandfather.”

“But I don't need help.”

The doctor smiled as he stood up. He clicked his pen shut and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “We'll talk again tomorrow,” he said. “Meanwhile, you just take it easy and let the social worker help you. OK?”

“But . . .”

“Good. We'll take good care of your grandfather. Don't worry.”

Dr. Kessel was gone before Arlo could finish his sentence.

On his way to the bathroom, Arlo heard two nurses talking.

“Poor kid. Doesn't know what he's in for with Ethel Hasslebarger, does he?” the first nurse said.

“Her heart's in the right place. It's just the follow-through that she's weak on,” the second nurse said.

“Hard to believe they called her out of retirement,” the first nurse added. “She doesn't really know what she's doing now that they've changed the procedures.”

“They needed someone to cover emergency calls at night,” the second nurse said. “Can't be too choosy for that shift, I suppose.”

“I heard they contacted the shelter,” the first nurse said.

The second nurse lowered her voice. “He doesn't have any family except the grandfather, so what else were they supposed to do?”

Arlo thought about making a run for it, but it was pitch-black outside and cold to boot, and the only place he could go was his house — which was the first place they'd look for him. He plumped the pillow the nurse had given him and stretched out on the sofa. It was the sticky plastic kind of sofa material that made terrible noises when you shifted around on it. Sleep was out of the question, but it might be worth trying to rest. Arlo used the remote control to surf from channel to channel, finally settling on an old pirate movie.

Next thing he knew, a large woman wearing lopsided glasses appeared in the doorway. She wrinkled up her nose, squinting around the room until her eyes finally lighted on Arlo. Then she came striding over to him, her worn raincoat dripping puddles on the linoleum.

“Are you Arlo?” she asked.

Arlo nodded, squeezing down a sigh.

The woman stretched out a stiff arm, showering Arlo's pants with rainwater. “My name is Ethel Hasslebarger,” she said. “I'm a social worker, and I'm here to help you.”

Ethel Hasslebarger had floppy white hair and a pink face and she was about six and a half feet tall.

“Would you mind if we talk a few minutes?” she asked.

“OK,” Arlo said. His stomach gurgled.

“Goodness. What's that? Do you need something to eat?”

When she leaned closer, Arlo detected a strong odor of mothballs.

“No, thanks,” he said. “Mr. Verma bought me food downstairs.”

“That was nice of him. Well, then. Let's get started, shall we? There's an office around the corner we can use. It belongs to the social worker on the day shift.”

“OK.” Arlo's knees wobbled as he followed her around the corner.

“Have a seat,” she said.

Arlo sat. He waited while Miss Hasslebarger fished for a file in her large bag. She opened it and spread the papers across the desk.

“Ah. Here we go.” She moved a blank form to the top and pulled out a pen. “Have you talked to the doctor?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“So, you know your grandfather's had a stroke?”

“Dr. Kessel told me they
think
that's what it is.”

“Well, of course, there are tests to confirm that. He hasn't woken up yet, which means he's going to be with us for a while. My job is to help you find a place to stay.”

“I have a home,” Arlo said. “Thank you, though,” he added after a beat. There was no point in making her mad.

Miss Hasslebarger's smile grew stiff. “There's the question of where you spend the night,” she said.

“I'm fine here.”

Miss Hasslebarger sighed. “I'm sure you'd like to stay and be near your grandfather, but we can't very well leave you alone in a hospital like this, now, can we?”

Arlo stared at a water stain on the table. If only he could figure out a plan to make her go away.

“No one seems to have a name for your next of kin,” she said.

“That would be my grandfather.” Arlo forced a smile.

“Of course, dear. We have his name already. I was wondering about other family members.”

“Family?” Arlo repeated blankly.

“You know. Uncles? Aunts? Cousins?” Miss Hasslebarger leaned forward over the desk.

Arlo shook his head.

“Does that mean you don't know who they are?”

“No, ma'am. It means, I don't have any.”

“No one?”

“Not really. Not around here, anyway.”

Arlo watched her draw quick straight lines across the blanks on the form.

“Except a grandmother.”

Her hand stopped in midair. She shifted forward, causing the chair to make a loud squeal.

“Her name is Ida Jones,” he said.

“So she's on your father's side of the family, then?”

“That's right.”

“And do you know where she lives?”

“Edgewater,” Arlo said, relieved to have at least one solid piece of information Miss Hasslebarger could write on her form.

“Edge — what?”

“Water.”

“Where is that?”

“Virginia.”

“OK. Good. Now we're getting somewhere, aren't we?”

Arlo nodded.

“You have her address?”

“No, ma'am.”

“A phone number?”

“Not that I know of.”

“That you know of?”

“It's just that we haven't called her for a long time.”