Flight Season

by Marie Marquardt

  I watch Vivi smile up at him. “Yes,” she says. “We decided we needed a slumber party.”

  “Well, then,” Bertrand says through a smile, “I’ll have to bring an extra blanket.”

  After he leaves, I ask Vivi, “What does that mean? Slumber party.”

  “It’s when people sleep together in the same place—as friends.”

  “Oh,” I say, letting my eyes close again. “I like slumber parties.”

  After Bertrand brings a blanket for Vivi and tucks us both in, I start to drift off, into the thoughts that help me stay calm. Bertrand taught me about that, too. When it hurts or when I’m having trouble breathing, I’m supposed to take myself to different places in my mind, to kind of separate from my body.

  “Hey, Ángel,” Vivi whispers.

  “Hey, what?” I say.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Arena,” I say. “How do you say?”

  “Sand,” she whispers.

  “Sand on my feet,” I tell her. “Watching the water come up and wash my feet.”

  “You’re thinking about the beach?”

  “Yeah, I think about the beach todo el tiempo.”

  “All the time,” she repeats.

  “It’s my favorite thing. I’m gonna miss the beach.”

  “Hmm.” She lets out a long sigh. “I missed it too, when I was away at college.”

  We lie next to each other in silence, listening to the steady gurgle of my IV drip. I guess we’re both thinking about the beach and how much we’ll miss it when we’re gone.

  “When do you go back?” I whisper. And then I sort of wish I hadn’t asked, because I don’t know how I’ll survive if she leaves before me.

  She doesn’t answer at first. I’m thinking maybe she fell asleep. But then she murmurs very softly, “I don’t know. Maybe I won’t.”

  * * *

  I wake up to a hand on my shoulder and the glorious scent of greasy French fries filling my senses. My eyes fly open, and there’s TJ, standing beside me. He’s not looking at me, though. His face is soft, vulnerable, even, and he’s looking at the space beside me.

  “Brought you breakfast,” he says, nodding toward the bedside table.

  Nothing beats a large fry from Mickey-D’s for breakfast.

  “Thanks,” I say, reaching out to grab one. I turn onto my side before I remember that she’s there. Vivi’s asleep next to me, her hand thrown over her forehead.

  She sighs and turns away from us, still sleeping. Her hand tucks under her chin and the covers have fallen off of her leg, still in cutoff shorts.

  TJ sighs too. Poor kid. He’s sort of a mess, now that Vivi’s avoiding him.

  “What’s this?” he whispers.

  “Slumber party,” I say quietly, feeling proud that I remembered the new words.

  He sighs again and reaches out to check my pulse. It’s killing him, having his fingers so close to her body but not being able to touch her.

  He holds my wrist and counts, but the entire time, he’s watching her, studying her. It’s like he wants to see every detail so that he can remember it later. When he rests my arm back by my side, he moves it a little too far to the right so that his fingers graze her back.

  He’s watching the place where his hand touched her.

  Don’t get the wrong idea. He’s not acting creepy or anything. It’s more like he wants to store up memories of her. I get that. I’m kinda feeling the same way.

  But I think that the memories he wants are a little different, if you know what I mean.

  “I’m gonna have to sit you up,” he whispers, still watching her. “It’ll wake her.”

  “S’okay, homie,” I say. “Girl’s been out cold for six hours.”

  He smiles a little and presses the button on the side of the bed. Just as he expected, she jolts awake the moment the bed begins to rise.

  Her hands fly out and she pulls the blanket over her chest.

  “Mornin’, Viv,” TJ says. “How’d you sleep?”

  She darts her gaze back and forth between me and TJ. “Like the dead,” she says. And then her face falls into her hands. “Oh God. Bad metaphor.”

  I have no idea what a bad metaphor is, just so you know. But that’s what the girl said, or at least that’s what I heard.

  She rubs her face twice and swings her legs to the side of the bed.

  “I’m gonna—” She scurries into the bathroom and slams the door shut.

  “Go get her a toothbrush,” I say, motioning like I’m brushing my teeth.

  TJ rummages around in a drawer until he finds one still in the package. Then he grabs a pair of scrubs from the closet and goes to the bathroom.

  “Hey, Viv.” He knocks softly on the door. “Open up. I have a toothbrush for you, and some scrubs.”

  The door opens just far enough for her hand to fit through it. She takes the scrubs from him and then slams the door shut.

