Some Are Sicker Than Others (21 page)

In one sudden sweeping motion, they flipped him over and lifted him up by his ankles and wrists. Like a hog on a stick, they carried him down the fluorescent-lit hallway, Monty kicking and screaming, bullets of spit shooting from his lips. When they got him back to the room, they tossed him like a rag doll through the air and on top of the bed. As they swarmed in on him like a pack of hyenas, their sharp fingernails and elbows dug into his flesh. One grabbed his wrists and pinned them by his earlobes while another planted his knee in the center of his chest. The third went to the foot of the bed and forced his legs wide open, while a pair of nurses fastened the straps efficiently around his ankles. When they were done with his legs, they went around to his forearms, and with the help of the security guards, pinned his hands by his hips. Monty tried to resist, but they were too strong for him. He was completely helpless, his arms by his side, his legs secured to the bed. The wound on his chin was now wide open and he could feel the blood trickling down his neck. But the nurses didn’t stop. They crouched to the floor and picked up the bindings, then fastened the straps around both of his wrists.

“Alright,” one of them said, stepping away from him. “He’s secure.”

The men in blue polyester eased their weight off of him then slowly stepped away from the bed. They all just stood there for a moment with looks of disgust on their faces, folding their arms and shaking their heads. He felt like a freak in some circus sideshow, pulling at the straps and writhing around in the bed. Why were they doing this? Why was this happening? Why were they treating him like he was a fucking animal?

He kicked and pulled harder and harder, the fabric of the straps cutting into his skin. All of a sudden, it became too much for him; his breath began to shorten and his muscles went limp. It felt like he was being sucked down into the bedding, his body disappearing into a bottomless pit. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open, he was so damn exhausted. He just gave up and quit trying to resist. As he slowly drifted in and out of consciousness, he could hear the conversation between the guards and the nurse.

“He’s been here before,” the nurse said, looking down at him. “He’s some kind of engineer.”

“What’s wrong with him? He on drugs or something?”

“No. Alcoholic.”

“That’s a shame. That’s a god damn shame.”

“Yeah. We get all kinds in here.”

Chapter 16

The Morning After

MONTY could feel the presence of someone beside him, the cadence of their breathing dueling with the heart monitor machine beeping by his head. He opened his eyes and craned his neck forward and saw the silhouette of a man sitting beside his bed. The man was slumped over in a chair, his head tilted slightly forward, his hands folded together like he was deep in prayer.

Monty tried to say something, but his mouth was so dehydrated that he couldn’t get enough saliva to even move his tongue. So he let out a moan that sounded more like a whimper, a soft, pathetic cry for help.

The man stirred. His posture straightened. He lifted his head and moved into the light. “Monty,” he said, “are you awake?”

Monty recognized the man’s voice. It belonged to his father. But it couldn’t be his dad, could it? Why would he be here?

Monty turned his head as far as he could sideways and let the light come to his blood-pooled eyes. “Dad, is that you?”

“Yes Monty, it’s me.”

Monty blinked. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Where was he? Was he at home? He looked down at the white blanket covering his body, at the series of plastic tubes and wires running out from underneath his blue hospital gown. “Where am I?” he said, his voice a bit shaky.

“You’re in the hospital, Monty.”

“Where? In Florida?”

His dad dropped his head and removed his glasses, wiping the tears from his tired, jet-lagged eyes. “No Monty, no son. You’re in Denver, at the General Hospital.”

“What am I doing here?”

“Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember talking to Robby?”

Monty looked away and moved his eyes towards the ceiling, focusing on a fly that was circling just below the corner of the wall. His stomach began to turn as the images flashed across his consciousness like the pieces of a puzzle that he didn’t want to solve—the accident, the liquor store, the phone call with Robby, the pills, the booze, the straps, the catheter, the men in blue polyester uniforms. He lifted his arms and pulled against the straps that were binding him—the corners of the fabric had now cut red lines into his skin. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. Why was he still here? Why was he still strapped down?

