Somebody Up There Hates You (15 page)

My heart starts pounding. “What?” I say. “What's happening over there?”

She looks at me. “Nothing,” she says. “She's just asleep, I guess. Lying in bed. Real quiet. But there's this woman in there with her? Her mom, I guess? And she's just sitting there, on the chair, like, crying. Like, really really crying.”

I feel like a whole lot of Tootsie Roll is coming back up my throat. I just turn my head away and look out the window. I don't see Kelly-Marie leave, but she must, because she's not there when I finally have the strength to turn around.

16

I
T'S DARK ALREADY.
M
Y
mom is standing in the room, clucking her tongue over Phil's drawings, the ones I hung up. She's okay, she says, with the one of the woman in the coma, except for those uncalled-for words on the teeth of the moon and those creepy little angel/demon things flying around. That one, she says, is sort of sweet, the way it puts everything in the woman's perspective. And she loves the two guys who are forever young. But she's not one bit amused by the porn in the family lounge one. “Immature jerk,” she mutters.

I'm pretty sure she means Phil, not me, so I let that remark pass.

Then she turns around. Her eyes, over the mask, are beyond tired, circled in blue. Her skin is almost gray except for two red circles, one on each cheek. I read somewhere in an old book about those kinds of red spots that people with consumption and other diseases had—way back when, they called those fever spots “hectic.” And that's how Mom looks, like she's about to pass out from the weird hectic-ness of our little hospice home. I mean, really, the whole place is, like, fevered at the moment.

“Why don't you go home, Ma?” I say. “Sleep in your own bed tonight. Get some real rest. I'll be okay. I've got my cop to keep me company.”

She sits on the edge of my bed and shakes her head. “Not after seven
P.M.
, you don't. Well, maybe. We'll have to see. That's something I didn't tell you. There's a big meeting in the lounge at seven—a couple lawyers, Sylvia's parents, me, the supervisor of nursing, hospital administrator, like that. We're supposed to work out a civilized arrangement. Given these—and I quote from the letter I got handed to me—‘extraordinary circumstances' of two families with kids in hospice and the ‘immense stress' we're all under, we need to come to a ‘fair and humane accommodation that serves the needs of all concerned.'” She pats my hand. “And, really, I guess we do. We are all in this together, God help us.”

I pull my hand away. This is such bullshit, the things no one tells me around here. Clearly, there's this huge adult conspiracy all around me. They talk about me and they scheme behind my back and then they break this kind of news like it's no big deal. It's so annoying and frustrating, I'm ready to spit. “Yeah, we are
all
in this together, all right, even, I might note, me. You forgot me.” I point to my chest and I'm aware that my voice is pretty loud. “Major character here. You can't leave me out. I cannot believe you'd think you guys should have this fucking meeting without me. What are you thinking?”

She breathes out so hard that her mask looks like a sail. Then she sort of sucks it in. Then out again. She's thinking so hard that she doesn't even yell at me for bad language. “I don't know, Richard. I mean, do you really want to see Sylvia's father? Are you okay with being in the same room with that man?”

I shrug. “I have nothing against the guy. Like I told the detectives, far as I know, I fell down in the shower. And I think whoever set up this thing is absolutely right—in these extraordinary circumstances, everyone has to straighten up and fly right. So I want to be there. I'm, like, the man of this family. I have to be there.” What I'm thinking, in a confused flurry, is that there has to be a way I can get to see Sylvie. We have to work it out so that I can roll into her room and lean over her bed and talk to her, quiet and private, into her ear, whenever I can. See, I'm sure she can hear. And if she hears me, she'll wake up. I mean, love performs miracles, right? You hear about that all the time. Oprah's sure of it. I'm sure of it, sort of. Almost. Okay, like 60 percent certain.

I spend the next couple hours trying to steel myself to face the dragon. Girding my loins, like they used to say. Girding my skinny-ass loins.

***

The family lounge is just as dusty and sad as ever, but it's more full of people than I've ever seen it. We're arranged in a funny kind of square, everybody else sitting on the couch and a bunch of folding chairs they brought in for the occasion and me in my wheelchair. They've shoved the TV off into a corner so that the families can face off, O.K. Corral style. Me, Mom, and some lawyer I never met are lined up on one side. Sylvie's mother and father are on the other, sitting on the edge of the couch. In between the families, like referees, some guy in a suit and Mrs. Jacobs, who gives me just the smallest of smiles, are perched on their chairs.

