Things Not Seen (4 page)

T
he doorbell rings. So does the phone. I choose the door.

I drop the fleece blanket in the living room. Up close to the front door I can see through the edges around the frosted glass design. It's almost dark, but the porch light is on. It's two cops, a man and a woman. They're here to tell me. About the accident. About Mom and Dad.

The woman officer leans over and pushes the doorbell button again. I stand still. I'm in no condition to talk to the police. They wait, rocking on their heels the way cops do. Then the guy says, “Let's go.”

Mrs. Trent from next door stops them on the sidewalk by their squad car. She wants to know what's going on. She always has to know everything that happens in the neighborhood. I can't hear what they're saying.

My chest feels like someone is squeezing the air out of me. On the way back to the TV room, I pick up the blanket. I sit down at one end of the couch. There's sweat on my face.

The phone. It's ringing again, but it sounds far away. I lean over and grab it on the fourth ring, then wait for the answering machine to stop.

“Hello?” It's still hard to breathe.

“Yes, may I ask who this is?” It's a woman's voice. There's a lot of noise and loud talking around her.

“This is Bobby.” The news guy in the green sport coat is still yelling, so I punch the mute button.

“Bobby, are your parents Emily and David Phillips?”

My throat is tight. I take too long to answer.

“Bobby? Are you Bobby Phillips?”

“…Yes…. Is this about the accident?”

“Yes, it is, Bobby. This is Dr. Fleming, and I'm calling from the emergency room at Presbyterian St. Luke's Hospital. Your parents were hurt in a car crash, but they're going to be all right, and you don't have to worry about them. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

Nothing to be afraid of. I'm shivering, shaking. Nothing to be afraid of. The lady keeps talking.

“Your mom has a concussion and a broken nose, but she was able to talk with me, and she gave me your name and number so I could call and tell you what's happened. Your dad is already in the operating room because his left arm and his right wrist were hurt. My guess is that both your parents will be here for at least three days—probably longer for your dad. Bobby, your mother told me that you are fifteen, is that right?”

The whole room is spinning. I hang on to the phone with both hands so I won't get thrown out against the walls.

The lady is patient. “You're fifteen, is that right, Bobby?”

“Yes.” The thinking is almost harder than the breathing.

“And you are there alone and you have no one over eighteen other than your parents who live there, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want to be sure that you've got somewhere to stay for the next few days until one of your parents is well enough to come home. Or some adult could come and stay with you there. Are there any relatives or friends I should call for you? Or would you like to call someone and then get back to me here so I can have your mother approve the arrangements? In a case like this with a child at home, we have to be certain you're being cared for.”

The room is still spinning, but I'm listening too. And now I have to think. Think and plan. I can't go visiting, I can't have a relative or anyone else hanging around. But Mom knows that—or at least she did before that big red Jeep beat her up.

“Could I talk to my mom?”

“No, I'm sorry, not for at least an hour or two. We need to get her comfortable. She's stable right now, but we need to be sure everything's all right. And I'm sure it is. Your mother suggested that you might call your aunt Ethel. Does that sound right to you?”

I think a second and then I say, “Yeah…I guess I should make a couple of calls, and then call you back, okay?” Then I say, “My dad? You said he's going to be all right too?”

“Well, he's not going to be playing any tennis for a while, but he'll be up and around, maybe even back at work in a week or two. Both your parents are very fortunate to be alive.” After a quick pause she says, “So let's review, Bobby. Both your parents are here at Presbyterian St. Luke's, they're both going to be fine, and I'm Dr. Sarah Fleming, and you're going to call me back here as soon as you get something arranged with your aunt Ethel or someone else, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a pencil? I'll give you my number.”

When I have a pen and paper she says the number.

“It's six-fifteen now, and I'll be here until midnight. Try to call me no later than eight o'clock, all right? If I'm not able to get to the phone when you call, leave a message and I'll call back.” She pauses, then says, “Are you going to be okay about all this, Bobby?” Now her voice sounds more like a mom than a doctor.

The room is slowing down, and I've stopped panting. “I'm okay. Tell them that I'm fine, and tell my mom and dad that I'm sorry about…that they're hurt.”

I put the phone down and struggle to stand up, hugging the blanket around me. I pace up and down in front of the couch a few times. Then I make myself sit down again. To think.

