The Kryptonite Kid: A Novel (28 page)

Robert was gone. The room was dark, except for a dim light from the hallway. Sister Madonna was standing beside my bed, praying. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was there. A nurse came in with my midnight pill. I closed my eyes and pretended I was asleep.

“How is he?” the nurse whispered.

“Better,” the nun whispered.

“Poor kid,” the nurse whispered. “Did you tell him yet?”

“No,” the nun whispered. “I haven’t found the right words.”

“Maybe you should wait till tomorrow?” the nurse whispered.

“Yes, maybe I will,” the nun whispered.

“Poor kid,” the nurse whispered again. And then she reached out to awaken me.

When the nurse was gone, Sister Madonna stood there for a long time in silence. In darkness. I knew she was crying because I could hear her tears hitting the floor. They sounded distant, like a dream remembered (for an instant) in the afternoon. Her tears came from God, like everything else.

“I know what it is,” I said.
I know what you want to tell me.

She was silent.

“I had this dream,” I said. “I was falling through the air. Somebody was holding me in his arms. I had a green cape on and we kept falling, falling together, crashing to the earth. Together. At first I thought it was Superman— that he had swooped down and tried to save me. But it wasn’t. It was my dad. He realized he couldn’t reach me, so he leaped. Like Superman. He caught me in mid-air and fell with me, in front of me, saving me from the sidewalk. But not from the siren.”

I woke up.

Sister Madonna was still standing there, crying. Looking at me. Praying. Saying over and over, “God forgive him. God forgive this child, this child.” She was like a guardian angel in the night. She waited until she was sure I was asleep, then tip-toed away silently. I heard her pause 
at the door. I wanted to tell her that it didn’t hurt, that I was numb, I couldn’t feel anything. But words wouldn’t come out. I felt like somebody was sitting on my throat. I could hardly open my mouth. So I didn’t. I heard her close the door. She squeezed it shut, gently. The last word I heard belonged to my mom. 
“
WHY?”
It got caught in the door.

And then the siren.

I've been having tons of crisp dreams lately, waking with the sunlight and remembering every horrid detail. They're full of heavy chunks of past, of old faces floating through the air, exploding into punctuation marks. Every night they occur, like mosquitoes biting into my sleep, leaving marks that will itch all morning, all afternoon, all the way into evening, by which time I feel a compulsion to record them. But when I sit down at my desk and confront an empty sheet of paper, they run away like children. I chase them and they laugh. I sip my coffee. I nervously light a cigarette. I say a prayer. I bless myself. I slide between my sheets and crawl inside my sleep with certainty. I know they will come again. I know they will find me . . .