Althea and Oliver (24 page)

“They say context is everything,” Matilda says.

“It is at that.”

“It was Ethan's idea. I didn't want to at first, but he was right.”

“He doesn't like me,” says Althea.

“He will. That's why he wanted to do it now. Before we forgot that you hadn't always been here. We like spontaneity, not surprises. I have to be sure whatever happened in North Carolina isn't going to follow you up here.”

“There are no outstanding warrants against me. I know that getting expelled for beating up a classmate isn't real savory, but I wasn't leading a life of crime. It was more like I knew I was ruining everything, and I couldn't stop.” She points with her cigarette at the yellow paper carton cradling the remains of Matilda's hot dog. “Imagine that feeling you get when you're a vegetarian eating a hot dog. Imagine that feeling times a million. Climbing up the slide to turn around at the top and go back down. That's what I am, I guess. A backslider.”

Matilda shivers and tucks her knees under her chin. “Valerie said Coby had it coming. She said you must have had a good reason, and it sounds like you did. That's why your things aren't waiting for you on my porch. But I'll tell you right now, if you ever raise a hand against anybody in this house—”

“I won't, I promise—”

“—you'll be out faster than you can say ‘vegan curry.' And what about your parents? The last thing I need is some hostile adult showing up at my door.”

“You don't have to worry about that. I'll take care of it.”

“Do you like it here?”

“I do,” Althea says.

Before Matilda has even moved, Althea understands she is about to be hugged. She braces herself for physical contact, allowing Matilda's arms to encircle her shoulders. Althea returns the embrace, swallowing up the tiny blonde girl.

“What do you think?” Matilda asks. “Do you mean business?”

OLIVER CAN'T MOVE.

His eyes are open. Or he thinks they are. But it's strange; even though he's lying on his belly with his arms around the pillow, its thin, papery case rustling in his embrace, his view is of the hospital room—the thrift store desk, the low, spinny chair, and the white door, which comes ajar as he stares at it. No, something's not right. He tries to roll over and can't.

Oh, come on.

Scaling back his efforts, he focuses on one arm, his left arm. Trying to slide it out from under the pillow, all the while watching the door, though he knows his face is buried in the mattress. His arm doesn't budge, but the door edges open another couple of inches.
What the fuck?
He concentrates on his leg next—
What is the big deal, I used to do this all the time
—and still there's nothing.

Help!
he shouts, except he doesn't shout at all.
Stella, are you there?

Logic would dictate that he's dreaming, but he knows he isn't. He can't move or speak, but he is most definitely awake in his hospital room, the oximeter Stella wrapped around his finger still in place, the rubber strap tight around his chest, and the electrodes pasted onto his temples. The door has swung a little farther into the room, and though he can't see beyond it, he can hear the terse, economical exchanges of the doctors and nurses in the hallway and their footsteps as they pass him by, oblivious to his distress.

He downshifts to a low, guttural groan. It's not a dream, but he knows the rules the way he would if he were dreaming, and if he can just coax his vocal cords into producing one small sound, it will break the spell and he'll have his body back. So he reaches into his throat and tries to make something happen—any noise will suffice. And even though he's doing everything right, there's no result, and that's when he starts to panic, thinking that maybe he's paralyzed for good, or that he's gone into some kind of coma—don't they say that it's never been proven that people in comas are unaware of their surroundings, that maybe when you're comatose you can still hear what's going on around you, didn't he read that somewhere? His silent moan intensifies, and he tries again to thrash his arms and legs, and now he's really freaking out, because how will the doctors and nurses know he's awake if he can't tell them, how long will he have to lie here trapped inside his brain without any access to his nervous system, like the Metallica video about the soldier who loses all his limbs and his nose and ears and—

And then it's over. His fear escapes his mouth as a single staccato shout, and suddenly he's sitting up, panting, his heart pounding so hard, he can see the cotton of his shirt quiver. The door to his room is as firmly shut as when Stella tucked him in, however long ago that happened. It's no longer clear if he was dreaming. Not that it matters—the panic was real enough. He tears off the electrodes and the oximeter, strips off his shirt, and wriggles out of the enormous rubber band. He's sure they can see him on the camera and that one of the nurses or doctors will be arriving shortly to debrief him, but he can't stand the thought of staying in here one second longer. Dressing in a fever, he stumbles out of his room, heading for the lounge.

