Somebody Up There Hates You (13 page)

And I guess maybe I do go to sleep, because the next thing that I know, the curtains are all the way open and there's this great big shadow falling across the bed and a real strong smell of bourbon in the air. The candles are out, but there's light coming from the open doorway.

The
open
doorway. I sink under the sheet and the shadow over the bed growls like a wounded bear and then, I don't know exactly, starts to cry. Not like gentle crying—like great big gulps of pain and fury and you-never-want-to-know-what. And then another shadow comes into the room, smelling like Jack Daniel's, wild red hair, and this one wraps its arms around the sobbing man, and my grandma's voice keeps saying, “Shh. Hush, now. It's all right, it's all right.”

And when the big shadow goes down on its knees next to the bed, still sobbing, Grandma says, real soft, “Get out, Richard.” And then she's down on her knees, too, and the two adults—the
grown-ups
, man, that's what's so upsetting—they rock and sob together.

And Sylvie whispers in my ear, “Go, Richard. I don't think he even saw you.”

And I go. I mean, I am booking. I pull my sweatpants off the floor and I grab my shirt and I plunk my butt into my chair and I roll. The hallways are empty—it's late—and I make it back to my room unseen. I get into bed and lie there, shaking. Sometime, real, real late, Grandma comes back into my room and curls herself up in the chair.

I lean over and say, “Is she all right?”

She kind of sighs and then whispers, her voice all hoarse, “All right? No. He is not all right. But he's asleep. I took him down to that lounge room. He's asleep on the couch.”

“No—I don't care about him. Is
she
all right? Sylvie?”

Grandma coughs, a long wet cough. “I guess so. She didn't say anything. She just curled up and pretended to be asleep.”

I hate to think of her alone like that. But I guess she's okay. I take the starry night blanket and one of my pillows off my bed and hand them to Grandma. “Here,” I say. “Go to sleep now. And, um, thanks.”

She pulls the blanket over her shoulders. “I should have my head examined,” she mumbles.

***

The sky is just lightening up when I hear running in the hall and all kinds of voices. I sit up and I know, I just know. See, no one runs in hospice. No one hurries, no one tries to pull anyone back from the brink. No reason to rush, ever. No codes, no resuscitation teams, none of that. Unless, I think, my head all fuzzy and still half asleep, unless it's someone really young and there's still some kind of chance. And there are only two young people here. And it's not me. So it's Sylvie.

I go to climb out of bed and I realize that my sweatpants are stuck to my thighs. I pull them down, and what I see there scares the holy shit out of me. It's not, like, a little sticky. It's bloody. My pants are crusty with dried blood.

I don't know how I even get there, but I'm outside her room when the docs come running. The door to her room is closed, but they fling it open and go in. I see, for that one second, that the room is full of people. Her bed is surrounded, and I can't even see her.

I lean on the wall and stand there, shaking. After a while, the nurse with the white cap, Mrs. Jacobs, she comes out, carrying a bunch of bloody towels. Her face is almost gray. She sees me standing there and her jaw clenches. She drops the pile of towels on the floor and grabs my arm, steering me away from Sylvie's room. She's holding on so hard it hurts.

“What happened?” I ask.

She doesn't stop, but she shakes my arm. “She's hemorrhaging,” she says. “Bleeding, Richard. Heavily.”

I feel my legs buckle, and even super-nurse can't keep me from sitting down. I just come to rest on the floor and she crouches in front of me, her eyes fierce. Suddenly, she lifts a hand and slaps me across the face, hard. “You stupid, stupid children,” she says, her voice hissing. “That girl has almost no platelets. Do you understand? Her blood won't clot. She could bleed to death from a paper cut. You stupid, stupid boy.” And then she's got both hands over her eyes and she's crying like a baby and so am I.

But you don't even get a chance to cry around here for more than a second. Because right then there's a kind of roar, like a train coming down the hallway. It's her father. He's stumbling and running. The nurse jumps up and gets in front of Sylvie's door. “No,” she says. She puts both hands on his chest and holds him back. “Don't go in there.”

You'd think the guy would fight her, would start swinging, would push her out of his way. Bat her away like a fly. But, I don't know, maybe there's something in that nurse's face that scares him so much that he just starts to crumple. That's what I think anyway, watching him from my spot on the floor when I see his shoulders go down and his hands hang loose at his sides—I think that he's going to fall to the ground and never get up. But then he swings around, real slow, in a kind of crouch. And he sees me sitting there. His hands curl up into fists.

The rest is a blur. I ball up out of instinct and cover my head. But that's like covering yourself from a dragon. That's what I actually think when the heat of his breath and spit hits me: dragon. It's all smoke and fiery red eyes and fingers like claws. He pulls my arms down and his fists find my face. I don't lift a finger to stop him. I roll over, even, onto my back, make it easy for him, whatever he wants to do. I deserve it, whatever damage he can do, in the few seconds before nurses and security come running. I deserve every fucking punch that man can throw. I deserve the kick he gets into my ribs. I deserve it all.

