Somebody Up There Hates You (3 page)

***

Deep breath here. Let it go, Richard. Deal. Three more deep breaths. Count backward from one hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven. Ninety-six. Ninety-five. Ninety-four. Ninety-three . . .

Okay. So, this week, I got a reprieve. My mom got the flu. Big-time fevers, hacking cough, the whole bit. Maybe some nasty kind, pending blood tests. And that's one thing even hospice can't allow for its visitors. Flu. Crazy, right? I mean, we're all dying anyway, but they can't be allowed to speed up the process with a friendly push from a rogue virus. Don't even ask. None of it makes any sense, and it makes my head hurt to look for logic.

When I heard that Mom was really sick, at first I was scared. Funnily enough, I was worried about her health—and that's a very strange turnaround, let me tell you. But suddenly, it hit me: I was going to have a week without parental supervision. I was going to enter adolescent nirvana, the week everybody dreams about when they're seventeen, the week the folks leave you home alone. Sure, they call eighteen times a day—but calling ain't seeing, is it? Calling ain't supervising every minute. Calling can't see the beer can pyramid behind you and the half-fried pieces of bacon stuck to the kitchen ceiling where your friends had a weird kind of tossing contest. Calling is just a tiny Band-Aid on teenage wreckage.

So, yeah, Mom's called me constantly this week—and called. And called. And called. And she said that she was getting a little better each day, so I could stop worrying. But I also knew that my time of relative freedom was short.

Naturally, I was going to be as bad as I could, while I could. That was the plan. But we all know what happens to the best-laid—as well as the most half-assed—plans of mice and men, don't we? Absofuckinglutely.

3

I
WAK
E U
P ON
Halloween feeling really down. I had a dream—one where it was Halloween morning, long ago. It was like one of the best days of my life came back, like it had just been tucked away behind my eyelids all this time, waiting for me to relive it. This time of year was always my favorite: the best kid-holiday in the world, followed directly by the buildup to my birthday, November 12—I mean, that is kid heaven. In the dream, things were just like they had been, once upon a time. I was maybe eight years old and totally, insanely excited about my werewolf costume. This was about three years before the real monsters marched into my life. Surgeons, oncologists, radiologists, all those guys with knives and poisons and lethal rays. This was in the good old days, when monsters were fantasy.

Anyway, in this dream, just like in real life, Mom had sewn strands of brown yarn onto a brown turtleneck sweater and brown corduroy pants and even onto a pair of old brown work gloves. Then she taped yarn to a pair of brown boots so I'd be hairy all over. And she'd let me get one of the coolest masks ever—blew a big part of her paycheck at the Halloween store in the mall in Albany. We always made a special October trip up there. That place, it was my idea of paradise. They kept it kind of dark, with blue and green lights flashing around and tapes of screams playing all the time. And it was full of all kinds of masks, all hanging on the walls. I used to believe that the creatures lived inside those walls and just stuck their faces out to let me know they were there. And there were long capes and swords and suits of armor and . . . and everything way too expensive, but Mom always let me buy something incredibly cool, every year. That year, it was the werewolf mask. It had a long rubber snout and an open mouth full of fangs and a red tongue. Spiky wolf-ears and long gray-black fur sticking up on top. I loved it and would barely take it off, even to eat. So there I was, jumping around our little apartment, completely crazed about taking the whole costume to school for the playground parade we'd have in the afternoon. And my mom was laughing at me as she packed the outfit into a plastic bag. “Calm down, kiddo. You just have to wait a little bit, Rich-Man,” she said. And she leaned over and ran a hand over my hair.

And then the dream shifted and it was the parade, and in dreamworld I swear I saw every kid in my third grade class: their faces, their costumes. Every single one, just like they were when we were all eight. Sharp as day, I could see their faces. And I could smell the inside of my mask—sweaty rubber and Snickers from my breath. It was all perfect: we were outside on this clear crisp day, leaves crunchy under our feet. We were allowed to howl and screech, as long as we stayed in line. And I knew, like you do in dreams, just know things, that Sylvie was ahead of me in line, only one person away. Like she'd just showed up for the parade, like she was a new girl in our class. And she turned her head and it was Sylvie like I never saw her, except in some pictures tacked to the bulletin board in her room, maybe: Sylvie with long black hair and sparkling brown eyes and dimples in chubby cheeks. Sylvie in a witch costume, pointy black hat that she'd painted stars and moons on and a long black dress that dragged on the ground. And I could see that she was going to trip on her witch-skirt, so I ran up behind her—oh, man, am I a chivalrous werewolf—and picked up the edge of her skirt and marched behind her, her grinning over her shoulder at me the whole time. And then there was a great big wind, and everything—poof—blew away. And I was left with a tiny scrap of black stuff in my glove and most of the yarn gone from my boots.