There are holiday decorations everywhere—shabby red tinsel taped to the walls, an electric menorah on the windowsill, paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. The television is off, a first as far as Oliver can recall. The reason is obvious, and it makes him smile. The room is empty, save for Kentucky, who is fully stretched out on the couch reading a book, so absorbed he doesn't see Oliver until he leans over and whispers, “Hey.”

“Go Seahawks,” says Kentucky, resting his open book across his chest.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Welcome back.”

“How long was I—”

“About four and a half weeks,” Kentucky says.

Oliver sighs. “So Thanksgiving and Christmas are—”

“Over.”

“What about New Year's?”

“It was close, but you woke up in time. A few days to spare, even.”

“Where is everyone?” Oliver asks.

“Some of the guys are still down; the rest are off with the tutor somewhere.”

“Why aren't you?”

Kentucky holds up his book, Howard Zinn's
A People's History of the United States
. “Independent reading.”

Oliver takes his favorite chair in the corner, by the window. It's only late afternoon, but already the sun is sliding down behind the New Jersey skyline, casting its incendiary orange brilliance on the Hudson. “When did you wake up?”

“I never went down at all,” Kentucky says. “Can you believe that? I've been awake this whole time. For a couple of days I was the only one. Had Stella all to myself. They don't know what to do with me. They can't make it happen, but I don't know how long I'm supposed to wait around. And you know if I did leave, I'd be out before my plane even landed in Louisville. That's just the way the universe works.”

“Maybe it's done. Maybe it's never coming back.”

Kentucky shakes his head ruefully. “It isn't done. I can tell. It's fucking with me—just long enough to make this whole thing a gigantic waste of time. My parents told me to stick it out, stay awhile longer, see what happens. I think it's easier for them. To have me be someone else's problem for a while.”

Something in his voice reminds Oliver of his conversation with the doctor and the warnings about the other side effects of KLS, the ones that happen in between the episodes—the anger, the depression. Hopelessness, Dr. Curls had called it. Oliver can see it in his new friend now.

Before he can reply, Stella appears in the doorway, holding his chart. She's wearing a pair of checkered Vans. A delicate gold chain circles her long, perfect neck. It's not the kind of thing he can picture her buying for herself, and possible narratives begin to unfurl: She inherited the necklace from a beloved grandmother, who on her deathbed pressed it into Stella's hand when they had a rare moment alone, so her sisters wouldn't be jealous, and she has kept it like a secret for many years, wearing it only to work where no one will understand its importance; it was a gift from an old boyfriend, who gave it to her right before they went away to different colleges, and then he died of a sudden and unexpected illness, and though it probably wouldn't have worked out anyway, Stella idealizes this boy who remains eighteen and perfect in her heart forever and she can't love anyone else, and he's the reason she became a nurse in the first place—

“Hey, Oliver,” she says, and he forgets the rest of her stories before he can invent them. “Welcome back. How're you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess. Did you miss me?”

She smiles. “The doctor would like to see you.”

“Sure.” He looks at Kentucky, already returning to his book. “Don't go anywhere.”

“Not likely.”

On his way out of the lounge, he pauses by the couch, whispering so only Kentucky can hear him: “I didn't do anything bad while I was down, did I?”

“If you relieved yourself in anyone's presence, I didn't hear a thing about it.”

• • •

Something about the way the doctor sits behind his desk reminds Oliver of a pilot in a cockpit surveying the world, like he can see beyond the walls of his office into the rest of the hospital and, beyond that, the city. He makes a show of opening Oliver's chart and reviewing several of the most recent pages, but this strikes Oliver as being strangely perfunctory. Of course he already knows what he needs to know in order to have this conversation.

“So, Oliver. How are you feeling?”

“A little stiff.”

“Do you know how long it's been since we talked?”

“About a month. Right? Not counting anything I might have said, during—you know.”

“You wouldn't count any of that?”

“No. And I'd rather not know how much of ‘that' there was, if you don't mind.”