Sylvie's father has his head down so I can't see his face. I kind of wish he'd look up so that he could see my stitches and bruises. Maybe he'll feel better—like he got in a few good licks before they pulled him off me. Too bad he can't see the green lights or hear the kazoos buzzing in my ear. I think he'd be pleased with that kind of internal damage—invisible but enough to drive me crazy.

The guy in the suit speaks first. “Thank you all for coming. In my office, we've been calling this the Hatfield and McCoy meeting—our little joke.” He gives this little awkward laugh, and when no one else does, he coughs and goes on. “I thought that both families, however, would be represented by attorneys.” He looks at Sylvie's parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Calderone? Have you brought your lawyer?”

Sylvie's father's head comes up. He still doesn't look at me. He speaks quietly, perfectly civil and in control. “I am an attorney, Mr. Ellis. We're fine.”

The lawyer on our side—some guy my mom found on the Internet apparently, a guy who looks like he graduated from law school five minutes ago and who clearly can't afford a decent suit, judging by the shiny blue pants he's got on—starts babbling, and then everyone is talking at once. I sit back and try to stay focused, but it's impossible. I realize that I can't follow any of this conversation because the buzzing in my head is so loud and the green lights have floated right into the middle of my vision. Front and center, everything is green and everything is jumping around. There are, like, little banners of light skipping around, and it's making me dizzy. I mean, I can tell that there's lots of discussion, back and forth, and everyone is talking in nice, calm, friendly tones. I can hear about one-third of that. But that's not what matters, anyway. People's voices can lie. So I focus in on dragon-man and I listen really hard, and after most everyone else has shut up, I hear him say, “Okay, then, that's the deal. I have offered my profound apologies to the Casey family. Ms. Casey has accepted my apology and, in turn, she has apologized to my family on behalf of her son. We have agreed that, given the kinds of stress we are all suffering, it's all too easy for emotions to run riot, and we have all pledged to work hard at controlling our actions, no matter how we feel. And, most importantly, we have come to an amicable solution: Our family will stay on our side of the hall. Your family, Ms. Casey, will stay on yours. The lounge is neutral territory; however, we will take care not to use it at the same time. Thank you, everyone.” People start to stand up and mingle around, like they're thinking about shaking hands, but not quite sure that's appropriate.

I keep staring at Sylvie's dad. It's like, all of a sudden, in the middle of all of this perfectly civilized hubbub, there's no one in the room but him and me. Everyone else fades to little gray shadows, their mouths moving but nothing coming out. I keep my eyes on him. And his eyes swing around to me. And they are, like, burning holes in my skin. I can smell smoke. It's not cigarette smoke—it's something rising off him. I can see it, if I look real close—curls of ashy black are lifting off his suit jacket and circling his head. In the middle of everything, he raises one hand, shapes it into a gun and points it at my heart. His lips pull back around a horrible smile, and he goes,
Bang.
And then everything goes dark. Like my eyes just crapped out, boom. I mean, I'm conscious and all. But not exactly. I hear all sorts of voices, but they're all really far away. I'm pretty sure there's a bullet in my chest, it hurts so bad. Then Mrs. Jacobs is bending over me, giving me sips of cold water and patting my shoulder. “Richard?” she keeps saying. “Richard, are you all right?”

I wave a hand. “I'm okay,” I say. “I'm fine.”

But no one hears me, and next thing I know I'm in my bed, my mom hovering around, her skin as white as her mask.

The cop, Glen, keeps popping his head in, even though they've canceled his watch and he's off duty. He keeps asking if there's anything he can do to help, and when she thinks I'm asleep, Mom finally lets him come in, and they watch TV together for a while. She even laughs, once or twice, at something he says or something on the tube. I like it that he's here, keeping her company. He's a nice guy, sounds like to me.

Eventually, Glen goes home and it's just me and Mom, and she sits for a long time, holding my hand, real quiet. I mumble at her that I'm okay and say she's got to get some sleep. They've brought in a fold-out cot for her, with pillows and blankets, so she's probably relatively comfortable over in her corner when she gives in and lies down. The hallways get quiet. I'm pretty sure I won't be able to sleep, though. There's this constant thrumming in my head, and my chest feels all hollow. I think I know why that is—it's the place where Sylvie should be, tucked against my chest. It's just too empty and cold.