Aunt Ethel. I have to hand it to Mom. Even in an emergency room she knows how to put a good story together. It must be from reading all those novels. Aunt Ethel is real, but having her be my baby-sitter? That's pure fiction. Aunt Ethel lives in Miami.

And then I remember school, my school. Mom called them this morning and said I was home sick. That was the first lie.

And now I've got to pretend to have a baby-sitter. I've got to call that doctor back in an hour or so and tell some more lies. And won't she want to talk with Aunt Ethel?

And what happens if the people at school hear about the accident? Will they send somebody over to my house to make sure I'm okay?

And will the cops keep coming back?

I've got to make decisions.

The winter sun is setting and the house is almost dark. There's only the flickering light from the TV. I'm sweating invisible sweat. I'm sitting on the couch wearing nothing but a blue fleece blanket, and no one is coming home for dinner. Or bedtime. Or breakfast.

On the silent TV a beautiful happy family is sitting around the kitchen table. They're laughing and smiling as they eat. They're all in love with oatmeal.

My family's not on TV. My family's messed up. And I'm probably the most messed up of all.

I make my first decision: I've got to go see Mom and Dad. Because that's what you do if your family gets in a car wreck, right? You go and see them.

Because they're your family.

T
he cab ride to the hospital is something I want to forget. The cabdriver didn't want to let me in his car. It was probably the sunglasses that scared him, sunglasses after dark. I had to hold up the twenty-dollar bill so he could see it before he unlocked the doors.

Turns out I should have been scared of him. The guy's probably a stunt driver for the movies, the kind they hire when they want six near-misses every fifteen seconds. I get out at the visitors entrance, glad to be alive.

Walking into a hospital isn't like walking into a library. At hospitals, people really look at you. And after dark in Chicago, the place is loaded with cops. And cops look at you extra hard.

The lady at the visitors desk has a giant hairdo, and she doesn't smile. My dark glasses bother her too.

I say, “I need to see Emily Phillips. She got here this afternoon.”

The lady is chewing gum. “You're gonna be too warm in here wearing that hat and scarf, dear.”

I fake a cough and point at my throat. “Bad cold.”

She punches a key and then runs a long-nailed finger down her computer screen.

“Are you a relative? Because Emily Phillips is still listed as a ‘recent admit.' If you're not a relative, you'll have to come back tomorrow. Five to eight-thirty
P.M
. And either way, you'll need permission from Dr. Fleming before you can see her.”

“Oh…I'm not a relative. I'll have to come back.” And I turn around and walk out the door.

Because I can't talk to the doctor, not now. I'm supposed to be at home asking Aunt Ethel to come baby-sit. Besides, if I did talk to the doctor, I'd have to stay covered up with my scarf and gloves. And sunglasses. Too strange.

Part of me wants to give it up, go home. When that doctor called, she said they were fine. But doctors always say that. People die in hospitals, even after the doctor tells you they're “fine.” This thought gives me a chill that settles in the pit of my stomach.

Then, standing there outside the visitors entrance, I see the sign pointing to the emergency room. And it hits me: That's where the ambulance brought Mom and Dad! I start walking, then pick up the pace until I'm almost running. Because the ER must keep admittance records, right? I don't need some doctor's permission to see my folks. I just need information.

The emergency room is at the far end of the building. Two fire department ambulances have their lights flashing, and two teams of nurses and doctors are scrambling to get some rolling stretchers through the big center doors. When I walk in through a side entrance, no one even glances at me.

The smell, that hospital smell. It's much stronger here than it was in the reception lobby. It makes me want to turn around and get back in a cab. But I don't. What I need is a room number, but no one's going to give it to some kid wearing a hat and gloves and sunglasses. So I head down the hall and around a corner. It's quieter here. The rooms on either side of the hall have two beds each. White curtains hang from ceiling tracks. Some patients have them open, others have the curtains pulled around their beds.

I pass eight rooms before there's an empty one. No one sees me duck inside and close the door to room 1007. I pull the curtains around both beds. The little bathroom has no lock on the door and there's a button to push if you need help—like, maybe if you run out of toilet paper?