“Of course not. That's also completely up to you. Is there anything you'd like to report? Anything you noticed, anything unusual? I know that you don't remember much, if anything, but think of us like the detectives you always see on those television shows. The tiniest detail can be incredibly important, even if it seems like nothing to you.”

“I can't think of anything,” Oliver answers, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be back in the lounge with Kentucky.

“You're sure? Nothing at all?”

“Sorry, Doctor. Nothing at all.”

“Is there anything you'd like to know? Do you have any questions for me?”

“All I really want to know is what happens now. I did what you needed so you could get your data or whatever. So now what do I do?”

“Whatever you want,” the doctor says.

“What if I want to go home?”

“Of course you can go home, Oliver. You can go home anytime you want. This is all completely voluntary. You're here because you want to be. When you stop wanting to be, we'll call your mother, she'll come get you, and you can go.”

“Really?”

The doctor laughs, loud and genuine. “We're not holding you against your will.”

Instantly, Oliver feels foolish. It's not that he thought they could keep him here if he wanted to leave. Now that he's thinking about it, he realizes he doesn't know what he believed. Or if he even does want to leave.

Dr. Curls continues, “But I will say that it could be very helpful if you decided to stay awhile longer.”

“Helpful for who?” Oliver asks sharply.

“I'm not sure what you mean by that.”

“I'm just saying, I've been here for almost two months. I've done everything you've asked me to do. I even had a very conveniently timed KLS episode. But you keep saying there isn't anything you can do for me. And, all due respect, I appreciate that a lot of what you're doing here is research, but I came here to help myself. Not the medical journals.”

The doctor struggles to maintain his compassionate demeanor, losing for a moment before his mask of empathy reasserts itself. “I know you're frustrated, Oliver. I get it; I really do. But you have to understand, just by being here and letting us study you and do our research, you're helping yourself enormously. We're still a long way off from understanding KLS. Any treatment we might try would be extremely experimental.”

“Like what?”

The doctor wearily massages the bridge of his nose. “There is some evidence that treating KLS patients with lithium can sometimes reduce the frequency of the episodes and make them shorter when they do happen.”

Oliver leans forward in his seat. “So there is something. Why didn't you say so? Why haven't we tried it yet?”

The doctor sighs. Closing Oliver's medical chart, he sets it aside so there is nothing on the table between them. All of his solicitous pretense falls away, and what's left is not unkind, but a countenance as weary and dissatisfied as Oliver himself. Dr. Curls, Oliver realizes, is on the verge of speaking to him like an adult, like a person instead of a patient, and Oliver senses a rare opportunity that will likely not present itself again.

“Please,” he says. “Please. No bullshit.”

“In order for the lithium to be effective, you would need to be on it all the time. Some of the side effects can be . . .” He pauses.

“No bullshit,” Oliver repeats.

The doctor nods, smiling faintly. “Weight gain. Hand tremors. Eye twitches. Constant thirst. Vertigo. Slurred speech. Psoriasis. Hair loss. Lethargy. That's just a handful, randomly chosen from a very long list. And once you start taking it, once the levels of lithium build up in your blood, you would not be able to stop, not without weaning yourself off over a period of several months. It's not a sure thing or a simple fix. You should discuss it with your mother if you want to pursue it.

“I know what you really want from me, Oliver, maybe even more than a cure. You want me to be able to look inside your brain and understand why this is happening to you. But I don't know. I'm trying, I'm really trying. But I still don't know.” The doctor who had been so confident and charming during his CNN interview now looks as defeated as the boy he's failed to help.

A reckless, heady rage starts in Oliver's guts and spreads until he can feel it buzzing in his head. “I came all the way here. I left my mother and my friends and my senior year of high school because I was sick of being the freak with this disease, and now you're telling me the only choice is to let you make me a bigger one?”

“Oliver, I know you just want to be like other kids your age—”

“I don't want to be like other kids! Other kids are assholes! But I'm done pretending this is all just a minor inconvenience when it's ruining my fucking life.”

“We could try the lithium. The possible side effects are exactly that—possible.”

“Why did you tell me I shouldn't feel hopeless when you knew there was no hope?” Oliver shouts, and charges out of the office.