Somebody Up There Hates You (16 page)

He holds up a hand. “Nevertheless. It's my personal mantra. And there is now, I've been told, a formal agreement between the Hatfields and the McCoys. A line you cannot cross. And that is what I'm going to do, honor the line in the sand. Do not mess with me, young Richard. I can't help you.”

I wish I could stare him down, but I can't. And to tell the truth, I understand. I can't get these good people in trouble anymore. Whatever I think of to do, I have to do myself. I am, after all, a big boy. Damn near adult. So I just nod. “Okay, got it. But, really, I don't want a shower, either. My skin feels like it will peel right off if water hits it.”

He shakes his head. “Fine. Let's just sit here for a while, so they'll think I'm doing my job. Okay?”

“Okay.” And that's what we do. It's warm and sort of steamy in there, and Edward scoots the shower stool over to the wall and leans back, closing his eyes. I hunker in my chair, trying to think. But instead, I keep falling asleep, my head flopping to my chest.

***

Rest of the day, I just laze in bed. By late afternoon, even Mom seems to have had enough of sitting next to me; she gets twitchy and restless. She goes for a lot of walks, staying, I'm sure, on the Casey side of the hall. Sometime right around dusk, when she's out there pacing, the phone rings. I pick it up, and have to remember to switch it to my right ear, which feels unnatural. “Richard here,” I say and then I smile: it's Phil.

He says, “So, my liege lord, should I kill the fucker for you? Because I can. Because I most certainly will, with my bare hands. Any son of a bitch who would beat on a sick kid—”

I laugh. “Nah. Let him live. He's got enough troubles. I'm a magnanimous despot—I can show mercy.”

“Shit. I was looking forward to it. But your wish is my command.” He sighs, then his voice brightens up. “Hey, man, look out your window in about three minutes, okay? Hold on.” He goes away, then comes back. “Your grandma wants to say hello.”

Grandma says, “Sweetie, I want you to know that I did it.”

“Did what?” My head is pretty damn swimmy, and I really don't know what she's talking about.

She sounds sort of taken aback that I don't get it, but once she launches into her explanation, I can tell she's excited, her voice rising. “Your father, Richard. I found a lawyer who says it will be a cinch to find the guy and get in touch. And put the screws to his miserable ass. The lawyer says that we might not even need a court case—that the idea that we might sue him for paternity of a boy conceived by one of his students, with him such a hot shot in the school system now, why, that might just be enough for a honking big out-of-court settlement. For your mom, Richard. For, you know . . . later.” On that word, her voice stops short.

I think about it. “So it's like blackmail, right?”

She huffs. “No, no. It's perfectly legal, according to this guy I found. And Phil's in on it, too.”

“Great. That's a comfort. Phil will probably just show up at the guy's house and steal the silverware before beating the guy to a pulp.”

“No, no. We'll do it right, Richard. Wait a minute . . .”

Phil comes back on. “I swear, my liege. For you, for Sisco, we'll do this all legal. No funny stuff. Totally legit.”

I think again. “Even so. She'll be really, really, really pissed at you. And at Grandma. You realize that.”

There's a couple of snorts and then both of them say, “She already is.” And then they both laugh, kind of sad-laugh, really. Then Phil goes, “She won't speak to us. Won't let us in to see you. Won't take messages. So, really, what the hell.”

I lean back in the bed, contemplating Mom's future— “later.” If they can pull this off, she'll have some funds. And maybe a nice guy like Glen the Cop will hang around. It's easy to see he'd like to. That's good, that's all good. Or it might be, if I had one drop of faith that any of it would actually work out. But what's the freaking difference, anyway? Faith or no faith, things are always going to happen to everybody we love, “later.” Not a damn thing we can do about it. All we can do is try to nudge things in the right direction, I figure, while we still have time to nudge. Like I got any choice: I realize, a little late, that once I started this ball rolling—talking to Grandma like I did, bringing up the question of who fathered my sorry ass—that there's not a chance in hell that she and Phil wouldn't run with it. Not a chance. Once again, maybe I didn't quite think this through, didn't quite consider consequences. What a crapshoot everything is. All you can do is roll the dice, right? “Sure,” I say. “Go for it.”

“All right! Now, go on, look out the window. But don't hang up. We got liftoff. Look!”

