My face is hot, my underarms sticky with a swirl of heat, so my face must be red by now. The drawing doesn’t stop there. There are shadows behind it, which aren’t from the car or anything else.
Please let this be normal.
On the other side of the page is the same pair of kidneys, but this time they don’t have black crosses littered over them. They’re a browny-red color and spooning over a type of bed or mattress. The vein that links them is just red, not bloody, and the caption under says: “We’re too lazy to work properly!”
Even in my head I don’t cuss, but I swerve onto the shoulder of the road and have pulled to a stop in seconds. “What the hell were you thinking, Darcy!?”
Head hanging to his chest, he mumbles, “I thought—”
“You thought you could make fun of our dying father?”
He shakes his head quickly, still not meeting my glare.
“Are you proud of this? Is that it?”
“I-I was going to show Daddy when we—”
“Hold up.” I press the drawing into a cup holder and hold out my hands, wondering why my fingers hurt when I flex them. Then I shake my head and tell myself to think, think, think. “You were going to show our father this drawing making fun of him dying and making fun of his kidneys not working?”
“Well my friends thought it was funny.”
“Your friends aren’t in our situation, Darcy! How could you be so hurtful? Darcy…” His face is pale and full of fear. “I know you have no idea how serious this is but Dad’s very, very sick. So sick he might be in hospital for a long time. And we don’t know when he’ll get better. Making fun of the accident is never acceptable. I need to you apologize to me, to Dad, and promise you’ll never do something like this again.”
“I swear it, Charlee. I’m so, so sorry. I swear it. I’m sorry…” He continues like this alternating between sorrys and promises.
Guilt wracks me and I feel like a cranky, annoying mother. Exactly what I’ve never wanted to be to him. What I’ve been conscious my whole life not to do. To be his equal, not his dominator. I’m still trying to be his sister. I don’t want to be his mom. Gosh, I can’t handle this! How am I meant to be responsible enough for the rest of his life, let alone my own? I can’t do it.
“Oh, Darce. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have been that mean. Come here.”
I pull him into a hug and he heaves continually into my chest, gasping for air and sniffling.
When he calms, he says, “I didn’t know Dad would be in hospital for very long. I thought…”
“Oh,” I say, sighing. I should tell him Dad won’t make it, but I can’t say he’ll die. As his sister I can’t hurt him like that. I don’t know what our mom would do because she’s gone, too, so I sit like this, with my hands fidgeting in my lap and wondering how I could go from “fixing” Elliot’s phone and smiling at his lips on my cheek to this—feeling like I’m drowning in all this.
“I thought he was going to die,” Darcy says. My head pops up and I look at him as he explains, “Dad told me his kidneys were too lazy to work and that it probably meant he would have to fight death. I didn’t know what he meant so I drew it for my friends.”
Speechless, I start the car again and drive home. I can’t go to the hospital like this. Skipping one day can’t hurt. Elliot and I exchanged numbers, conversation and even a kiss today but Dex is back in my thoughts. What matters is that he’s willing to fight despite his chances, rather than sooking.
One boy, ten; one guy, twenty-one. Both are accepting the fact my dad will die. This is so wrong. My dad can’t die. He can’t die until I’m ready for him to die and those plans extend at least another quarter century.
When my cell rings through the Bluetooth in the car, I know it can’t be Elliot, no matter how excited he might be about speaking to me. This feels too much like bad news to be Elliot.
I’m right.
“Ms. May?” an official-sounding voice says.
“Um, yes? Is everything…” but I also can’t make myself say “okay” because that would validate everything must not be okay. Maybe if I wish enough. Are you listening, God? I won’t mock you and ask if he’s okay but please don’t say…
“I think you better come down to the hospital right now.”
* * *
I tell Darcy he better have everything he wants in his hands or pockets because I’m locking the car the moment I jump out, whether or not he’s with me. He obliges.
Is Dad dying? No.
Will he be okay? Don’t know.
