“Sorry. Go.”
At the nurse’s station, three women in matching light blue scrubs are hunkered over their charts and try to ignore him.
“I need to know what’s happening with my son. Dylan. Dylan Byron Mellis. He was hit by a car and no one is telling us anything,” he says.
None of the nurses move, each hoping someone else will deal with Flip. Eventually the nurse farthest from him sets her chart down and comes around the counter.
She is low and plump, with black hair, skin like a caramel apple, and Polynesian features. Her nametag reads Fulala Palaylay. She claps her hands together in front of her mouth, like she’s about to pray for him.
“Mr.?” He expects an accent, but she sounds like your average Midwesterner.
“Mellis,” he answers. He’s afraid to say more. Afraid to ask questions, scared they will be answered.
“Mr. Mellis. I was with your son when he first arrived. There was a lot of blood, and I know that can be scary. Your son—”
“Please,” Flip says. “His name is Dylan. Is Dylan okay?”
“Dylan. He is stable and safe for now. He has both a broken arm and a broken leg. He also had a laceration on his scalp. Not too serious. That’s where the blood was from. A scalp lac can really bleed, but he didn’t lose a lot of blood. That isn’t the concern. They were able to set his bones and stitch him up. All very routine. But the bruising on his face and head, that has the doctor worried. Your son, Dylan, passed out before we started working on him.”
“But, he’s stable and safe.”
“Yes, for now, as I said. The doctor ordered a head CT. The reason the doctor hasn’t been in to see you is he’s waiting for the results. He’s very busy and wants to wait until he can give you more information.”
“What does that mean? Exactly what? Be as honest as you can, please. I need to know, need to tell my family something. We need to be prepared. Need to do something to help Dylan. How can I help? Can I give blood? I could give blood. If it would help. We’re the same type, Dylan and me.” Flip looks behind him. Lynn is still there, her expression is expectant and her big eyes ask a question. He gives her a nod, by which he means she should wait a minute longer.
“No. No need for blood. As I said, he didn’t lose much blood,” Fulala says. “It’s pretty likely he has a concussion, but his pupils are even and regular. He hasn’t had a seizure-like event, and his reflexes seem normal, he hasn’t vomited. Those are all indications that the head trauma isn’t too severe. He’s been unconscious for almost half an hour.”
“Why? Why is that significant? I don’t understand the significance.”
“It’s a concern.” She chooses her words deliberately, her round face drawing him in, willing him to be calm. “Because the length of the unconscious period can be an indication of severity of brain bleeding. Also, the doctor is going to check the CT to see if his cheekbone is broken.” She uses two fingers on her own cheek to indicate the area of concern. “With the swelling and bruising, it’s hard to tell.”
“Then again, he’s just a little guy. Maybe he’s just emotionally exhausted. He had quite a fright,” Flip says hopefully.
“Absolutely. That’s true. That’s why the doctor is waiting for the test results. So he can really let you know where things stand. You’ll be able to go and see him soon. I’ll be in when he’s admitted to his room. As soon as he’s admitted, I’ll let you know.” After a pause, she adds, “I will.”
“So he’s going to stay?” Flip asks.
“Yes. The doctor wants to keep an eye on him overnight.”
“Okay,” he says. He wants to attempt the nurse’s name, but is afraid to mispronounce it. He says, “Okay,” again and holds her comforting, pudgy hand. “He’s my son and I need to be with him if he’s hurt. He’s my boy, my only son. You understand me? I need to be with him this minute. Let me know the second I can go up. Okay? Please. It’s important. He will be scared.”
She gives a weak smile, pulls away, and goes back to her charting.
After relating what he learned to Lynn, they mutually relay the information to Sara and Coleen.
“Well, I’m going to stay the night,” Coleen says right away.
“I’m staying too,” Lynn says.
“That’s right,” Coleen says. “He will want his mommy when he wakes up.”
Flip wishes he had choked his mother-in-law earlier. But he says, “I want to stay too.”