Part III

NOVEMBER 4 - 8

14

F
OR A LONG WHILE,
I float. And sometimes, I fly. My starry-night cape swirls out behind me and there are these little bright flicks of light moving all around in the darkness. I don't know where I am, but I'm not scared. It's warm, there's a soft wind, and a noise, like, I don't know, like a kind of constant gentle humming. The air smells like the flowers on my wall—that lilac smell that fills the air in May. A couple of times, inside the hum, sort of, there's my name: Richie. Richie. I get it that someone's calling me, but I'm too busy to answer. I mean, I'm moving, going forward, heading somewhere. Haven't a clue where, but I'm on my way. Gentlemen, we have liftoff.

***

When I wake up, there's a ghost sitting next to my bed. Its face is nothing but white. The light around it is really bright and it hurts my eyes. The ghost is, like, made of light. Painful, sharp, white. I should be surprised, shocked, scared. I'm not. It's exactly what I expect. I mean, it's an honor, in a funny kind of way, right? To be haunted. I squint and look at this spirit-being more closely. In the middle of all that brightness, there are two dark eyes. Rimmed with red, streaming tears. I want to say I'm sorry. That I'm so sorry. But I fall back into sleep before I can get out the words.

***

The next time I wake up, the ghost has turned into my mom, wearing a white mask over her mouth and nose. She's got a yellow cotton sterile gown over her clothes. She smells like sheets off the clothesline, just like she used to. And I'm not surprised about that, either. “Hey, Ma,” I say. My voice is so rough and low that I'm not sure she can even hear me. She's holding my hand, and I give a little squeeze. “I'm sorry,” I say.

She starts to cry for real. “Oh, sweetie, it's not your fault.” She pushes the mask down around her chin to blow her nose and wipe her cheeks. Then she pulls it back up. “Well, not entirely your fault.”

That's my mom, all over. She doesn't excuse me. Never has, never will. She just loves me. I keep clinging to her hand. “Sylvie?” I say.

She leans over and speaks really clear and loud, as if I've gone deaf. “Richard, Sylvia is stable. She's unconscious, but stable. They stopped the bleeding. Do you hear me?”

I do, I hear her. I try to smile, but my face won't move. I put up a hand and feel the bandages there. Like the Mummy, I think. Good. No one can see my face. Good.

***

Third time, I wake up scared, dragon dreams fuming in my head. “Sylvie's father?” I croak out.

Mom leans in again and says, in that same weird, really clear voice, “Security took him out yesterday and he's banned from the floor. Don't be frightened.”

My head is all swimmy. “Yesterday? What's today?”

“Today is November fifth,” my mother says. “You slept one whole day, sweetie.” The white mask over her mouth puffs out every time she talks. It must be driving her nuts.

I think about all of that. “They'll let him come back,” I say. “Sylvie might want him, might ask for him. When she wakes up. He's her father.”

“Hush, baby,” Mom says. “He may be allowed back tomorrow, but only under escort. They're working it out. It's not your problem.” She brushes her hand over my forehead, like she used to when I had hair, smoothing, soothing. “Anyway, there's a cop stationed outside your door.”

Now that is interesting enough to wake a guy up even more. “A cop? Wow.” I go to sit up but can't. My ribs are all wrapped up and, now that I notice, they hurt like hell. And there's an IV in my arm. That's interesting, too—usually there are no needles, no tubes, no anything in hospice. I wave my arm. “And what's up with this?”

She pats me. “Just until you woke up. So you wouldn't get dehydrated. And to give you extra morphine. I got us the cop. I insisted. That man is a maniac. I just insisted. That's all.”

I sink back down. “Grandma must love all of this drama.”

Mom's snort almost dislodges the mask completely. “Your grandmother has been banned, too, Richard. Now just rest. Stop worrying. We've got it covered. It's not your problem. Hush, now.”

I shut up. What else can I say? They've called in the cavalry. The adults are back in charge. But they're wrong, all of them. It
is
my problem. It's a Richard-created, Richard-mess of a problem. And right in the middle of it: Sylvie. I've still got just a touch of her rose smell on my skin. I've been inside her. She's mine.

***

Next time I surface I really am conscious. I know where I am, what day—well, night, now—it is and everything. I can feel that I'm back. My head's clear. I look over to tell Mom that I want something to drink, but it's not her sitting there. It's Edward, writing in a chart on his lap. “Hey, man,” I say.

He looks up. He's got a couple days' beard scruff on his face, and his eyes are red. “Ah. Richard. Welcome back.” He runs a hand over his eyes. “How are you feeling?” He stands up and puts his hand around my wrist, taking my pulse.

“I'm good,” I say.

“Ha! You are
so
not good.” He drops my hand and writes something in the chart. “In fact, you are the biggest pain-in-the-ass patient I have ever, ever had.” His voice gets sort of high-pitched and he's leaning over my bed, right up in my face. “You are also the dumbest person I ever met. How could you not know that that girl was in no shape for—for what you did?”