What happened? Don’t know.
As expected the parking lot is full. It’s peak visiting hour after school. We find a spot a row from the end. I don’t have time to pick up my handbag in my rush; both of us bring just our bodies. Luckily, our swimming training means we’re both fit, so we have no problem physically with running the length of the parking lot, snaking through never-ending paths inside the hospital and zig-zagging around slow people in wheelchairs and those chained to IV drips.
Forever running. That’s what this feels like. Despite our fitness, we’re pretty out of breath by the time we reach the elevator. It’s emotional exhaustion. Darcy recovers with his hands on his knees, and I grab my bra between the two cups and pull it away from my chest, letting my lung capacity increase by nearly double.
One, two, four, seven seconds. The elevator will never, ever come. We don’t have the time for petty elevators. The other people can wait—at least that’s all it feels like while Dad recovers since the emergency call I received.
“Darce, we don’t have time. C’mon,” I say simultaneously indicating to the stairs and running. I throw open the door and skip every other step. Darcy’s steps are pretty close, only distancing from me at two or so steps a flight. We run the four floors from the ground up. My thighs are tight and burning. I’ve run much farther than this when altering my training sessions for swimming, but this sprint—about half a mile, I’m sure—has worn out my body. I can’t imagine poor little Darcy at only ten.
My legs have already begun to feel like jelly, but my mind hasn’t so I’m dragging my body up, through the door that leads to the third-floor hospital wing (Darcy, though ten, was the one to point out Ground is first, then floor one—not me). I look left, right, gauging if anything looks different. Maybe answers will miraculously be written on the walls or make sense now that I’m so close to Dad.
Darcy flies through the door and I remember what we’re doing. We sprint to Dad’s room.
I yank at the closed door but it doesn’t open and Darcy and I pummel head-first into the metal before we can stop ourselves.
It’s locked? Darcy and I share a look. Lisa is power walking to us from the nurses station.
“Charlee, Darcy,” she says. She points to beige plastic seats screwed to the wall. “Let’s sit here.”
“Your father has had acute liver failure. Tests are still underway but some of his vital organs aren’t functioning as well as we’d hoped, partly due to the fact he’s had an infection, which causes sudden changes in his pancreas, liver, and heart function. He hasn’t been eating very much, so his body hasn’t had the opportunity to strengthen and repair as it should be.”
“Miss Nurse,” Darcy interrupts. “I really want to know if my daddy is going to live.”
I pull Darcy into my side, noticing two brilliant streaks down his cheeks and tears pooling in his eyes. His skin is so dirty from playing, highlighting the grief pouring out of him. This makes my heart hammer against my ribs, which are too small. This entire body is too small for the pain folded and squished inside me. It hurts beyond words seeing my brother sniffling in ragged breaths.
Tears pool in my eyes but I will not let them fall. I will not cry. I will not cry. “Don’t you dare cry,” I mutter too low for either Lisa or Darcy to hear me.
“Please. Don’t say these things in front of my little brother.”
“But—but I don’t get it.” Darcy leans around to ask Lisa, �
�Will he live?”
“Charlee, it’s fine. I can run through details with you alone later. After the doctor gives you an official status.”
Please, no. I do not want to hear it. More so, I cannot physically be in that room when she tells me these things or else I may lose my mind.
“No! I want to know!” Darcy shouts.
I hush him and press my arm more tightly around him.
Lisa breathes in slowly and places her hands on both of his thighs. “Darcy, your dad isn’t dying now. The doctor will have to chat to you later when he’s done but to give you an idea, your dad will need some operations to help his body parts that don’t work so well anymore. After the accident we helped him, but his insides are still hurt.”
Lisa turns to me and lowers her voice, “The issue with the transplant is your father is in a delicate state. His health looks like it will continue to decrease overall in the coming weeks. He’s on a drip to replace the nutrients he isn’t receiving through his food, and we have medication to sustain him, but—”
“But he will still die soon.” Darcy scoots closer to Lisa and looks at her. “Next month?”