He turned towards his dad, his lips quivering, his body shaking, the pain from the straps shooting down his arms. “Dad?”

“Yes? What is it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for you, Monty.”

“But why—I mean, when? When did you get here?”

“Early this morning. Your mother and I came as soon as we could.”

“What? Mom’s here? Why? I don’t understand.”

His dad turned away and put back on his glasses, his thin, sun-dried lips quivering like a frightened child’s. “Well,” he said, trying to maintain his composure, trying to be the man Monty knew as a kid—the man who never showed any emotion, who believed that crying was a sign of weakness. “Robby called us and told us what happened. We got out here as quick as we could.”

“Why am I still strapped down like this? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, Monty. I don’t know.”

“I can’t move, dad.”

“I know, son. I know.”

“I can’t move.”

“It’s okay.” His dad stood up and moved towards the doorway, his brown dress shoes scuffing against the hospital floor. “Let me see if I can get someone.”

“Wait—where are you going? Don’t leave me here, please.”

“I’ll be right back. Let me just see if I can get the nurse, okay?”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I’ll be right back, I promise.”

His dad turned away, shuffled through the doorway, and left Monty alone, alone with his thoughts. He tried not to think about the straps around his wrists and ankles, but it was impossible to do when they were on so tight. They were like barbed wire, their sharp, serrated edges cutting into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, digging deeper and deeper with every slight tug.

He could hear his dad’s voice in the hallway, talking to a woman with a high-pitched, nasal whine. Gradually, the voices became louder, until it seemed they were right inside the room. Then, Monty caught a whiff of an oppressively strong perfume that smelled like one of those rose-scented Glade Plug-ins. He opened his eyes. A woman was standing beside him, a nurse, but a different one from the night before. This one was Latino, short and stubby, with thick globs of eyeliner like the legs of a tarantula jutting out from her eyelids. She moved beside Monty and adjusted the bag of fluids hanging from the metal stand parked behind his head. “Good morning Mr. Monty,” she said, without acknowledging him, inspecting the series of tubes running out from underneath his gown. “And how are we feeling today?”

What? Was she kidding? How did she think he was feeling? He was strapped down to a bed.

“Do you know where you are Mr. Monty?”

“Yes, my dad said—”

“You’re at the Denver County General Hospital. Do you remember how you got here?” She hobbled to other side of the bed and punched in some buttons on the machine that was beeping by his head. “You came in an ambulance, Mr. Monty. Your blood alcohol level was at a 0.5.”

“Is that high?” his dad said, moving in from the doorway, his hair-covered arms crossed tightly over his chest.

The nurse laughed as if something was funny, as if this was all one big, fucking joke. “Yes, Mr. Miller. The lethal limit is 0.4. Your son is lucky to be alive.”

Lucky? What the hell was she talking about? He wasn’t lucky to be alive. He was supposed to be dead.

“How much longer does he have to stay in those restraints?” his dad asked.

The nurse picked up the clipboard from the little plastic cubby, then licked the tip of her finger, and started flipping through the pages. “Let’s see, it looks like we did two blood tests—one last night and one this morning—around five.” She checked her watch and mulled over the numbers. “That means we should be getting the lab results back within the hour.”

“And then what?” his dad said.

She popped the clipboard back into the cubby then moved back to the machine beeping beside his head. “And then, if his alcohol levels are low enough, we should be able to get the keys to the restraints and have Mr. Monty ready for discharge.”

“Discharge? Really? So soon?”

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t you think he needs to stay here for a couple more days for monitoring?”

What? Monty looked up at his dad. A couple more days? What was he talking about? Was he insane?

The nurse chuckled. “I’m sorry Mr. Miller, but this is a hospital, not a hotel.”

“Excuse me?” his dad said, uncrossing his forearms, a green vein the size of an extension cord protruding from his leathered forehead. “What did you just say to me?”

The nurse took one look at his dad and her silly grin quickly vanished and her posture stiffened like a frightened cat. “I’m sorry Mr. Miller, I didn’t—”

“How dare you. How dare you say that to me. You see that kid right there? Huh?” He shot out his arm and pointed at Monty. “You see him?”

