Wake Up Missing (5 page)

“Great. So here are your morning meds. I'll trade you. . . .” He took back my chart and handed me a little cup with two pills and a bigger cup full of water. I swallowed the pills and tossed the cups in the trash.

Dr. Ames held open the lab door and pointed me in the direction of the hallway that led outside. “Why don't you get some fresh air? I bet Sarah and Quentin will be happy to see you.”

“Okay.” I started down the hall, but I didn't go outside. I went back to my room, thinking about Sarah and Quentin and the other girl who was supposed to be here and the boy Sarah seemed to like even though he was blowing her off. Brett? Brent? Which kid's parents were the doctors talking about calling?

“Hey, there you are!” Sarah's bouncy voice was like a jackhammer to my muddled head. She hurried down the hall before I could step into my room and disappear back into bed. “We need you for Frisbee!”

“Maybe later,” I said, leaning against the wall. Across from me, Sarah's room had a folder on the door with a chart that looked like mine from the lab. “Does that tell how you got hurt and everything?” I asked her, pointing to it.

“Probably.” She shrugged. “But I already told you that. I got checked into the boards playing hockey.”

“Sorry.” I kind of remembered. “I still forget stuff.”

Sarah nodded and reached for her chart. “That'll get better when you start the second phase of treatment. See?” She held
it out and pointed to the activity log on the bottom. “I've already had two weeks of light and oxygen therapy and exercise. My headaches are pretty much gone.”

“Well, that explains the Frisbee,” I said, and looked down at her chart.

Name: Sarah L. Jacobsen

Age: 12

IQ: 98

Mother: Loree Elizabeth Martin—Age 38

Father: John Jacobsen—Age 38

Siblings: Kurt Jacobsen—Age 15

Family Medical History: Cancer—maternal grandmother

Concussion Report: Subject suffered damage to right frontal lobe of brain while playing hockey.

Risk Level: Moderate

“Hey, your injury was to the same part of your brain as mine, I think.” I pointed to that part of the chart. “And your risk level, too.”

“What's that?” She leaned over to look.

“It's . . . like how bad your injury was.” I couldn't believe she'd been here two weeks and hadn't read her chart yet. But now Sarah was going from door to door, collecting everyone's—even two way down at the end of the hall. They must have belonged to the kids I hadn't met yet.

“Well, that's weird,” Sarah said. “Trent's injury was way worse than mine—he told me he was unconscious for like half an
hour—and his risk level is low. So is Ben's and that horse accident sounded serious, didn't it?”

“Maybe it was a different kind of injury or something,” I said, opening my door. I didn't want to talk anymore.

“No, because look.” Sarah wedged herself between me and my door and held up the chart.

Name: Ben McCain

Age: 14

IQ: 108

Mother: Vonna Sterling McCain—Deceased

Father: Francis James McCain—Deceased

Uncle: Andrew F. McCain—45

Aunt: Wendy Erwin McCain—35

Siblings: None

Family Medical History: Depression, mental illness—maternal grandmother

Concussion Report: Subject was thrown from horse, suffered concussion to right frontal lobe of brain.

Risk Level: Low

“See? It's his right frontal lobe, like ours,” Sarah said. “And so is Quentin's! And Trent's. And Kaylee's, too! That is so weird.” She flipped through the other charts and handed them to me.

Name: Quentin R. Hayes

Age: 13

IQ: 130

Mother: Jacqueline Marshfield Hayes—Age 40

Father: Robert M. Hayes—Age 48

Siblings: Christopher Hayes—Age 9

Family Medical History: Heart disease—maternal grandmother, paternal grandfather and uncle

Concussion Report: Subject hit head on ground while playing football. Injury is to right frontal lobe. Post-concussion symptoms have included disorientation, headaches, inability to concentrate.

Risk Level: Moderate to high

Name: Trent Perkins

Age: 13

IQ: 110

Mother: Mary Ann Perkins—Deceased

Father: Jake Perkins—Deceased

Contact: Ronald and Mabel Inman, foster parents

Siblings: Jason Perkins—Age 5

Family Medical History: Heart attack—paternal grandmother; lung cancer—maternal grandfather

Concussion Report: Subject sustained damage to right frontal lobe of the brain after being knocked down on basketball court.