“Flip,” Lynn says, taking Flip by the hand and looking into his eyes, very serious. “Would you be willing to go and pack a bag for me and Mom? Then, take Sara home. Stay with her at the house tonight. She doesn’t need to miss any more school.”
“Who gives a shit about school?” Sara protests.
Her parents ignore her reflexively. “I can do that,” he says to Lynn. He wants to protest. He wants to be there with Dylan. But Coleen is right, he will want his mother most of all.
He drives to the Lakeside and parks. Inside he sees he left his gun lying out, as well as the wad of crumpled money that Vanessa reluctantly forked over. He stuffs it all in the carton he bought from Dottie at the X Press Laundromat. Then he takes the overflowing carton of clothes and carries it to his trunk.
Before he leaves, he gathers his toiletries and takes one last look to make sure he has everything. The bottle with its two remaining pills is still on the counter. A personal inventory tells him his back is feeling okay. He pockets the pills and leaves the bottle where he found it.
He knows he hasn’t been invited back into his home. Lynn made it clear that Dylan’s injuries didn’t solve any of their problems, and he knows that’s true. But, he needs to have clothes and he needs a shave. So, why not grab everything. Just in case.
The light on the phone is flashing; he punches in the code and listens to his messages.
“Hello, Mr. Mellis,” Dr. Hawkins’ voice says. “I had hoped to hear from you by now. I understand you’re preoccupied with the changes in your life, but I’d like to hear how your job interview went. Don’t forget our appointment tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you. And remember to call if you need to.” There’s a clicking, some static, another hard click.
“Oh, hi, Flip,” a woman’s voice says. “This is Kristin again. Sorry we couldn’t get together. Curious about the job interview. Call me anytime.”
He locks the door to Number Three, and pitches a last armful of belongings into the back seat. He looks around for something to write on. He wants to leave Dean a note, tell him what’s happened. When he can’t find a pen, he gets impatient. He backs his car in an arc and speeds all the way home.
Kev is in his driveway catching some rays in a pool chair when Flip drives past. Flip throws his arm out the window in greeting, but Kev’s eyes are closed and he has earbuds in. Flip pushes the button on the garage door opener he keeps clipped to the car’s sun visor and pulls into the spot where Lynn normally parks her minivan. His mother-in-law’s Ford Escort is parked in his space.
Next to the door into the house, Flip finds Dyl’s new bike dumped on its side. He wonders about the logistics of its arrival at that spot. He imagines Lynn must have dragged it in, or she had asked Sara to do it.
He sees the front wheel is twisted off-center and the paint has a few fresh scratches, but it isn’t too mangled. He takes that as good news. He holds the front wheel of the bike between his knees and twists the bars until they line up. He puts the kickstand down and parks it in its place next to Dylan’s other, nearly new bike of the exact same frame size. Flip notices his missing paint pot on the shelf next to the bikes. Goddamn it.
The house looks clean and organized, except for a couple of half-full coffee mugs and breakfast plates left scattered around. He goes straight to the addition to grab Lynn some clothes, but the closet is full of Coleen’s things. He finds a duffle bag and packs a few outfits, a robe, slippers, and some pajamas. Also, he grabs a toothbrush and other necessities from the attached bathroom. He drops the duffle bag in the
kitchen and heads upstairs.
In their old bedroom, Flip finds Lynn has moved back in and redecorated. It’s tasteful but definitely feminine. He thinks about his mother-in-law’s insistence that Lynn had moved on with her life. He tries to picture a man in this bed with Lynn. But, it just doesn’t work. It looks like the bed of a woman who has no desire to share it with a man. If there is such a thing.
In the top of the closet he finds Lynn’s favorite suitcase and packs her clothes. He wants to linger over the chore, try to hold the moment; it could be the last time he’s allowed into Lynn’s life like this.
He’s devastated by a feeling of loss, has to keep telling himself Dyl is fine, just to be able to keep that avalanche of misery from crushing him, twisting his insides and suffocating him. The knowledge that he let his whole life slip away: Lynn, his children, his home, his career, everything he’d spent the last twenty years building, just let it go while he tried to mend his own fragile ego—it’s too much. But his family needs him, for now, so he keeps moving.