So I sit in bed, hanging on to the phone and looking out into the darkening sky. In a few seconds, this huge round helium balloon comes up, hanging in front of the window for about three seconds before it blows away. But that's long enough for me to see it: a huge silvery circle with
H
APPY BIRTHDAY!
in big swirly red letters on it. “Cool,” I say into the phone. “Very cool. Thanks, you guys.” I don't want to hear what they say about it being a little bit early, and I sure don't want to say good-bye, so I just go, “Oops, gotta go. Docs are here,” and I hang up. And I watch as the tail of the balloon, a long long strand of silver ribbon, follows it up and up and up. Up, up and away.

17

A
FTER ALL OF THAT,
I'm exhausted. But restless, too. All antsy. Thinking about rolling the dice, nudging fate—that just makes me madder and madder that I can't get to Sylvie. And being mad gives me some energy, so I struggle myself into the wheelchair and I roll just into the doorway and sit there. I keep thinking there will be a few seconds when I can do it. I can roll over there quiet and fast. Supper trays are coming, and it's a busy time. Everyone's got to be distracted for a few seconds sometime. I just have to be patient and watchful. I'll get my chance.

I can't see into Sylvie's room from my doorway. I can only see the rooms straight across the hall: the woman in the coma and the former two old guys, now one old guy. It's so stupid; I mean, it's all of about ten feet wide, that hallway, but it's like the Rubicon or the Red Sea or something. Or what's the one that runs by hell—the Styx? I feel like if I even attempt a crossing, alarm bells will go off.

But if I roll just a little ways, up to the nurses' station, I might be able to lean over—from my side, of course—and at least get a peek. So I start off on that little jaunt, very careful to stay on my designated side. And right away, I can feel how much I'm slipping. I can barely roll the chair, my arms are so weak. And whenever I lean forward, my chest hurts, right where Sylvie's dad fired that invisible bullet. I have to squint to even see my feet, my eyes are so dim. And when I do sort of get the feet in focus, they're weirdly swollen and puffy inside the clean white socks my mom makes me wear. They're, like, all sausage-like down there. I understand—I've been around hospitals too long not to: add swollen feet to the fact that I hardly ever have to pee anymore and you get what they like to call renal insufficiency. Even we peasants understand that equation: fat feet = kidney failure. And when you get kidney failure—well, let's just say you haven't got a whole lot of time to be a hero. And the whole time you're trying, your mind fogs in and out, too, what with the poisons mounting up in your blood. But, what the hell, not so much worse than moats and boiling oil, right? Nobody said being the prince was easy. I just keep wheeling, slow as molasses. Not sure I'm even moving forward, to tell the truth.

But I guess I am because I'm close enough to the nurses' station to see what happens next: my mom and Sylvie's mom converge. They're both going to ask the nurses for something—the families are always up there, asking for another blanket, a pitcher of ice water, pain meds, whatever. What I see is all a little blurry and tinged with green but clear enough. The two moms are standing on their sides of the big square where the nurses gather—each mother on her side of the hall. But then, like some sort of magnetic force or something gets turned on, they keep going toward each other. Like, some kind of planetary pull. Gravity times ten. My mom and Sylvie's mom, they forget about whatever they needed and they look at each other, you can see the moment when their eyes, like, lock.

It's like watching a ballet. They're like twin dancers, those moms. Mine is tall and blonde; Sylvie's is short and dark. But that doesn't matter at all. They each move around the nurses' station, coming up to the far end of the square. Then each one takes three steps forward and they meet in the middle—I'm sure it's the exact middle—of the hallway. Where the line is, the dividing line. For a second, each mom stays on her side. And it's like everything on the whole floor freezes. Aides stop carrying trays, nurses look up from their report-writing and their hands go still. Visitors are glued to their spots, Br'ers stop scurrying. Everyone watches. There is not a sound, except some quiet harp notes drifting in from the lobby.

Then my mom and Sylvie's mom reach out their arms and take one more step. And they fall into each other, wrapping each other up in the tightest embrace you ever saw, ever. And there is a sound like you never want to hear, ever in your life. Those two moms just start to wail. It splits the air in our hallway, that noise. It rends our air. It is unbearable. And it just won't stop. It's so awful that you'd think that even Somebody Up There would cover his ears in shame.

In the midst of the paralysis that noise creates, I make my break. Not, it turns out, to Sylvie's room, like I planned. I'm not thinking; I'm fleeing.