Risk Level: Low

Name: Kaylee Enriquez

Age: 12

IQ: 122

Mother: Tracy Roberts Enriquez—Age 35

Father: John Enriquez—Age 40

Siblings: None

Family Medical History: Stroke—maternal grandmother

Concussion Report: Subject suffered damage to right frontal lobe of brain after falling from bicycle.

Risk Level: Low to Medium

“That is so weird,” Sarah said again.

“What's weird?” Quentin asked, coming down the hall with Ben.

“Well, we were looking at your charts—”

“
She
was looking at your charts.” I knew Ben would be angry. “I was going to take a nap.”

“Geez,” Ben said, yanking the folders from Sarah's hands. He glanced down, then put each one back on the door of its owner. “You been in my room, looking through my underwear drawer, too?”

“You wish,” Sarah said. “Seriously, though . . . if you look at those charts, all our injuries are to the same part of our brains—the right frontal lobe.”

“That's the part of the brain that deals with problem solving and divergent thinking,” Quentin said.

“What are you, Encyclopedia Boy?” Ben said.

Quentin looked down at his sneakers. “No. I was in Science Olympiad last year, and one of my events was Human Anatomy and Physiology. Anyway,” he said, turning to Sarah. “It's probably a common kind of head injury is all.”

“Yeah, but don't you think it's fishy?” Sarah pushed.

“Fishy?” Quentin shook his head, laughing. “No. And don't
go all conspiracy-theory on me again.” He turned to Ben and me. “She was a mess when we first got here—completely wigged out. Like, what if we don't get better? What if these guys are really kidnappers or something? What if—”

“Quit it.” Sarah's voice was sharp. “I thought . . . and I still think . . . some things here are weird. Just because we got forced to come doesn't mean we have to be good little patients and never ask questions.”

“I didn't get forced to come,” I said. “I wanted to come.”

“Me, too.” Quentin picked up his file and looked at it. “If I don't get better, my whole future's out the window. My mom was psyched when Dr. Ames found us.”

“Yeah, my parents, too.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “They're going to be ticked off if I don't come back smarter, though.”

“Wait . . . Dr. Ames found
you
?” I asked.

“Yeah. He told my mom he has to keep a certain number of patients to keep his research grant, so they network with hospitals all over the country and recruit kids they think have a good chance of a positive outcome. That's not what happened with you?”

“No. My mom found the clinic online.”

“Well, it doesn't really matter,” Sarah said. “We're all here now, and we might as well make the best of it.” She held up her Frisbee. “Who's in for a game before lunch?”

Quentin smiled at me and shrugged. My headache was fading—the new meds really did seem to work better—so I followed them out to the lawn.

We had only tossed the Frisbee around for a few minutes before Ben missed catching an easy toss from Quentin and threw up his
hands. “I'm done,” he said, and plopped himself down in a lawn chair by the pool.

“Me, too. I'm tired.” I headed for the pool and sank down in the chair next to Ben. He was reading again, so I didn't say anything—people who talk while you're reading are the worst. I watched the ibises, poking their beaks into the shallow water of the pond.

“Your head hurt?” Ben asked, looking up from his magazine.

“Kind of.” I nodded toward Quentin and Sarah. “They say it goes away once the next phase of treatment starts.”

“Hope it goes fast,” he said quietly.

“I know. I miss my mom and dad like crazy.” The words slipped out before I remembered the word next to his parents' names on the chart:
deceased.

“Me, too,” he said with a sad laugh.

“I . . . sorry.”

“It's okay,” he said. “I mean, it's not, but . . .” He shrugged. “It's been a while now. I've lived with my aunt and uncle two years.”

I watched Sarah and Quentin running over the grass. I thought Ben would go back to his magazine, but he didn't. “My mom died when I was really little. And then my dad got killed in Afghanistan.”

“Hey, you guys ready to get back in the game?” Sarah came running up, her face all red and sweaty. Quentin was behind her with the Frisbee. “What are you talking about over here?”

Ben looked up at her. “My dead parents,” he said, his voice flat.

