I spotted a gas station ahead with a big wide roof. As I put on my flicker, I saw it was already overflowing with cars taking cover.
The hail got worse. Everyone was getting antsy, actually speeding up. I got caught in the flow, squinting ahead through the mess of water and ice for another gas station.
“Are you there, Indio?”
“Yes, Siri, hang on.”
What’s most important right now: a place to take cover or my haircut?
Then I thought, the hell with Dad’s car. It was a Beemer, right? Tough as nails.
This haircut could not wait.
I figured I could get my cut and post a new selfie within a couple hours. I had to create a whole new profile. Put out a fresh blog. Repair my bombed-out bridges.
“Siri, what was that address?”
Again her response was garbled by machine-gun rattle on the roof, and I missed the last two numbers. I grabbed the iPhone off the seat and looked at the screen. I scrolled through the map. I zoomed in to look for parking spots.
“Easy as pie.”
“Excuse me, Indio?”
I looked back to the road, smiling.
But not for long.
A sea of brake lights painted my windshield red.
Nothing was moving.
Except me.
I slammed both feet on the brake.
The tires grabbed pavement.
“¡Gracias a Dios!”
My shoulder strap bit into my collarbone.
I pushed harder on the brake.
The tires gulped water.
I was hydroplaning.
I pumped the brakes the way I’d learned in driver ed.
The car glided down the road like a hockey puck on ice.
I turned the wheel to the right.
Too fast. The car fishtailed. Now I was hydroplaning backward, facing the headlights of cars that a second ago were behind me, their high-beams flashing madly.
I cranked around in my seat and looked behind me—or was it in front of me? The sea of red lights was coming up fast.
“Jesucristo!”
“I’m sorry, Indio, but I didn’t catch that.”
“SHUT UP!” I screamed.
I pumped the brakes harder, faster. The tires finally bit. I yanked the wheel and aimed for a grassy boulevard. The car went into a spin.
Everything sped up … and slowed down at the same time. The boulevard came at me at an impossible angle and I realized that half the car was in the air.
I’m sorry, Mom.
Something pink floated past my face. Instead of Dad’s pet rock, it became a glass eye, winking at me before the air bag exploded and I blacked out.
GREEN MEN
A faraway light. I remember that. Way down there. I remember letting myself slip toward it, free-falling into a bottomless whirlpool.
I remember thinking about my granny, Mimita.
And Loba.
Am I about to see them?
The shouting broke my fall. Called me back.
I turned from the light. Slipped into my body.
Firemen, medics, shouting all around me.
A gurgling sound. I remember thinking, My brain is spilling out on the ground.
The sound of ripping metal, crunching plastic, popping glass.
Hanging upside down.
The smell of gasoline, burnt rubber.
Glass on my face.
Giant lobster claws eating Dad’s BMW.
Rain on my face.
Big hands groping for me, easing me out of the car, wrapping me in a flannel cocoon.
Strong hands lifting me onto a stretcher and floating me like a feather into the ambulance.
I tried to say something to the men, so big and beefy in their lime-green uniforms. So gentle. This incredibly safe feeling, like I was a baby wrapped in a Mayan sling. I tried to move my mouth, my tongue.
Only grunts.
I remember crying.
Not from pain. That was yet to come.
I cried from the thanks I couldn’t say. I knew I owed my life to these big green men, lifting me into the ambulance.
A door slammed. I was in another cocoon.
Hissing gas, beeping monitors, the heavy breathing of an angel cradling my head.
The ambulance lurched forward.
Furious pounding on the door.
The smell of coconut oil.
Mom’s hand on my chest.
Her face suddenly hovered near mine, rutted with worry.
Soothing sounds came from her mouth.
I couldn’t make out the words.
She looked out the door and shot an angry look at somebody. I managed to lift my head enough to see a lone figure in a yellow miner’s raincoat. He stood in the shadows, his hunched form jumping in and out of view with every flash from the ambulance lights.
Dad.
His face twitched, like he was fighting something inside.
Fear. The guy looked petrified.
What’s he afraid of?
Then, for the first time, I got really, really scared.
I started panting like a dog.
My head spun out of control.
My brain crackled like when the battery runs out on my acoustic guitar.
I scrunched my eyes.
My skull exploded.
The lights went out.
CHAMELEON EYES
I came to ten days later in the Alberta Children’s Hospital, the one made from giant toy blocks.
For a long time, I had chameleon eyes. They roamed around on their own. This was strangely entertaining until I discovered it hurt like hell to focus.
It hurt to concentrate. Even to think.
All I could do was stare up at a light. It drifted in and out of focus with each breath.
I studied the ceiling tiles, trying to see straight. They were decorated with choo-choo trains and teddy bears.
Gradually I realized I was not alone. Someone was repeating a question close to my ear. A man’s voice.
“… your right hand, Indio … your hand …”
I thought it was Magno, coaching me on my right-hand posture.
Guitar players live or die by their right hand.
“Can you feel your right hand, Indio?”
Not Magno.
Someone was squeezing my hand.
“Can you squeeze back?”
I squeezed back. The teddy bears went out of focus.
“Good, Indio. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Rapid footsteps.