I don't know how it happens, but I'm in the lobby. The harpy has dropped her hands from her harp, hearing that wail. She's half-standing, her hand over her mouth. When she sees me, she straightens out. Straightens up. She takes command. “Richard,” she says. “Let's get you out of here.”

The elevator is empty, and we go down fast. I don't think she's talking, but I'm not sure I could hear her even if she was. On the first floor, she pushes me so quickly that we're at the edge of the ER before she stops. We're facing the little ER waiting room, and in there are a whole bunch of people making the same sort of noise that my mom and Sylvie's mom made. A whole bunch of people hanging on to one another and just howling. The harpy takes a quick left turn, heading in another direction. I can tell that she's not making choices here; she's just heading in any direction that's
away
, away from these places of hideous noise.

I hold up a hand. “Please,” I say. “Take me outside, okay? I want to be outside.”

She wheels around and pushes my chair out the sliding glass doors, and once they shut behind me, the noise stops. It's cold out and the air hurts my nose, my throat and my chest at first. But I just keep gulping it down—cold, fresh, painful,
outdoor
air. And it feels good on my skin that's always so stretched and dry now. The harpy takes my chair across the parking lot to a little verge of frozen grass that sits uphill of the hospital. She sets the brake, turning the chair so I can look way off, down the hill, toward the river. She takes off the white shawl-thing she's been wearing and wraps it around my shoulders. She says, bending to speak directly into my good ear, “Take all the time you need, Richard. I'll wait.” Then she backs away and I'm all alone.

That's what strikes me as so strange: How long since I've been left alone? No one hovering, no one jumping up into my face? A while, that's for sure. I pull the shawl around me and let the wind fill my ears. It covers up the buzzing. I look down the hill at the city of Hudson—a bunch of lights strung in a loose rope down to the river. There's a train leaving the station down there, heading south to the city. It sounds its horn, long and deep. I close my eyes and think about all of those people on that train, off to the city. Maybe they're planning some Christmas shopping—my mom took me once when I was little, and I can still see those decorated windows, with all kinds of moving toys inside them. Me and Mom, we stopped in front of every one and stood there for a long, long time. My favorite window was full of silvery robots, all marching around, filling stockings. A robot Santa sat in a metal chair, constantly sipping from a metal flask. In another one, there wasn't a whole lot of order that I recall; it was just a big heap of crumpled-up wrapping paper and torn-open boxes, each one with a new toy sticking out of the top. A little kid's vision of heaven. But maybe the train passengers are just going to visit someone. Maybe they're going to work. Doesn't matter. It makes me feel happy, thinking of them—just plain old people, living plain old lives. And just beyond the train tracks, the river, doing its own thing, like it's been doing forever. Fish swimming around in the cold water, doing whatever fish do when winter's on its way. That's nice, too.

I lean my head back and open my eyes. I'm looking at the sky, hoping for stars. But it's a heavy-cloud kind of night, I guess, because there's not a one. Sky's black as can be. Even so, if you look up long enough, stars or not, it always feels like you're falling into the sky, right? You know, it's like antigravity or something? I keep my face pointed up, waiting for that to happen, and I feel something cool and wet touch my cheek. I hope I'm not crying. I mean, I don't feel like I am, but maybe I can't even tell anymore. Maybe I'm always crying. But then there's another cold wet kiss, then another. Then a whole swirl of them, and I get it. It's snowing. First snow of the year. I open my eyes as wide as I can, and I open my mouth, too. The little flakes fall faster and faster and, looking up, it's amazing. They're coming toward me, I get that, they're falling. But it feels like I'm lifting, going up toward them. Like I'm the one moving. I hold my arms out in front of me and it's just like flying.

***

I don't know how she knows, but just about when I'm so tired and so cold that I come crashing back to earth, the harpy comes back. She grabs on to the handles of my chair and takes me back inside. In the elevator, she brushes the snow off my shoulders and the top of my head. She takes back her shawl and shakes it. The pile of snow that lands on the elevator floor lasts only for a second.

In the lobby, the first thing I see is my mom and Sylvie's mom, sitting on the couch, holding hands. They're leaning together, with heads on each other's shoulders, and they're both sound asleep.

