Sleeping Handsome

Sleeping Handsome

Copyright © 2011 by Jean Haus

~1~

His
mother gestures for me to go in first and I force myself to cross the
threshold. I walk into a room that smells like medicine and sounds like death
between the whoosh of air and a constant beep. My eyes scan the wall shelves
full of trophies, the posters of athletes and girls, the computer desk covered
with medicines, the plaid lazy boy chair in the middle of the room, and the
machines near the window anything but the body on the bed.

Mrs. Wallace motions to
the wooden shelves next to the bed. Too close to the bed. “These are his books,
his favorites. Any of these will do. Just…if you start one, please finish it.”

I nod and force a
closed lipped smile. Yesterday, during our long phone conversation—I suppose
interview—she had put me at ease with this odd situation, but today the
stillness of the room has my stomach pinching.

“I’ll be here today,”
she steps into the hall, “but usually I’m at work. If you come back, the nurse
will let you in.”

Scared to speak and let
her know how much this is freaking me out, I run a hand through my long hair
before I nod again. She pauses outside the doorway and her gaze rests on the
bed. After a slight shake of her head, she leaves me alone with the body.

I finally look with her
gone. Though the shape under the blanket is thin, the face under the breathing
tube is swollen and fat. A wide swath of medical tape covers the nose. Dark,
brown hair cut in a neat buzz frames the face. A hospital gown rises and lowers
over the chest in a beat matching the whoosh of air from the machine. Tubes and
wires go from him across the tan carpet to the machines. Other than those
machines, the room is silent and motionless.

A dry lump of yuck forms
in my throat. If only he were older, not near my age, this would seem a little
normal. Not so creepy.

I catch my expression
of revulsion in the mirror above the dresser. The face I didn’t want his mother
to see. Geez, my tan skin is almost as white as his. The brown of my eyes and
the pink sheen of my lip-gloss are the only color on my face. I slowly set my
favorite purse on the dresser and move even slower to the shelf of books.
Without looking, I grab one and fall into the chair. My French manicured nails
tap the cover while I think of the repercussions of escaping this tomb of a
room.

Possible expulsion from
school.

 
For both Amanda and me.

I open the book and
begin to read. My mouth forms the words and pauses when necessary, but my brain
doesn’t totally connect to the historical story about a man in France. I’m sure
I sound monotone, even robotic, but it’s all I can do at this moment. Beyond
saying the words, I’m thinking of how I got here.

~~~

“Paige, I know you
wrote the paper and did the project,” Mr. Block said from behind his desk.

I shook my head and
gave him my most honest expression—practiced in the mirror, tried not only on
both of my parents, but in auditions. “I helped her a little, that’s all.”

He let out a long sigh.
“You may not be aware of this, but you have a certain writing style. It’s very
distinctive. I compared it to your previous works and showed Amanda. She
admitted it this morning, even said you offered.”

Anger shot through me
as I snapped my mouth shut and swallowed my denial. One because she lied, she
had begged, almost ordered me to do the project for her. And two because she
could have told me he knew. She could have texted me a warning during first,
second, or even third hour.

“Cheating on such a
large project is possible grounds for expulsion.” The reality of that E-word
floated through me and landed with a thud in my stomach. I’ve never stood up to
my best friend, but at that moment I wanted to strangle her. “However, Amanda
has agreed to redo the paper and board presentation. She has also agreed to
join Future Leaders and do several weeks of community service. Would you be
interested in such an agreement?” He gave me a pointed look. “Because
otherwise, I’ll have to turn you both in.”

I twisted the silver
charm bracelet on my wrist. “Community service? Like cleaning up parks?” Not my
style, but then neither was expulsion.
 

“Sort of. But with your
talent in drama, I have a different assignment in mind for you.”

That word different had
me apprehensive. “Like what?”

“Well, it has to do
with reading…”

~~~

And so I read. For over
an hour. In between the whoosh of air and the beep of the machine that must
monitor the sleeping brain, I read about a man wrongly imprisoned, a crazy
monk, and a lost treasure until the sound of a throat clearing breaks the
forming of syllables.
 

“You read well,” Mrs.
Wallace says from the doorway.

“Thanks,” I say
genuinely surprised by the compliment because I hadn’t really been trying.
Shelving the book, I make sure to catch the title,
The Count of Monte Cristo,
for tomorrow. The title sounds familiar
has me recalling fried bread, raspberries, and ham. A sandwich? My empty
stomach gurgles at the thought, but I will
not
eat until dinner. What’s the point of working out if you’re always snacking?

“I suppose you want to
know about the accident. What happened to
Zach.
”

Noooooo
, not really.
“Sure. I mean of course I’m interested.”

She twists her hands
and leans against the doorframe. “In May, he and some friends were hiking, but
he got separated from them and fell from a cliff into a ravine. Though the
bruises and gashes are long gone, he’s been in a coma since then. Over four
months.” She rubs the corner of a wet eye. “He’ll turn eighteen next month.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s
an awful thing to happen to him and you.” Being so freaked, I’m surprised the
sadness in my voice feels real, not acted out. I can’t help but respond to the
pain in her face or the anguish in her voice.