Mom’s hands on my cheeks. “¡Gracias a Dios! Thank God you’re okay, Indio!”
The bears, the trains, everything blurred in a flood of tears.
I blacked out.
BED OF ROSES
Brent, the nurse who emptied my bedpan the whole time I was in a coma, later told me my first words were, “I fucked up … Sorry, Mom …” and “Where’s my phone?” Another time I woke up thrashing, calling a name over and over.
“Who’s Loba?” he asked.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I felt like a total idiot.
“Save your breath,” Brent said. “We got lots of time to get to know each other. Welcome to the Neurosurgery Clinic.”
My stomach did a backflip. I slowly lifted both hands to my head. A slice of my scalp was shaved clean, crisscrossed by a dozen metal staples. Just below the staples, it felt like my brain was boiling. I could hear a bubbling sound.
My mouth fell open.
Brent gave me a tight smile. “You’ll be fine, Indio.”
My fingers retraced my bald patch and bounced over the staples.
They don’t shave your head and install railroad tracks if you’re fine.
“They did surgery to relieve the pressure on your brain. Everybody says you did really well.”
All I could do was raise my eyebrows. Everybody?
“It was a long operation. Two neurosurgeons and a stellar cast of nurses. You kept us up all night, but that’s gravy
to us.”
Brent pointed a flashlight at me. “Now, all you gotta do is follow the bouncing light. Okay?” He slowly swept it up and down and sideways.
While my brain burned, my eyes felt like they were stuck in cold molasses. I tried to follow his light, but it was like sight-reading a Bach sonata in double time.
A little frown darted across Brent’s face and he scribbled something on a chart. “Okay, Indio. That’s enough for today.” He whipped out a needle and pointed it to the ceiling. “I’m going to give you something to help you sleep. Give your bruised brain a rest.”
“No … wait,” I mumbled, amazed to learn I could speak.
But that’s all I got out. Two words. He’d already jabbed the needle into my shoulder.
I was good and ready to hate this guy—till the sedative kicked in.
Next I was lying in a bed of roses. Brent became my angel of mercy.
I sank into a deep sleep drenched in Brazilian guitar études.
CONCUSSION
I felt much better when I woke up. Must’ve been the drugs. Until I realized I’d pissed myself in my sleep.
I wanted to fly out of bed but could barely lift my head. When I tried, my skull filled with red-hot lava. I lay there, grinding my teeth, until Brent finally came back.
“This will never do,” he said, sniffing and grinning at me in a way that made me want to strangle him. His bulging biceps and bulldog neck told me I’d be no match at the best of times. I let him roll me around and mop me all over like some diaper brat. Talk about humiliating! He changed my sheets, then politely told me to get my shit together because some visitors were coming.
“Let’s brighten things up a bit, shall we?” he said, yanking the window blinds open.
The sudden light filled my eyes with slivers of glass. “Aagh!”
“Oh, sorry about that.”
Instead of closing the blinds, Brent dug in his pocket for sunglasses. They had rainbow arms stamped with the word Pride. “Try these,” he said, carefully slipping them on my head.
“So … like … where is my ph-ph-phone?” I asked, once I calmed down.
“RCMP took it.”
“The cops … s-s-stole my … iPhone?” My mouth seemed light-years from my brain. My words stretched out like in a lousy Skype connection.
“Just part of their investigation.”
“What inves-s-s … tigation?” My brain was getting softer, like it was melting.
Brent put a hand on my shoulder.
I shrugged it off.
“Easy, Indio. You gotta keep a cool head.” He glanced out the window. “It might help them figure out what happened out there.”
Lava spread from my brain to my neck. “I can tell them … whatever!”
The lava hit my stomach.
I didn’t have a clue what happened out there.
Brent ducked out.
I checked to see if my fingers were working. I saw the sheet stirring where they must be. I struggled to bring both hands in front of my face. I could barely feel my fingers but they were moving, all ten of them.
My guitar fingers.
I fretted a soundless arpeggio. I plucked imaginary strings. This triggered a gush of cozy feelings about playing guitar. Joy, escape, friendship.
Then, memories of Dad breathing fire down my back, turning what I’d loved most into torture.
I tossed my invisible guitar across the room.
I checked to see if my brain was working.
I closed my eyes. Tried to think.
Who am I?
Indio McCracken. Aka Ian at school. Sixteen years old. Former caged guitarist, now teen blogger.
Good start. And my family?
My mother, Gabriela Canché, from the Mayan highlands of Guatemala. Shopaholic. Family peacemaker. My sister, Sofia, 12 years old. Family princess. Uncle Faustus. Pushing 90. My biggest fan.
So far, so good.
My father …
Come on, Indio, you can do this …
My father … Edgar McCracken, born in Scotland, grew up in Canada. Gold miner. Guitar zero. Family dictator.
Great. Brain seemed to be firing. So, what did happen out there?
Humongous rainstorm ... hailstones … hydroplaning …
I heard the squeak of a wheelchair and opened my eyes. Uncle Faustus’s smile blew me away. Amazing what a new pair of Canadian dentures could do for a dusty old campesino like him.