The Walther in his car is whispering to him. Tomorrow he will meet with Dr. Hawkins. He will live up to his promise to give it a week. Then he will be free to do whatever he thinks is best.
First things first.
He knows Lynn must have rushed around like this, scared for her family, for her future, even for him, as she collected his clothes to take to the ER, a few short days ago, the day he tried to hang himself.
He walks into the bathroom and grabs Lynn’s makeup bag, toothbrush, and her best hairbrush. All of his clothes are missing from the closet. Ignore it. He finds a few outfits for Lynn and some sweats and a T-shirt to sleep in. He finds her a change of underwear and grabs some fluffy socks she likes to sleep in.
He takes the bag down the hall to Dylan’s room. Though no one asked him to get Dyl a change of clothes, he wants to do what he can to make the poor little guy feel more comfortable, safe, and loved. There’s a new, non-Thomas-the-Tank-Engine spread on his bed. He finds Dylan a pair of his favorite pajamas, some little socks, and some Ben 10 underwear. On the way out of the bedroom he grabs Dylan’s echidna stuffed animal, Pokey, he sleeps with every night.
One long weekend while Lynn and Sara were travelling to a wedding, Flip had taken Dyl on a train ride down to St. Louis. They had spent the day at the zoo and Flip had bought Dyl the echidna in the gift shop. Dyl had used it as a pillow on the train ride home, and slept with it every night since.
He puts it in the same bag with Lynn’s clothes and jogs down the stairs, picks up the duffle bag for Coleen, and goes out the way he came in.
His mother-in-law is the only one in the waiting room when he walks in with the bags.
“Where is everyone? Did you hear anything?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“The doctor came in just after you left. Lynn tried calling your cell phone and left a message at the house. You should keep your phone with you when there’s an emergency,” she says.
“And you should make sure a child wears a helmet,” he snaps back. “You shouldn’t volunteer to watch my son and then not keep him safe,” he says more loudly. “And if you are going to buy him a bike he doesn’t even need, you should fucking make sure he knows how to ride it before you let him rip off down the street,” he yells.
He doesn’t know what to expect in response, because he has never spoken to Coleen that way. When she starts to cry, he finds it completely unrewarding. Her face is hideous when she sobs, and he desperately wants her to stop.
“Stop,” he says. He doesn’t know where Lynn and Sara are, but if they walk in with him standing over Coleen bawling her beady pink eyes out, it could put a dent in any possible reconciliation.
He sits next to his mother-in-law, sets his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. He remembers he promised Lynn he’d tell Coleen something.
“Coleen,” he says. “I promised Lynn I would tell you something.” Her tears slow and she catches her shuddering breath so she can listen. “I promised I would say,” he stalls for time, trying to remember what the hell he was supposed to say. She turns her face to him. Her mascara has smudged and run, tracing paths through her crinkled, pale skin, staining all the deep creases. He tries hard not to make a face at her, but she looks like a raccoon with the mange. Then he remembers.
“Hell, Coleen. I’m just upset. Things have been hard. I’m stressed, to put it mildly, about all this. Truth is, Dylan gives me the slip about every other time I take him anywhere. It’s what he does, it’s what little boys do, and it could have happened to anyone.”
“You mean it?” she asks. She sounds almost civil.
“I do mean it,” he says.
She digs more Kleenex from her handbag and honks her nose. She takes out a small mirror and fixes her face, applies powder and lipstick. The process takes a long while. When she’s satisfied, she turns to Flip and says, “Thank you, Flip.” She’s completely composed, but her voice is not as cold as usual.
“Coleen, can you tell me what the doctor said? Please?”
She nods crisply. “He said the CT showed no broken bones in his face or skull, there’s moderate swelling, but it’s consistent with a lot of sports-related concussions he sees in children. He’s a little concerned that Dyl wants to sleep so much. But thinks things should be fine. He said some other things too. But I couldn’t understand. He had a funny little voice.” Then she adds, “Foreigner,” in a whisper.