I look out the window and the sky is completely black, no stars, no moon, no nothin'. Seems about right to me, and I just keep staring into the emptiness, for a long time, wishing like hell there was something I could do. Something I could change.

***

Things are supposed to look better in the morning, that's what everyone always says, right? Wrong. They don't. They only look brighter in the sense of lots more green lights flashing around the edges of everything I look at. I can't even drink coffee; it burns my throat and tastes like metal. To please Mom, I take a couple sips of her tea. One good thing—the only good thing—is that Mom is allowed to take off her mask today. Some infectious disease guy told her when she'd been fever-free for forty-eight hours, she could. And somehow, she convinced them she was a perfect 98.6, two full days, although her cheeks still look all hectic to me. Mom has a few tricks of her own, I guess. It's nice to see all of her face, I got to say, and she kisses my forehead about a million times before I make her stop. Then she helps me into my chair and I sit there, making all kinds of stupid plans for getting over to Sylvie's side of the hall. I mean, how crazy is that? Having to scheme to get across the hall? Come on. It's one little hallway, man, not the Sahara.

But Sylvie's as far away as if they carried her off to the other side of the world and locked her in a tower. I think about that for a while; in all the stories, the beautiful maiden is shut up in a tower or her castle is surrounded by giant thornbushes. There's a deep snake-filled moat and three-headed dogs or some such nastiness guarding her. And, lots of the time, she's sound asleep, too, under a spell. But the prince still gets to her, right? The prince dude accomplishes it, every single time. He climbs the tower walls or cuts through the brambles, whatever it takes. No matter what, he gets there. He wakes her up with a kiss and, whammo, they're off to happily-ever-after land. Sometimes, of course, the prince has to fight a dragon or two on his way, too. I mean, that's standard procedure. So, really, what's my problem? I love the girl; she's in danger; I've got to get there and wake her up. Hallways, lawyers, dragons—doesn't matter. It's like algebra, that's all. I just have to figure it out, step by step. I have to focus, that's all.

When Edward comes by to see if I want a shower this morning, I say, “Sure,” even though I can hardly stand the idea of hot water on my skin. But here it is: shower = step one. Getting to the shower gets me out into the hall, and even though the shower room is on my family's side of the hall, maybe I can coax Edward to roll by Sylvie's room. Maybe at least peek in, right? Maybe she'll be awake and I can at least wave.

So Edward gets the shower stuff and he rolls me into the hallway and Mom takes off for the cafeteria, figuring I'm well-guarded. The minute she's gone, I say, “C'mon, man. Have a heart. I don't want a shower, I want to see her. One little glimpse, that's all.”

Edward keeps steering a straight course for the shower room, so far to our side of the hall that my left elbow is damn near scraping the wall. He leans over and talks into my right ear. At least he's got the one that can hear; the man is a nurse, after all. “No. You have to stop getting other people caught up in your misdeeds, Richard. We can lose our jobs, playing around with you.”

“Misdeeds?” The word itself feels weird in my mouth. “Give me a break, man. Me and Sylvie, we're in love. We did what people do when they're in love. That's a
misdeed
?”

He doesn't even slow the wheelchair. He backs into the shower room in one smooth motion. Once we're in there, he sits down on the shower chair himself. His wide ass hangs off the sides, and he looks like a giant crouched on a tricycle, his knees to his ears. He folds his hands and lets them hang down in front of him, knuckles almost touching the floor. “Listen,” he says. “I sympathize, I really do. Young love. It's very touching. But I cannot get in any more trouble. Me, Jeannette, all of us—we're under, like, a sacred oath not to let you near Sylvia again. And to keep her father away from you. Our first responsibility, we have been reminded, is the safety of our patients. Not, I have been told, playing matchmaker to a pair of kids. Safety, Richard. That whole medical mantra, remember?
First, do no harm.
”

“Yeah, right,” I say. “Tell that one to the chemo guys who poured, like, cyanide and arsenic combined into our veins. Tell it to the guys who radiated our asses until our farts lit up. Come on, everyone knows radiation is deadly, right? Do no harm, shit.”