In the hallway, the harpy disobeys the agreement. It occurs to me that this is a woman with no patience for rules, and that's cool with me. She just pushes my chair right into Sylvie's room. There's no one in there—no guardians, anyway. What there is is the silent girl on the bed covered with a patchwork quilt.

The harpy rolls me over to the bed and she says, “Take your time, Richard. If her father shows up, I'll take care of it. I will not allow that son-of-a-bitch to bother you.” She goes into the doorway, and I see that she's standing there with her arms folded on her chest. Like a sentry. I'm getting to like this woman.

I stay there for a long time and I try to say everything I need to. That's a lot, but I think I get most of it in. It takes a while.

But you don't need to hear it all, and I don't want to go into how I call to Sylvie. How I talk to her and tell her I love her and all of that. Tell her it's snowing outside. Tell her about the train and the people going to the city, describe the store windows, all lit up for Christmas. Tell her what it feels like to fly. It's too, I don't know, personal. And way too damn big for any words I can come up with.

I roll over and kiss her cheek.

It would be nice to say that she woke up, that she opened her eyes and said, “Hey, Rich-Man.” That my princely kiss brought her back to life.

But I'm not going to start lying, not now.

She didn't move and she didn't speak. That's the truth.

But, like Edward said, there's something happening in that room. Like there's a force field around her. Something pulsing and beating, and I know she's in there. Still there. Like she's just biding her time in there. Like she's waiting to rip the spell she's under to shreds. Like she's waiting to be born. And when she is, she's coming out all elbows and knees, kicking and screaming at anybody— anybody—that gets in her way.

When the harpy comes to roll me out of the room, we stop for a second in front of Phil's picture, the one he drew of the grown-up Sylvie, lying on a bed with her baby. The harpy reads the words I couldn't see and Sylvie never showed me. She points to the baby's tiny shirt and says, “Little Richard.”

And who am I to say that's impossible?

***

I think I see light in the sky outside my window, but it doesn't do much to wake me up. All day I kind of slide between dreams and whatever real life is—I mean, there's not a whole lot of difference. Either way, there's lots of swirling green light and lots of pure black darkness creeping in from the edges of my vision, like curtains being pulled in. I hear someone say “pneumonia” and I feel my face being wiped with cool cloths. My head gets lifted up and someone drips water into my mouth.

I turn my head away because I've just started this cool dream and I want to stay there, inside it. It's me and Sylvie waiting in line in some big shopping mall, waiting to see Santa. There are big red and green balls hanging down and fake snow piled around our feet. There are a million little kids running around, shouting and laughing. Sylvie and I, we're not little kids, though. We're ourselves, teenagers. Sylvie's hair has grown back—it's not long, but it's gorgeous, all these little dark curls around her face. She's smiling and we're holding hands. We kiss each other every three seconds or so. Long, sweet, laughing kinds of kisses. She tastes like Cherry Coke. I am so into her that I'm not noticing how the line's moving, but all of a sudden, we're there, at the foot of this huge red chair, and Santa is pointing at us. And Santa is that robot one from the store window. He's all metallic and he's got this big steel smile on his face. He goes, “Ho, ho, ho,” but to me, his voice is like Darth Vader's—it comes out of that steel-mesh smile and gives me the absolute creeps. I pull on Sylvie's hand and say, “Let's get out of here.” But not her—oh, no, she's not scared. I watch as she climbs up on the robot Santa's knee. She sits there, all flirty and pretty, waving at me. She smiles at me and some kind of little robot elf takes her picture—a big flashbulb goes off in my face, and for a minute I can't see anything. But I can hear. Santa-Robot's loud, fake-cheery voice asks Sylvie what she wants for Christmas. I hear her say, “I want to be there, big guy. I want to
be
for Christmas.” I can't keep hold of her voice, though. Or her face or anything. The dream floats off and I keep getting pulled back into this hot, dry room.

Faces keep floating into my vision, too: Jeannette, Edward, Kelly-Marie, Br'er Bertrand, Mrs. Jacobs. It must be pretty crowded in here. But it's impossible to tell if they're really there or not. All the faces flit around, coming and going like wobbly balloons. Except for Mom; her face is always there and is always real, even when I'm asleep. Someone keeps saying, “Please, Richard. Try. Try.” I want to say,
I'm sorry, but I want you to shut up now. I've tried and tried, and I'm done, okay? So I'm not a hero. Sue me.