She waves a hand and
forces a smile. “There’s only hope now. They say the more interaction the
better chances he’ll wake up. So you’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I say with
a fake conviction not the resentment I have for Mr. Block making me do this. I
reach for my purse on the dresser.

She moves aside, lets
me out of the room that feels like living death and I step in the hallway.
 
She touches my arm. “I can’t thank you enough
for donating your time. After moving him here and paying for the extra nurse
care that insurance won’t cover, there’s not enough to pay for such services,
but I wanted him to be home.”

Donation? More like a
bribe. Not that she has anything to do with that end of it. “No problem. I love
to read.”
Yeah, while trying out for
parts.
“And it’s for such a worthy cause. I don’t mind.” I
do
mind. I missed my nail appointment.
Now I’ll be getting late home from the gym. Mostly I missed after school hang
time at the beach. I dig in my bag for my sunglasses. “Same time tomorrow?”

 
She nods and smiles. “Nancy, his nurse, will
let you in. She’ll still be here taking a break downstairs while you read, just
in case something happens.”

“Okay. Yeah, that’s
good,” I say before descending the stairs that lead to his second floor
bedroom. Why couldn’t I be talented in science or even math? No one would want
someone to crunch numbers to their son in a coma.

~2~

“Hello Zach.” I set my non-fat vanilla
latte on the dresser. “How’s your day been going? Mine been positively,
gloriously awful,” I say in an exaggerated British accent and reach for the
book I’ve been reading for the past five days. The dang thing is never ending.
“Senior year isn’t starting out as cracked up as it’s supposed to be.”

I’ve been doing this,
talking to him when I come and go. Though I still won’t go close to the bed or
him, I’m hoping this will make me feel like he’s a person instead of a body
kept alive by machines. With the breadth of inner thoughts I reveal to him—I’d
never tell a real guy the stuff I tell him—that doesn’t seem to be the case. If
anything, it’s just helps me understand myself. Something I’ve never tried to
do before.

“Carson asked Amanda to
homecoming. Like I didn’t see that was coming. I’m getting a little more than
pissed at how she goes after every guy I like. Well, I’m attracted to. With her
around, I never get to know them long enough to find out if I really like them.
She fits that saying, you know the one, with chicks like her who needs
enemies.”

Refusing to look at his
motionless body, I notice the table on the far wall. Littered with toothpaste, soap,
and sponges, I realize the nurse uses that stuff to—
ew—
keep up his hygiene. My eyes
quickly find the cover of
The Count of
Monte Cristo
. That’s another reason I like to talk. Too much looking always
freaks me out.

I force my thoughts
back to our, well my, conversation. “Maybe I should pretend to hate the next
guy who catches my interest.” My fingers find the last page folded over from
yesterday. “She never does it to Kelly. Though I must say, Kelly has bad taste
and likes the ones who treat her like crap.”

The book waits on my
lap. “
Which is kind of funny.
Not the getting treated
like crap part, but Kelly’s better looking than both Amanda and me. You know
the all American look, blonde hair, blue eyes, and tall while Amanda looks
like…one of the Kardashian sisters. Yeah, that’s probably it. All tits and ass.
That’s why all the guys fall for her. While I’m just brown. Brown hair, brown
eyes, brown skin—too much sun my mom says, but who doesn’t like to lounge
around the pool? Though I do have a great smile,” I say with a cheesy grin and
tap my front tooth. “I’ll admit when I’m not with those two, I feel somewhat
attractive and notice guys checking me out. But with Amanda’s boobs around,
what guy can see past her D cups?”

I lean forward,
pretending he can hear me. “I also have to admit it gets real annoying. Being
obsessed with how I look all the time. Dieting all the time. I’m thinking next
year out of high school, except when I do auditions, I’ll dress like a bum,
won’t wear make-up, and keep my hair in a ponytail. Eat ice cream and
cheeseburgers. In moderation of course. I’m expecting it to be liberating,” I
say with a sweep of my arm and lean back into the cushioned confines of the
chair.

“Okay,” I bring the
book up to eye level, “where were we?” I expect to finish this lame story
today. I have been putting more drama—changing my voice for the characters and
changing my tone in times of suspense—into it since that first day. Though at
times the story’s all right, most of the time it just drags in melodramatics.
It’s shocking that a seventeen-year-old sports nut—if I were to judge him by
his wall of posters and trophies—would shelf it with his favorites. It’s not
girly or anything, just so old-fashioned. The language so ancient. I pretend
I’m auditioning for a historical role while I read to keep
myself
interested.

Over halfway through
the hour, I finally come to the end, the last paragraph.

"Darling,"
replied Valentine, "has not the count just told us that all human wisdom
is summed up in two words? -- `Wait and hope.'”

Air rushes
into the otherwise silent room as the body lies still as always. Wait and hope.
His future explained in three words. His mother’s too. How sad. I feel for both
him and his mother. But it’s a hollow feeling. I know nothing of this boy other
than stillness, nothing of his mother other than sadness. My fingers absently
twist the four-karat diamond in my ear. I don’t like how the hollow feeling
makes me feel empty.