“Darcy!” I yell. An old lady hobbling in on a young lady’s arm stares at us from the other side of the dividing nurses’ station. “You can’t say that. Dad isn’t dying and he won’t die, so be quiet!”
“Charlee, the current situation is halfway between your estimations, actually. Walter’s condition may worsen within minutes or hours, in which case emergency surgery will be necessary, but he’s in very safe hands with our experts here at this hospital, which means the slightest issue, like this afternoon, and we’re on it in seconds.”
Lisa points to something behind Darcy and me. We turn, but I don’t get what’s she’s referring to.
“That little red light on the wall? Well, Darcy, that and our pagers and alarms alert us the very millisecond anything happens to your dad. He’s in the best place he can be with the smartest people to help him.”
Darcy wipes away his sniffle. In my grasp, I feel him deflate. “Oh. Okay.”
I want to ask what she’s really saying. That our dad will always be in this limbo state, one step forward, two steps back until he falls off the end of the staircase, tumbling into a black abyss where living doesn’t exist?
In fact, my mom would be badgering me to ask this very question. A surge of power courses through my body. It’s this responsibility, this position I’m in, where my mom can’t help, my brother understands what any ten-year-old hearing this will understand, and I’m supposed to be this adult that’s strong and resilient.
You see this stuff. Those teens in the movies who save the day. The three-year-old toddler who dials emergency services to save her mother who’s collapsed.
Well, that’s not me.
Once again, for the umpteenth time since the accident several weeks ago, I don’t ask questions. I accept what she tells me.
Her promises do sound good, when I think them over. There are too many professionals within this building helping my dad—doctors, specialists, nurses, so many of them.
Still, this thought doesn’t comfort me.
What comforts me is knowing my dad can’t die anyway.
Mom? I think. Dad won’t leave us like you did.
12. Alcohol and Women
Dexter
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, bro.”
I called Elliot to hang out at Bar 9 and that was his reply. They weren’t his words but he passed them on from our other friends who are close with Rob and Benny. After their idiotic KFC stunt, I’ve reached a point of not caring about judgmental dickheads anymore.
I park my dirt bike in a far corner of the parking lot near the bar and chain it to a pole, since the thing has the security level of the rusted piece of metal it is. When I pull the helmet off my head, a girl in line next to Elliot points in my direction.
I’ll kill the guy. He brings along girls. And not just any girls but Raych’s two friends. Thank God Raych isn’t here because I can’t take her anymore. I used to want the sex but now I don’t want that and she doesn’t really talk to me.
I picture the evening playing out, one friend eventually sliding her hand up my thigh, the other plastered to my hip, leaning in real close, boobs jiggling as she laughs at everything I say. Somehow it doesn’t sound very appealing.
Funny how some things change you. I’d much rather turn around and pretend I couldn’t make it after all, but Elliot spots me and waves me over to join them.
Friend One says hello by scowling at me, and Friend Two sniffs the air as if my scent is poison, and turns her head away.
So, not what I was exactly expecting, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
I’m about to give it to Elliot for bringing them along, when a bouncer waves us up the line and asks for IDs. We all hand them over and everyone is waved through the door until they get to me.
“Sorry. We’re full,” the seven-foot-tall guy grunts.
Well, as I’m not known for turning away from someone who wants to block me, I say, “No, bud, you’re mistaken. My three friends are in there already and one extra damn body isn’t going to mean shit for this club except for the money I spend buying those girls drinks at the bar.”
“No, bud,” he says, stepping close to me, “it’s now full and you’ll have to get lost.”
He stares me down with his best Schwarzenegger glare that I guess I’m supposed to find menacing. Instead, I smirk, pushing past the arm that’s blocking my path. He grabs my arm and throws me back. The other bouncer takes hold of me and says, “That’s fine, I’ll escort him back to his ride.”
“Fuck off,” I say, peeling back his fingers.