“That’s a relief,” he says, ignoring the soft racism common in her generation. He realizes his hands are stacked with Coleen’s. “Where are Lynn and Sara?”
“They went down to the cafeteria to grab a sandwich. When they come back, we can head to the third floor and see Dylan.”
“Okay,” he says. They sit for several long minutes. Then he says, “Looks like you’ve moved into the addition.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s really why we built it in the first place. So you could stay with us, once you needed a little more help.”
“I don’t need help,” she says fiercely, drawing her hands away.
“I know. But my family does, your family. It’s nice of you to help out.”
She turns her face to him to see if he means it. When it appears that he does, she says, “Thanks, Flip.”
They sit in a comfortable silence for nearly a quarter of an hour. But something starts to bother Flip. He tries to let it go, but he is incapable.
“Coleen. Why would you tell me Lynn was out on a date? Why would you tell me she had moved on? Huh? Why? Why try to put that idea in my head when you know it isn’t the truth?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says curtly.
“You remember saying those things to me? On the phone?”
“I may have said something.”
“Listen. Don’t deny it. There’s no one here but me. Just tell me the truth, for once in your life, just be honest about what you’re up to.” He gets to his feet.
“I admit I may have colored the situation a bit,” she admits.
“That’s it? That’s all I get? You lied and made me miserable and nuts and you can’t even do the decent thing and explain yourself? That is rich. What a crock of shit. I can’t believe I just welcomed you into our home and thanked you and . . .” He’s pacing in full rant. “I tried to make you feel better about nearly killing my son.”
“Okay,” she says.
“What?” he replies, confused by her acquiescence.
“Okay, Flip. Sit down and I will try to explain.” She touches her hand to the chair he exited. He takes his seat.
“It seems clear to me, you and Lynn make one another unhappy. Divorce is hard, hard for everyone. But hard on the kids most of all. I know. I went through it, put my children through it. And if I learned one thing about divorce, it’s better not to drag it out. So, I was trying to speed things along a bit. I admit it was wrong. I was trying to help, in my way. I hope you see that.”
Flip has severe
issues with her meddling. But he believes her, so he nods. Before he can form a more coherent response, Lynn and Sara come in. Flip stands and claps his hands together.
“Let’s go see my boy,” he says. They gather their things and move together toward the elevators.
Dylan looks so tiny, tucked into an adult-sized bed. The crisp white sheets and the bright, harsh fluorescents make his blue, swollen face look shockingly painful. Lynn begins to weep quietly the moment she sees him. She goes to the foot of his bed and holds onto his foot through his blankets, afraid to get any closer to her slumbering son. She absently lets her other hand drop onto the hard cast on his other leg. With no prompting, Flip finds a box of tissues and passes it over to Lynn.
Sara stands back, staying close to the door, unwilling to confront directly the reality of her little brother’s injuries. She regrets being so thoughtlessly hateful toward him over the past several weeks. He’s a good kid, not a malicious bone in his frail little body.
Flip and Coleen each move to opposite sides of the bed and touch Dyl’s hair. Flip is on Dylan’s left, the side with the arm in a cast. He carefully holds the tips of Dylan’s fingers where they poke out.
“Hey, buddy,” Flip says quietly. “You got pretty banged up. Gave us a good scare.”
“I tried to yell,” Coleen says. “I tried to warn you to look out for the car, Dylan. I really did.”
“He knows that,” Lynn says.
They spend several hours watching his breathing, talking to him quietly, and telling stories. Lynn tells about how difficult her labor was with him, recalls every detail. Sara talks about how silly he is, about how she found him in her room dressed only in layers of her underwear and bras. He had them on his head and face, his arms and legs, like so many brightly colored pelts. She takes a phone from her pocket and passes it around so everyone can see the digital evidence. On the phone’s screen Dyl looks like a medieval jester, proud of his ridiculous appearance, and happy for the attention his big sister is paying him. Coleen shares how much Dylan likes her cooking, about how he ate a bowl of pie filling before it made it into the crust.
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