My thoughts
of emptiness halt and my hand drops when a tall man stands in the doorway. He’s
gray haired and wearing a tie and dress shirt. The book drops in my lap.
“Ah…hello.”

With
narrowed eyes, he nods but doesn’t say anything, just looks skeptically at the
form in the bed with an expression of distaste then to me before he turns and
the sound of his descending footsteps on the stairs mix with the whoosh and
beeps.

As
The Count of Monte Cristo
slides onto
the shelf, I’m guessing I just met Zach’s father. Mrs. Wallace had warned me he
works from home sometimes and I might meet him, but she hadn’t warned me that
he wasn’t supportive of her reading idea. And from his cold look that was more
than evident. What a jerk, I think shaking off the encounter.

I crouch
down and take a look at the titles on the spines this time. There has to be
something I know here. My eyes scan the first row.
The Spy Who Loved Me.
Nope.
Twenty
Thousand Leagues
Under
the Sea
. Nope.
The Time Machine
.
Never heard of it.
The Complete Works of
Shakespeare.
Okay, with my love of drama, I know Shakespeare, but I hath
not the patience to read it aloud. Finally, my fingers hover at the spine of
Frankenstein
. Though I’ve never read it,
I’ve heard of it. The idea of reading a story about a man built from science
to
a boy staying alive because of
science has me reaching for a book with
Poems
in the title.

While the
words are nice, even lyrical, the poems are meaningless to me. It’s hard to
dramatize them. Within a few pages, I close the book, pull out my phone, and
read Amanda’s text asking if I’ll drive to Nate’s party tonight.

“Hey Zach,
there’s only about ten minutes left. How about we just talk? Sorry but I can’t
read those poems. I’m kind of impressed that you read them and like them, but
they’re nothing like reading a script.” I text Amanda back yes—her asking is a
formality since I always drive—and ask what time I should pick her up.

After
standing and stretching, I walk around the non-medical edges of the room far
away from the bed in the middle. His stillness
still
has me leery. “I’m going to a party tonight, which may sound
fun, but it will probably be lame. Amanda will get drunk and flirt with every
half way decent guy there. Kelly will get into a fight with her current
boyfriend. We’ll all be bitchy to the other girls there. That’s standard. It’s
how we stay on top. Even the cheerleaders bow to us.”

I scan the
pictures tacked to a corkboard. Senior pictures, various sports teams, kids
hanging out at the beach, a large group in front of a roller coaster, and
several pictures of kids with their arms around each other stare back at me.
Only knowing him in his current state, I can’t even guess which one matches the
boy in the bed.
 

“And then
I’ll have to listen to their crap all the way home because I’m the designated
driver, always. Even though it’s a BMW Kelly’s car is old, like six- years-old,
while I got a convertible last year for my sixteenth. My parent’s guilt present
for me since they’re never around. My step-dad’s always working. My mom’s
always with my little sister, well half-sister. Ballet, swimming, soccer, play
dates…”

My phone
buzzes and I pause my inane chatter to read Amanda’s text. She wants me to pick
her up at eight and I’d better not be late. Her threats are so ridiculous.
What’s she going to do? Steal another guy from me?

“Hmm…I wonder
what I should wear tonight. A skirt and heels? Or maybe shorts and wedges?” I
grab the book of poems from the chair. “Maybe I’ll have enough time to pick up
something new? Something to give me a reason for going.” Lost in thoughts of
stores on Rodeo drive, I try to shove the poems in between the other titles and
the entire line of books fall like dominoes. The last ones teeter on the edge
of the shelf before thudding to the floor.

The large
Frankenstein
volume lies open on top, but
the words inside are not standard text. The words are long pen scratches.
Confused I pick the book up and flip through it. Dates are scribbled on the top
of pages. Drawings and doodles line the edges. Some words like BITCH and DAD
and NEVER are written in capital letters. Confused, I flick to the front page
and read the first line.

I’ve decided to give in and keep a
journal.

I drop the
book like it’s a hot curling iron.

Private
thoughts tumble onto the carpet while my hand comes to my chest. Hidden inside
another book, those thoughts were never meant for someone else to read. But my
fingers itch to pick the volume back up. All that’s left of Zach, the real
Zach, lies at my feet.

I take a
deep breath. Okay I’m acting
like
a moron spooked out
over a journal. I force my mind blank and quickly reshelf all the books,
including the one that has me freaked out. With my purse under my arm and the
cold latte in my grasp, I rush toward the door.

But I can’t
help glancing at the bed before I go. “You have a…good weekend, okay?” With one
last look at the puffy face with the breathing tube—
thud—
I run into the wall and miss the door.

“Ugh,” I
say, turning red even though no one not even the boy in a coma witnessed my
clumsiness. Rubbing my forehead, I feel the need to make a graceful exit. “See
you Monday then,” I murmur as I sweep through the doorway
like
I’m on the red carpet.