“Oh . . . I . . .” For once, Sarah didn't have something to say.
And again, standing there, she reminded me of Amberlee. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“Really?” Ben gave her a mocking look of surprise. “It was on my
chart.
”

I didn't want to pick a fight with Ben, but I felt bad for Sarah. She was stuck here like the rest of us.

“Was your dad in the military?” I asked Ben.

“Yeah.” Ben sat up a little straighter. “Marines.”

“I bet you're close to the rest of your family, huh?” Quentin asked, pulling up a chair.

Ben's right eye twitched. “Yeah. My aunt and uncle are okay. How about you, Encyclopedia Boy?”

Quentin smiled. “I guess I can live with that nickname. I do study a lot. My family expects me to get a scholarship.”

Sarah made a face. “Who cares what they expect?”

“I do,” Quentin said right away. He looked down at the Frisbee, passing it from hand to hand. “My mom and dad work hard so they'll be able to send me to college. Mom's a teacher. Dad's a police officer, and he's always pulling extra shifts. And my grandparents—they aren't around anymore—but they were amazing people, too. Grandpa had a restaurant where everybody in town went for breakfast—professors and politicians—Barack Obama even ate there sometimes. Grandpa let me help put out napkins and stuff. He made everybody feel important, whether you were the richest guy on the block or a homeless lady looking for a cup of coffee. And Grandma Jo . . . she lived in Alabama in the sixties, during the bus boycotts, and she marched in Birmingham. She had a picture with Martin Luther King and everything.”

“Wow! My aunt Beth would have loved her. She and Kathleen are always protesting something—discrimination or cutting down trees or whatever. Aunt Beth says she wants to leave the world a better place for me.”

Ben smirked. “That's cheesy.” The word stung. Lucy had said the same thing and rolled her eyes when I invited her to Aunt Beth's canvas-the-city recycling rally in September. I ended up not going either.

“Well, I think it's pretty awesome,” Quentin said. “Anyway, before my grandma died, she used to call me every quarter when report cards came out. I don't know how she knew, but man . . . I'd better have done my best. She said she didn't get the snot beat out of her on a dusty road so I could hang around getting Cs.” He sighed. “When I got hurt, I couldn't think as fast. It's like the part of my brain that used to solve problems got busted. But it feels like it's finally starting to come back.”

“Be lucky you had it at all.” Sarah laughed. She reached for the Frisbee and stood up, but then paused and looked at Quentin. “Tell me this. If this is really such a great clinic, how come there's nobody here? And where are Kaylee and Trent? We never see either of them anymore.”

“Maybe
aliens
abducted them!” Ben leaned forward in his chair and used his hands to make wiggling antennas over his ears.

Quentin laughed. “Or giant alligators.”

“Giant
alien
alligators!” Ben said, giving Quentin a high five. “You want to get something to drink?” They headed for the building, and Sarah sighed and started after them. I did, too, but
not without looking back at those perfect, empty lawn chairs. Why
was
it so quiet here?

I still couldn't piece together what I'd heard standing outside the office, but a part of my mind wouldn't stay quiet, no matter how many times I told myself everything was okay.

I spent the rest of the morning in my room, trying to work on a bird. I unwrapped my clay and breathed in big gulps of its earthy smell, and if I closed my eyes, I could almost believe I was home, in my room, with the cool clay in my hands and all my birds sitting on their painted branches, watching over my bed. When I opened my eyes and squeezed the clay, nothing worked. The picture in my book captured the power and strength of that osprey by the docks so perfectly. But the clay in my hands was brittle and weak. I tried three or four times before I crushed the whole thing into a lumpy ball and wrapped it back up with the rest.

Then I flopped down on my bed and tried to read a little. Mom had convinced me to bring a few of my favorite historical novels and some book my English class read while I was absent. It was about a girl who finds a magic bread box, which sounds weird, but Mrs. Rock said I'd like it. I tried the first chapter, but within a couple paragraphs, the words were swirling out of focus.

Nothing was right here. I tossed the book on the floor, and
the clunk it made hurt my head. It was time for my meds, and time for lunch, too, so I headed down the hallway to the cafeteria.