For the second time today I take off all my clothes and wrap them in my coat. But there's no place in this bathroom to hide them. Out in the room, I pull back the curtain on the bed farthest from the door. I use my clothes to make a shape that looks like a person lying under the thin blanket.

There's a clipboard chart with a ballpoint hanging on a hook at the end of the bed, so I write “Christopher Carter” in the space for the patient's name. That's the name of my science teacher. He smokes, and a week or two here would probably be good for him. A few check marks and initials on the chart to make it look official, and then I'm out into the hallway. I stop and look around. I want to be sure I can find my way back to room 1007.

The hospital is warmer than the library was, but the tile floor feels cold anyway. Then, when I go back through the doorway into the emergency area, there's a blast of arctic air because the big doors are open again.

This is a bad place to be a spook—too many people, and they're moving around too fast. A noisy drunk weaving around with an ice pack over one eye, an orderly pushing a very pregnant lady in a wheelchair, a trotting nurse with a bag of blood in each hand—three close calls in the first twenty seconds. All I need is two room numbers, then I can get out of here.

There's a counter off to the side. It's staffed by two young women, one at either end. The one wearing green is using a computer, and the one in blue is talking on the phone. In the center of the counter there's a clipboard. It's a form. Time, patient name, insurer, admitting doctor, room number. I have to read upside down because clipboards are not supposed to twirl by themselves. The handwriting is rotten, but I see what I need. It's near the top of the sheet:

 

4:57
P.M
. Emily Phillips Blue Cross

Dr. Fleming 5067

 

Room 5067.
Five oh six seven, five oh six seven
.

And right below is Dad's name, but no room number, just “post-op.”

So I'll start with 5067. Fifth floor.

It's much colder in the stairwell, but trotting up five floors gets me warm in a hurry. I wait inside the fifth-floor door until my breathing is back under control. Naked invisible boys are not allowed to gasp and wheeze.

The only good thing about hospitals is there are signs all over. If you can read, it's impossible to get lost. Three hallways and two right turns and I'm at the door of room 5067. Looking in the window, it's a double, and Mom's in the bed on the left. Her curtain is half drawn, just enough to be a barrier between the beds. There are bandages and stuff on her face, and it looks like she's asleep.

There's an older woman in the other bed, also sleeping. Her bed is tilted up more than Mom's. She's on her back with a pair of pale green tubes running from a clip under her nose to a panel on the wall.

Slipping inside, I get to the far side of Mom's bed. If the tube lady wakes up, she'll be able to imagine the boy she hears behind the curtain. Nothing scary about that.

Up close, Mom looks bad. There are dark bruises under both eyes, real shiners. An
X
made from two strips of clear tape is holding a white pad and some kind of brace on the bridge of her nose. Two butterfly bandages almost cover a small cut on her right cheek, and at the hairline above her left eyebrow there's a purple lump the size of a golf ball. I look at her hair on the paper pillowcase, and among the brown I see some gray ones. I never noticed that before. Her hands lie open on the pale blue blanket, palms up, fingers slightly curled. She has bruises on both arms. I feel as if I've been punched in the stomach.

I put my hand lightly on her shoulder. “Mom? It's me.”

She stiffens and sucks in a quick breath. Her hands clench and her eyes jerk open, terrified.

I pat her shoulder. “Mom, it's all right. It's me, Bobby. I'm here. I…I came to see you.”

She reaches for the hand on her shoulder, and I give it to her. Her head turns toward me, and I can see her eyes now. The pupils are wide and dark, scanning. “Bobby. How?…” Her voice is cracking.

I reach for a plastic cup on the bedstand beside her purse. “Here, have some water, Mom.” She lets go of my hand, drains the cup, gives it back, and then holds her hand up until I take it again. I hear voices in the hall, but they pass the door and fade away.

She's whispering. “How did you get here? I've been going crazy with worry. Have they told you about your dad?”

“The doctor called me at home. And I just bundled up and took a cab. They didn't want to let me come see you, but I ditched my clothes downstairs and came up anyway. So, did you see Dad's arm?”

She nods, and it hurts her to move. “His left arm was a mess, but the doctor says it looks worse than it is.” Her eyes fill with tears. “But what I'm most worried about is you. Bobby, we didn't mean to leave you alone. I mean, we did, but it wasn't like we were ignoring you or forgetting about you.”