I try to look him in the face, man-to-man. I'm also trying not to cry, so the man-to-man stuff isn't too effective. “I didn't know, I swear. She was all for it, she wanted me to, she
asked
me to. It was all her idea. Listen, how could I know? I'm sorry. I am so sorry.” My voice breaks and tears just come gushing out, soaking into the bandages on my face. “I love her. I wouldn't hurt her for anything. I love her.”

Edward's face crumples and he grabs some Kleenex and starts wiping my eyes. “Oh, Richard, I'm sorry. Look at me, yelling at a patient. I'm losing it, completely.” He tosses the wet Kleenex into the wastebasket. He backs up and sits back down in the chair. “Listen. This entire place has gone nuts. I've never seen anything like it. I mean, there is a uniformed
cop
outside your door. A cop, in hospice. Everyone on the floor is all, like, crazy. There are lawyers stomping around, charges, counter-charges, lawsuits being threatened. I mean, Richard, your
grandmother
threw some punches.”

That stops my snuffling. “Grandma?”

He gives a shuddery kind of laugh. “Oh, yes. Grandma. She went after Sylvia's father, screaming like a banshee. Got in a couple good shots. But, really, you know, we're all responsible. Me, I got caught up in the romance, I have to admit, the whole little lovebirds thing. It was so cute, you and Sylvie acting like, well, like typical pain-in-the-ass kids. We don't get that around here much. But that's no excuse. We're adults. We're nurses. We should have known. We just thought it was, well, harmless, I guess.”

I sit up. My ribs hurt, but I can do it. “Right. You thought, what the hell. They're too feeble, too sick and weak to do anything, really. You were all saying, ‘Hey, that Richie, he's so lame, he'll never get it up. And isn't it
cute
the way they're acting? Ah, shucks. Let's be nice to the dying kids. Let's humor them. Take them to Disneyland, like some fucking Make-A-Wish Foundation.' You assholes. You total assholes.” My voice is cracking, but I keep going. “I'm surprised that now you're not all saying, ‘Well, what the hell. Sylvia's dying anyway. What difference if it's a few days early?' But
Sylvia
doesn't think that. She wants every fucking second of her life. She thinks she's going to get better. She wants to keep on living. She's stronger than any of us. She's, like, I don't know—anything but cute. She's
fierce.
” I can't breathe, can't take another breath.

Edward stands up and holds the chart against his chest. “Yes, she is. You're right. She's in there, right now, fighting. Unconscious, barely breathing. But, you know, when you step inside that room, you can feel her—like there's this force field all around her bed. You're right. That girl is something.” He gives a small smile. “You know what? For your first time making love, my man, you sure did find yourself a gem. A girl fit for a king. You stay put, my liege. I'm going to take that IV out and bring you some Coke, okay?”

I feel all the madness go out of me. A gem—he's totally right about that. I got myself a gem. I lie back down. “Okay, thanks. Hey, where's my mom?”

He points down the hall. “We finally convinced her to take a nap, down in the lounge. You know what? She's fierce, too. And then there's your grandma. Whoa, baby. You got yourself some interesting women in your life.”

Minute Edward leaves, the cop sticks his head in. I mean, didn't I tell you? There is never two minutes of privacy around here. The guy has a round face and he's kind of chubby in his blue uniform, with a roll around his belt. “Hi, Richard,” he says. “Heard you were awake. Just thought I'd introduce myself. Officer Glen Jeffers. At your service.” He gives a funny little salute.

“Hey,” I say. “Thanks. It makes my mom feel better, knowing you're here.”

He waves. “Easy duty. Interesting place.” He gestures out into the hall. “I never been in a hospice unit before. Usually they put us in the locked unit, upstairs. You know, to watch the sick bad guys.”

“Really? I didn't know there was one of those in this hospital.”

“Oh, yeah. Jail unit. Just four rooms, but still. Some of those guys, they're handcuffed to their beds—real badasses. Half of them are flat-out making it up, hoping for drugs. But sometimes they're really sick. Really sick and still handcuffed. It gets kind of crazy. This floor, it's much nicer. Calm. And I like that harp music.”

I shake my head. “You do? Creeps me out, man.”

He looks a little puzzled. “Yeah? I think it's nice— relaxing, you know? And you were almost moved to the locked unit when you first got—uh, you know—hurt. Just for your own safety, of course.”

I think about that—that would have been sort of cool. Waking up next to some hardened criminal. Chatting about our badass deeds. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. But your mom said absolutely not. She's the one got our sergeant to assign shifts here. She's quite a girl, your mom.” His face goes all sort of dreamy. “I knew her, way back in high school. Haven't seen her in a while. Oh, sorry, Christine.” He backs out of the doorway and Mom herself appears, yawning under her mask. She doesn't even look at the cop, but I see, for one second, the way he's looking at her. Sort of like me looking at Sylvie. And that's interesting, too, don't you think?

All sorts of shit seems to be going on. I mean, this place is jumping. I'm sorry that Sylvie's asleep and missing it. But maybe, I hope, she's not completely. Maybe she can hear, and inside that fuzzy, gorgeous little head, she's laughing her ass off, knowing she started it all.