The nurse glanced back behind her and solemnly nodded. “Yes sir, I see him.”

“That’s my son, alright? He’s a human being for Christ’s sake. Not some number on your god damn chart.”

“Yes Mr. Miller, I understand, I’m very—”

“He deserves to be treated with a little respect.”

“Mr. Miller, please lower your voice. We have other patients on this floor besides your son who are trying to rest.”

His dad threw his head back and let out an insane, little chuckle. “Oh, I’m sorry, but are those other patients strapped down like my son is? Huh?”

“No sir, they are not, but—”

“But what? Why do you have him locked down like this? He’s my son for Christ’s sake. He’s not a god damn criminal.”

“Mr. Miller, if you just lower your voice, then I’ll explain.”

His dad withdrew and unbowed his shoulders, folding his arms back across his chest. “Okay, fine, explain.”

The nurse let out a deep sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Miller…”

“Yes? I’m waiting.”

“Mr. Miller, your son was out of control last night. He was a danger to himself and to the employees of this hospital. We had to take immediate action. It was either the restraints or we call the police and let them deal with him, which I know is not what you or your son wanted. Is it?”

His dad didn’t say anything and just snorted. His nose was turned up so high it looked like it might disappear into his forehead.

“Now, like I said, I will go and check with the lab and if Monty’s alcohol levels are down, which I believe they will be since we’ve been flushing saline through him all night long, I will talk with the doctor and see if we can’t get him out of those restraints. Okay?”

His dad said nothing and just scowled at the floor.

“Mr. Miller?”

“What?”

“Is that alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.”

She turned toward Monty and batted her tarantula-covered eyelids. “Is that alright with you Mr. Monty?”

Monty nodded. 

“Okay then, you just sit tight and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”

She forced a smile then shuffled towards the doorway, stopping just short in front of Monty’s dad. His dad looked down at her in disgust then moved in from the doorway, allowing her to get through.

“Dad?” Monty said, pulling on the bindings, lifting his head up as far as he could.

“Yes, Monty?”

“I’m cold.”

His dad’s face immediately softened—all the rage just melted away. He let out a deep sigh and moved in from the doorway, his shoulders slumped over, his head bowed to the floor. He grabbed the bedding at Monty’s ankles and pulled it up just below his chin. “Is that okay?” he said, looking down at Monty, with a weak, uneasy smile.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Monty quickly looked away and turned his eyes back towards the ceiling. He couldn’t bear having his dad see him like this.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, his dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I need to make a phone call,” he said. “Will you be alright in here by yourself?”

Monty didn’t look at him and just nodded. He could feel the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

“Okay, just yell out if you need anything.”

“Alright.”

His dad turned away and walked towards the doorway, but just as he was about to leave, Monty stopped him and said, “Wait, dad?”

His dad turned around, holding his cell phone, his eyes moistening like he was about to cry. “What is it?”

“Please get me out of here.”

“I will, Monty. I will.”

Chapter 17

Discharged

HIS dad kept his promise and got him discharged from the hospital around noon. The car ride back to the apartment was eerily quiet, neither Monty nor his dad uttered a single word. Monty kept his eyes shut and his breathing steady, trying not to think about the pain he’d just endured. Every now and then, he’d open his eyes, peer out the window, and watch the snow that was floating to the ground. It was a bleak day. The sun was hidden behind a curtain of hazy, white snow clouds. But it wasn’t dark out—actually, it was just the opposite. The little bit of sunlight seemed to be amplified by the reflection of the snow on the ground. It made his eyes tear just to look at it, like looking through a pair of binoculars directly at the sun. He grabbed his hood and pulled it down over his eyelids, retreating like a gopher into its hole.

About ten minutes later, the car stopped and the engine halted. Monty pulled off his hood and began to look around. Where were they? They weren’t at the apartment. It looked like they were in a parking lot somewhere downtown. “Where are we?” he said, looking out the window at the tall buildings cutting into the sky.