I mean, that's enough to break anybody's heart, just that: the perfect Halloween, blown away in one second. Dreams, these days, can do that. Break my heart. But there's worse to come: I wake up and there's Br'er Bertrand. He's some kind of clergy-nerd. I don't know his denomination and, anyway, I call all of the religious types Br'er Whatever. Even the women. To me, that has just the ring of contempt that I wish to convey to the representatives of Somebody Up There without being totally disrespectful. Some of them laugh.

Bertrand is sitting by my bed, has probably been there for hours while I was innocently asleep. In a sneak attack, there he's been, mumbling over my rat-ass soul. I groan and turn my back, hunching over in the bed, fake-retching. But he keeps on muttering.

“Get out, dude,” I moan. “I told you, I don't want to talk to you. Leave me alone. I'm sick.” Worth a try, I suppose, even though I know that this Br'er is not easily discouraged. And I have a deep suspicion that my mom asked him to check on me while she can't come in. Him and about nine different counselors and whatnot. She isn't missing a trick, flu or not.

So I'm not a whole lot surprised when the man goes, “No, Richard. God hasn't left you, and neither will I.”

I roll over and open one eye, all I can bear. Bertrand is about thirty-five years old and he's the slobbiest man I ever met. I mean, his black coat and white collar always look like someone finger-painted scrambled egg all over them, and he's pale and pasty and big-time fat, and he's got fingers like short white worms. And bright red hair sticking up out of a bright pink scalp. Sweartogod, it's like having some pudgy, grubby clown show up at your bedside first thing in the morning. In the Real World, no one would put up with this, not for three freaking seconds. If this was a hotel, somebody would call the manager and have the guy tossed out on his ass. Somebody would scream for the cops and the men in the white coats. Headlines would read:
LUNATIC INVADES PRIVATE ROOM, INFLICTS UNWANTED PRAYER WHILE GUY SLEEPS. CRUCIFIX AND BIBLE USED AS WEAPONS.

But here? No. Here, on Halloween morning no less, the lunatic sits in a green plastic chair, his butt cheeks squeezing out either side, and smiles up at me in my high bed. And there is fuck-all I can do about it. I'm helpless in my steel-rail cage.

So, ole Bertrand looks up from his black book and says, “You created a very nasty scene last night.”

I just glare.

“First of all,” he goes on, ignoring the death ray stare I'm aiming at his pink skull, “it is risky business to invite Satan into your life, even in play. Satan does not play. He's waiting, every second of the day. Your costume and your attitude yesterday afternoon were foolish.” He shakes his head and shafts of orange hair shift on his scalp. “Why, I have to wonder, would anyone in your position risk bringing evil into your life? Why, I wonder, would you invite that poor sweet girl to join you in your folly?”

I open the other eye. Double death ray glare. “Hey, you know what, Br'er?” I rasp out. “You're right. Absolutely correct. You're a genius. You guessed it, and it actually happened. Yes, sir, the devil himself visited my room last night. Breathed fire and brimstone right into my face. And you know what I did? I punched him in the face.” I hold up my bandaged knuckles. “Beat his butt, fair and square. So my soul is safe, man. You can go save somebody else. I think that wily Mrs. Elkins—you know, that old broad in room 301?—she's been running drugs from her room. Crack, heroin, all kinds of shit. And there was a séance in there the other night, stroke of midnight. Ouija board, black candles, inverted pentagrams, the whole nine yards. She's, like, invoking demons right and left. You better talk to her.” This is actually very funny, if you know about Mrs. Elkins—she's, like, ninety-two and hasn't been conscious even once since I've been here. She's tiny and wrapped in white sheets all the time; she's like this little cocoon thing attached to her bed. I mean, no one would look in there and think
human being,
not in a million years. Except that her son—so presumably she once had a kid, ergo was a living, breathing woman who had sex and everything, it simply blows the mind to imagine that—wanders around here, impatient and cranky. Anyway, the notion of Mrs. Elkins as a one-woman devil-worshipping drug cartel is pretty brilliant. But I don't really expect Bertrand to appreciate my wit.

He doesn't. Luckily, he gets mad, all huffy. That's the best that can happen: if you piss them off, they leave. Although later, they often feel bad that they let a dying kid annoy them and they come back, all contrition and penance, even worse than all self-righteous, like they need
you
to give
them
absolution. But, for now, this Br'er shakes his head and puts his finger in my face. “You're treading very thin ice, son,” he says. “Very, very thin.” And then his fat butt wobbles out of my room and I get about eleven minutes' peace before Edward shows up with my breakfast tray.

Now here's another thing: like I told you, I don't eat. And I told the food service people that, too, and then I told them again. I made it very clear: don't even bring the slop to my room. But three times a day, up shows a tray. Full of all sorts of disgusting crap. Today, it's chartreuse scrambled eggs, greasy sausage, soggy toast, vitamin-laced pudding, green Jell-O, custard, and this stuff that's called thickened juice, i.e., fruit punch that you can spoon up, like some kind of cruel mockery of a Slurpee. But, praise be, there's also a cup of hot coffee—and that's my only salvation. I allow myself to put sugar and milk in the coffee, too. My one concession to caloric intake.