“¿Qué tal, Indio?”
“I’m g-g-good, Uncle. M-m-muy bien, gracias.”
He grabbed my hand in both of his.
Sofi plopped on a chair against the wall, like she’d get cooties if she got too close.
Mom held my other hand. “You’re awake,” she said, glancing at the top of my head, then into my eyes. I could tell she was struggling to keep her gaze there.
Sofi wrinkled her nose. “What’s up with those metal things? And the rainbow shades?”
“Meet young Frankenstein,” Brent said.
I struggled to focus on Mom’s face. “Have you … have you s-s-seen my phone?”
“Don’t worry, Indio. The police have it.”
Brent wasn’t kidding.
“Yeah … but for how long ...? I really need it.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re cut off from all that now. Until your brain heals.”
“It d-d-does matter! What do you mean … cut off?”
Uncle Faustus grinned and patted my hand. I noticed one of his eyes was totally clouded over, like a dead fish.
When did this happen? Wait … What’s he doing in a wheelchair? Where have I been to miss all this?
Mom gave me her posing-for-the-camera smile. Her eyes were bloodshot like she’d been up all night, crying or looking at online catalogs again. “You’ve had a major concussion, Indio. The doctors say you have to relax your brain, take it real easy. No texting, messaging, video games. No computers, movies, not even schoolwork.”
“Lucky you!” Sofi said. “I could use a little concussion about now.”
“You know I don’t d-d-do video games.”
“Yes, Indio, but all that other stuff you do. Forever posting, texting, chatting, blogging. Your little movie things, your—”
“I can … I can control it.”
Mom just looked at me.
She was right. I couldn’t control it.
“But what about m-m-my homework? You know most of it’s online and—”
“Sorry, Indio, but this concussion means no phones, no computers, no devices of any kind. The doctors say that any mental activities that need any concentration could delay your recovery … or worse.”
My eyes started wandering again, going out of focus. I was lying in sweat. “Worse?”
Mom squeezed my hand tighter. “Permanent brain damage, Indio. You might never talk straight again. Walk straight. Think straight. And what about your guitar career?”
“W-w-what about it?”
That’s when I noticed Dad hanging back at the door.
“Uh … hi, Indio. How ya doin’?”
“Just dandy. I g-g-guess that means a b-b-break from practicing, too … eh, Dad?”
Something like a grin crossed his lips. “Whatever the doctors say.”
I thought about Dad’s beloved Beemer, steaming upside down in the rain. Almost as sacred to him as his Ramirez guitar. “S-s-sorry about your car.”
“The car was totaled, Indio. You were lucky.”
“I wasn’t d-d-doing anything … crazy. Just driving when—”
“When what?”
Mom brought her face close. “Were you texting, Indio?”
“What? No! At least … No. I wasn’t. There was some rain and I—”
“Some rain?” Dad said. “It was a bloody—”
Mom looked at him over her shoulder. “Edgar, please.”
“I don’t know exactly w-w-what happened … I just … I … What is this? A police interrogation?”
Dad jammed his hands in his po
ckets. “Who in their right mind would be out in that kind of storm?”
I fiddled with the IV needle taped to my arm.
“Exactly why were you out there, Indio?”
“Haircut. I r-r-really needed a haircut.”
Dad sucked a ton of air, then released it in a disgusted sigh. “Are you serious?”
Brent wove in front of Mom and placed a tray of yucky-looking hospital food on my lap. “That’s enough chit-chat for one day, folks. Indio needs his strength.”
The expression on Dad’s face made another coma look good. “We’ll talk about this later, Indio.”
“About what.”
“Everything.”
“It wasn’t my f-f-fault, Dad.”
“We’ll see,” he said, and was gone.
Brent shooed everyone out the door. “Come along, folks. That’s it for visiting hours.”
Mom gave each of my cheeks a peck.
I couldn’t feel her kisses. I couldn’t smell her coconut scent.
Sofi stepped toward me and wiggled my big toe.
I tried to wiggle back but it was too far from my brain. “Stay out of trouble … b-b-brat,” I said, fighting off a wave of panic.
Uncle Faustus gave one last squeeze, then leaned forward in his wheelchair like he was sharing a secret. “Prométeme. Nunca renunciar a la música.”
My head’s split open, I can’t feel my feet, and you want me to play guitar? To never give it up? “S-s-sure. Le prometo, tío. I promise you, uncle. Nunca. N-n-never.”
Uncle Faustus gave me his big new smile. Sofi spun his wheelchair and headed for the door. Uncle Faustus craned around and winked at me with his frosty eye, my promise in his pocket.
Alone again.
I squinted out the window. Dad must have paid big bucks to get me this private room with a view over the Bow River.
Thanks, Dad, but I could really use some company.
I tried to figure how many days it had been since I last checked my messages or posted anything. The very thought got me sweating. That bubbling sound came back.
If only I had my phone, what a selfie I could take! I stretched out one arm, pretending to hold my phone, as I made a Frankenstein face and showed off the railroad tracks on my head. Add Brent’s goofy shades and I’d get at least a thousand hits for sure.
I dropped my arm.
Surely the cops must be done with my phone.
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