He twists my arm behind my back and takes me around the corner into the alley, to my “ride”. He gives me a few goodbye blows and wishes me a good night. “Don’t you go murdering anyone else,” he croons, disappearing from view.
I stagger to my dirt bike. Eventually, I notice my cell’s been ringing. I pick it up but the call ends.
Elliot’s left two messages asking where I am. Why wasn’t I out front when he came back to see why I wasn’t following.
I text, I threw up and they barred me. Have fun. I’ll cya another time.
The truth would ruin his night, so I’ll keep it to myself.
The ride home is long. My shirt feels like it’s made of gauze, the sharp breeze easily pricking my skin as hard as if I were standing in a wind tunnel. I lean the bike against the carport and when I’m in the living room, collapse face-first onto the sofa.
I’ve wondered if I was being a wimp, using the excuse that “holding Charz at arms’ length” was for her own good. After tonight, I can’t ever go out with her anywhere because I was right. If those bouncers were to think about laying a hand on her, I’d use some very convenient wrist pressure points until I had them kneeling, and I would stop pummeling them only when they stopped moving. Either that or they’d beat the shit out of me before I got the chance.
I don’t make many smart choices but the one thing I know is if I don’t spend time with Charz in public this can’t happen.
I should really take my own advice, but, then again, all I can think of is what the nape of her neck would taste like.
* * *
The next day I laze around, strumming chords from some of Maroon 5’s songs and picture Charz twirling in bed sheets, at the edge of that big water fountain feature in the music clip to She Will Be Loved, imagining her shuddering under my touch as I trace the small of her back and the dimples there.
I’m starting to cave. I want to see her. When my cell rings, I jump. “Mom” pops up on my screen. Strumming random chords on my guitar, I watch as the cell rumbles to the edge of the bedside table with each ring. There’s a sense of relief thinking about it falling off the edge, but phones don’t smash on carpet, no matter how hard you wish for them to break, so I snatch it up. Hearing her voice suddenly makes me feel glad. “Mom. What’s u
p?”
“Hi, sweetie. Just doing the rounds here at work. I really need some sleep.” She pauses for a yawn. “Oh,” she sighs, “sorry about that. What are you up to?”
It’s Saturday, Mom. I should be going with my friends to the movies to eat too much popcorn that Elliot refuses to stop buying, and wasting money on games at the arcade next door.
But instead I say, “Just messing with my guitar.”
“I’ll buy you an extra large coffee if you meet me for lunch at the shops downstairs. I might buy you food, too, if you’re nice enough.”
Her voice is light and playful, but this is Mom, so I know what she’s really saying is “I’m tired and I’d really like you, my son, to hang out with me because I want company.”
“Sheesh, I dunno, Ma. Free lunch sounds expensive.”
“What? I won’t let your dad know. Don’t worry, Dex. He won’t know about it. I won’t let you pay me back a cent.”
“No, I mean for you. I don’t know if I’d be able to live with myself knowing I let my mother pay for my lunch at twenty-one. This shit gets around, you see. I’d be known as the pansy who has lunch dates with his mom.”
Better than what I’m known for now.
She makes a sound of relief, half-chuckle, half-sigh, and presses me to come. The poor lady must actually be desperate so after a few more back-and-forths, I pretend I’ve finally caved in, which makes her all oh, thank you! and I really appreciate you taking time to see me.
If my friends are willing to fuck me off that quickly, I guess it has come down to lunch dates with Mom. I couldn’t care less.
I put my guitar back in its case (two layers of ratty blankets) and push it under my bed. Weaving around my floordrobe, I find and sniff the drawstring pants I added yesterday. They smell damn terrific. So I pull them on and climb into an old T-shirt I used to wear pre-gym. But I can feel the material hugging my muscles so I throw on a sweater so Mom won’t notice. She offers to pay for my clothes so I can have new ones but I prefer my comfortable, broken-in stuff.
Drowning in You Page 9