  TJ starts to check my fluid levels, and we both listen to Vivi brushing her teeth.

  “You love her,” I say. “Admit it.”

  “So do you,” he tells me.

  “Yeah, but not like you do, vato.” I nudge his shoulder and laugh.

  “Shut up, homie,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say. And I mean it. I don’t want TJ to be hurting, and he is. We hear the shower turn on, and both of us look toward the bathroom at the same time.

  TJ sighs for, like, the fifteenth time since he came in here.

  Poor kid. He’s confused and hurting, and Vivi is making him crazy. I may not know much, but that I know.

  Ten minutes later she comes out wearing clean scrubs, wet hair piled up on top of her head. She looks around fast, obviously to see if TJ is still in the room. He’s not.

  She salutes me, like a soldier. “Viola Flannigan, reporting for duty.”

  TJ walks back into the room, coming up behind her. “Just in time for our favorite part,” he says, smiling.

  He walks to the whiteboard and grabs the pen. He uncaps it and holds it just below those terrible, stupid words: “Goal for the day.”

  “I’ve got a great idea,” Vivi says to me. “Let’s not have a goal today.”

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  “A goal-free day!” Vivi exclaims. “Today we’ll just be.”

  “Works for me,” TJ says, putting the cap back on the pen.

  “Write that!” I tell Vivi.

  She takes the pen from TJ and turns to the whiteboard. I eat my fries and we both watch as she writes, in huge cursive script:

  just be

  She writes it so big that it covers some of the stupid pain chart, that row of faces grimacing, staring out at me all day. And then she starts to color over those faces, and she turns them into a bunch of birds taking flight. And a turtle with a goofy grin on his face, and a butterfly, and big, droopy flowers. And she draws a sun in the top corner, over the top of “Goal for the day.”

  TJ and I watch in awe as she transforms the most terrible thing in this room into a thing of beauty.

  She’s finishing the last ray of sunshine when Mrs. Rosales walks in with a bunch of doctors in white coats. TJ goes to the corner to gather up my dirty sheets, and then the crappy part begins.

  I usually try not to pay attention when they’re talking about me, and today is no different. They are huddled around a computer screen, looking at stuff about me, I guess. If Mrs. Rosales is here, I know it’s important, but still I don’t want to know.

  I close my eyes and let the English words float past me. I keep hearing one over and over: “Stable.”

  I open my eyes and look for Vivi. I want to ask her what it means, because I thought it was a place that a horse lives. At least that’s the word they used back at the farm where I worked.

  I wish I hadn’t opened my eyes, because I’m looking at Vivi and her face is crumpling up, like she’s gonna cry.

  I reach out to touch her arm. “What does it mean?” I ask.

  “What?
” she says. She seems startled by my touch.

  “Stable?”

  “Estable, like, um, you’re not getting better and you’re not getting worse.”

  “That’s not too bad,” I say. “Why do you look so—”

  She places a finger over her lips. “Shh, let me listen, Ángel.”

  I close my eyes and think about sand on my feet, because I’m having trouble with my breath again and I need to calm down.

  I don’t open them until I hear Mrs. Rosales arguing with Vivi. The doctors are all gone, and Vivi and Mrs. Rosales are in a standoff in front of my bed.

  “I can’t discuss the details of his case with you, Vivi. You know that. You’re not family.”

  “So how do you expect him to understand what’s happening? You clearly aren’t explaining it well. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have family!”

  “You’re wrong, Vivi. He knows. He simply doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He understands.”

  “Mrs. Rosales,” I break in. “You tell her. Please explain. But please not here.”

  “You’re giving me permission to speak to Vivi as family?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Rosales nods, her face all serious, and then she takes Vivi by the arm and leads her out of the room. Not far enough, though. Because I’m trying to think about the sand between my toes, but instead I’m hearing Vivi.

  Vivi’s talking loud, begging for Mrs. Rosales to find a way to keep me from getting deported. Mrs. Rosales is practically screaming at her, “You think I haven’t tried everything I know to try? I have consulted with every attorney this hospital knows, with the ethics board. I have called two dozen people at the Department of Homeland Security, Vivi—maybe more! I have tried everything. Everything! This is happening, Vivi—we have to accept that this is happening.”

  “When?” Vivi asks.