I squeeze her hand. “I know, Mom, I know.”

Her eyes keep trying to see me. “This…this happening to you, Bobby, it was a shock for us just like it was for—”

No warning. The door swings wide and three people walk in, led by a short woman in a white coat who's finishing a sentence. “…that's the greatest concern at this point. Mrs. Phillips—good! I'm glad you're keeping yourself awake.” All bright and cheery.

I drop to my knees and scoot under the high bed. From what I can see, it's two women and a man. I know the talker's voice. It's the lady who called me at home, Dr. Fleming.

Mom says, “Has there been any word about my husband?” I can hear the strain in Mom's voice. She's worried these people are going to bump into me.

The lady doctor has a kind voice. “I knew you'd want to know about Mr. Phillips, so I had one of my interns call downstairs and check. Dr. Porter?”

The man is standing near the foot of the bed. He's wearing brown shoes. It would be so easy to tie those laces together.

He shifts his weight and clears his throat. “Ahem, well, the operating room nurse said that the surgeon was very happy with the way things went. Apparently the force of the impact from the left caused a compound fracture, which means that the bone fragments—”

“Yes, that's fine, Dr. Porter.” Dr. Fleming cuts him off. “All we need to know is that things went very well, and that her husband is going to be right as rain before we know it. I think you can rest now, Mrs. Phillips. If your head starts hurting again, ring the nurse and someone will come right away. In the morning we'll take another look at your nose. Now, don't worry about a thing. There's nothing to be afraid of. Is there anything else we can get for you?”

A pause, then Mom says, “What we talked about earlier, about my son, Bobby? Well, I've heard from him, and his aunt Ethel is going to be able to take care of him until I can go home.”

“You've heard from him?” Dr. Fleming is annoyed. “I told everyone that you were not to be disturbed. Who brought you the message?”

Mom pauses again, but I'm probably the only one who notices it. “No one brought a message. He called me himself—my cell phone is there in my purse.”

“Ahh yes.” Now the doctor's voice is smiling. “The cell phone. It's impossible to be out of touch these days, isn't it? Well, I'm glad that's settled. Your son was a little shook up when I called with the news, but he snapped right out of it. Sounded like a great kid.”

“He's a wonderful boy. And thank you for calling him.”

“You're very welcome. You've got enough to think about without worrying about your son. Now, you get a good rest, Mrs. Phillips, and I'll see you tomorrow.”

Like a drill team, three pairs of feet turn and march out the door.

I'm glad to stand up, because the way I had scrunched up my legs under there was starting to make my toe hurt. I say, “Very smooth, Mom. About Aunt Ethel.”

Mom grins, and then grimaces from the pain. “It seemed like an easy way to get that issue settled. And I really do have my cell phone, so there's no excuse for you not keeping in touch with me.” All the time, her eyes are searching the air for me. Her eyes get watery again and she says, “I can't get used to this. I hate not seeing your face.” I haven't seen Mom all soft and weepy like this since my first trumpet recital back in Texas. She loves music. We both do. Dad listens and enjoys the sound waves, but Mom really hears the music.

She waves her hand around, a motion that includes the room, the hospital, the whole day. “It's like a bad dream, all of this.”

I nod in agreement, even though she can't see me. “Tell me about it. Do you know where Dad is? I should go see him too.”

Mom shakes her head. “He's in no shape for company, Bobby, probably won't even be really awake until tomorrow sometime.”

Then it's like somebody flipped a switch and the old Mom is back, giving orders.

“Hand me my purse.”

She opens it and digs out her billfold. She finds three twenty-dollar bills and holds them up for me. “This is all I have with me, but it should be enough until I get home—I don't think they'll keep me here long. Also, there's plenty of food in the pantry because we just got a delivery on Saturday.”

Saturday. Three days ago. A million years ago.

“There should be a line of cabs down in the circle by the front entrance. Choose the nicest taxi, Bobby, one of those big ones. And go right home, and be sure to set the alarm the minute you're there, all right?”

While she talks, I'm rolling the bills into a tight cylinder, and Mom's watching me. I close my hand around the cash, and it disappears, ready to be carried away. I open my fingers, and the money roll reappears.