Edward doesn't even bother to put the rest of the swill on my bed table. He just hands over the coffee, which I have to hold in my left hand because of my bandaged knuckles. Edward rolls his eyes, looking at my wrapped-up hand, but he doesn't say a word about it. He just bustles around, straightening things up, then says, “You going to shower, young Richard? Or do you want to wash up in bed?”

I have to think about it. It's actually a big decision, believe it or not. It's a huge hassle to get clean around here. But it's kind of a point of pride for me to get up, every lousy day, and let water run all over my body. I don't know why—I don't sweat anymore, and I don't think that I stink. But it's my own little baptism, I guess. Or just my own tip of the hat to normal. So I usually do it.

And here's the weird thing, that I'd hate for my old high school buddies—like, all three of them, popularity not being top of my résumé—to know: I only like Edward to give me my shower. And, yes, he's gay. (No, he never told me this—it's just pretty obvious.) So what does that mean? I could worry, I suppose, about this showering preference, but I don't. Because I know exactly where it comes from.

See, back in one of the other hospitals when I was about fifteen, I got bed-bathed once by the prettiest nurse on the onco-surgo floor. One of the 18 percent of non-fat nurses. Young. Cute little freckles on her nose and a body that strained against that polyester uniform material in all the right places. And she was sweet. Anybody can guess where this is leading, for sure. Humiliation nation, that's where. Seems a bit funny, now. Seemed like absolute end-of-the-world then. Anyway, I'm lying on my back, tied down by IVs and chest drains and all kinds of hospital bondage devices, and there
she
is, running a warm soapy washcloth over my feet and calves. And she's just chattering away like they do to keep you from being embarrassed—telling me some silly story about her best friend's baby shower where there was the
cutest
set of onesies and the most
adorable
teddy bear. And her hair is kind of honey-brown, long and curly, and she keeps having to push a strand behind one ear. (“Why don't nurses wear caps anymore?” my mom asked once, pointing at all that gorgeous hair. “Isn't that unsanitary?” Who cares? I thought. I crave her bacteria.) Now usually, the nurses stop the washcloth just above the knees or so and ask if you want to wash your own private parts—or they just ignore that whole area. But this is one thorough bather. Some head nurse has told her to wash me up, and by jiminy, this girl is going to
wash,
bless her.

So she keeps on chatting—“there were the
sweetest
bouncy seats and little blue blankets,” blah de blah—and that washcloth is climbing up my thighs like a warm tongue. Or what I imagine one of those would feel like—imagination being all I've got to go on. And, of course, I get a boner like the Washington Monument, and that stops the nurse flat. She can't help but let out one totally unprofessional giggle and a nicely complimentary (I like to think) “Whoa there!” And then she steps back, puts the washcloth very gently into my hand, and she says, soft as she can, eyes down on the floor, trying not to smile, you can tell, “Well then, Richard. Tell you what. I think I'll leave you to finish up here alone.” She closes the bed curtains really tight behind her as she flees my little hormonally charged tent. “You just ring when you're done.”

Well, what are you going to do? I'll tell you what I wanted to do. I wanted to beg and plead and bribe her to come back. I wanted to ring the emergency buzzer and force her to come back. I wanted her to understand that this was a medical emergency, by all that's holy. Take care of me, nurse, please.

But, no. Wasn't going to happen, I knew that. So I did what she told me. I finished up alone.

So now I try to avoid all such incidents. Although I don't even know, really, how well ole Bingo works anymore. I mean, I was relatively strong, even post-op, at fifteen. Now, at the advanced age of seventeen-going-on-eighteen, I'm a mere ghost of my former horny self. Still, I think it's wise to only let guy nurses bathe me. It's better, all around. And Edward is usually the only guy on mornings. But that's cool, because he's about 6'4" and probably goes close to three hundred pounds: another strong one. And he's fast and gentle and he doesn't chatter at you. Gives a nice efficient, no-fuss shower.

Anyway, I'll skip the stupid problems of even getting into the shower when you're all weak and wobbly and the horrors of sitting your bare ass on one of those little white plastic bathing stools where your balls always get squinched into one of the idiotically placed drainage-hole perforation things. It's pathetically comic, for sure, but it gets a bit old as a daily event. What's important is that, while I'm in there, hunched on that silly stool, shampoo on my fuzzed-over (grown back from bald, like, three times now) head, with Edward scrubbing my back (the dude wisely ignores all the dangling-down parts), I hear a loud voice in the hall. It's yelling, “Hey, where's King Richard the First, goddamn it? Somebody tell him his old uncle's here to visit, will you? Tell him it's time for trick or treat.”