  “He’s stable now, so they will transfer him to detention on Friday and—”

  “Friday?” Vivi calls out. “Like, in five days?”

  “Yes, Vivi. Friday. He’ll be there for a couple of weeks, maybe three. They have a medical unit there, so they can take care of him. And then he’ll be transported to Guatemala by plane.”

  “Where he has no family! Where there’s no one to take care of him! What the hell? Do they expect him to go out and get a job? This is insane!”

  “You need to calm down, Vivi. You need to speak more quietly.”

  “And what? What will he do when he lands? He can’t even stand up on his own!” She’s not speaking more quietly.

  “I’m working on that. Please believe me. I am reaching out to every contact I have—the embassy, the consul general here, private hospitals—”

  “But still nothing. You have no plan. You have nothing! How can you let them do this?” She starts to cry.

  Vivi is crying.

  I open my eyes. TJ stands perfectly still in the corner of my room, holding a stack of clean towels, listening.

  “Go,” I say. “Please go to her.”

  He nods, puts the towels down, and starts to walk out of the room.

  “Tell her to remember the goal,” I say.

  He looks back at me, his eyes filling up. Then he walks out, and I hear him speaking softly, urging her away. I watch the doorway as he leads her down the hall, his hand resting on her back, his head down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  VIVI

  BIRD JOURNAL

  August 10, 10:24 P.M.

  Are the birds ever coming back?

  “PLEASE, BERTRAND! I AM BEGGING you. Please!”

  Bertrand and I are in the hallway outside of Ángel’s room, and I’m pleading in a loud whisper for him to let me take Ángel to the beach. I want to do something special for him before Friday, and the best thing I can come up with is to get him out of this hospital room for a few hours—take him to put his toes in the sand. I know Prashanti would never agree to help me sneak him out of here, so it will have to be a night trip.

  “You know I want to help, but this is an insane plan, and it’s also illegal.”

  “Illegal?”

  “Yes, Vivi. Ángel is in our care. If we helped him to leave, and he didn’t come back, we could be prosecuted—the hospital and any of us who aided in his escape. We would have huge trouble with the government.”

  “But you took a vow to care for him, not to lock him up. This is a hospital, not a jail. And hospitals are supposed to be in the business of healing, of promoting wellness.” I glance back toward Ángel’s door. “This is what he needs, Bertrand. You know it is. It’s just for a night! A few hours! I’ll be sure to get him back before morning.”

  Bertrand shakes his head and rests his hand on my shoulder. “I want to help, Vivi. But you have to come up with something else to do for Ángel, something reasonable.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and nod, and then I go back into Ángel’s room. His shoulders are hunched up around his neck and he looks uncomfortable.

  “Hey,” I say. “Need another pillow?”

  He nods, and I head out into the hallway.

  I’ve been spending the nights with Ángel. I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s because Bertrand told me that the nights were the hardest for Ángel—that he wasn’t able to sleep much. Maybe it’s because I know TJ won’t be here at night, and it’s too confusing to be around him right now. Or maybe I’m trying to avoid the A-frame and my mom and all the questions about our future that we haven’t managed to come up with answers for.

  Whatever the reason, being here feels right. After our first “slumber party,” Bertrand set me up on the couch. It folds flat, and every night he brings me two pillows and some sheets. He even sneaks me one of those deliciously warm blankets.

  Bertrand says Ángel sleeps better when I’m here. In truth, so do I.

  I grab a pillow from an empty room down the hall. When I get back, Bertrand is standing beside Ángel’s bed, holding a cup of pills. Ángel has water in his hand, but he can’t bring it to his lips because his hand is shaking so much.

  “Are you in pain?” Bertrand asks.

  Ángel shakes his head. “Not much.”

  “On a scale of—”

  “A three,” Ángel breaks in.

  How many times in the past months has he been asked that stupid question about the pain scale? I think about how many different ways there are to be in pain, and how utterly inadequate that stupid line of faces on the whiteboard is in helping a person to determine whether the pain is bearable.

  I watch, neither of them noticing me there. I see the concern in Bertrand’s eyes, the gentle love he has for Ángel—for every patient, no matter how demanding or mean they are. Bertrand even found a way to be kind to Mr. Jones—the man who notoriously announced that he didn’t believe that the United States should accept immigrants—especially not from Africa. He said that immigrants took American jobs.

  I wasn’t there, but according to the stories I heard, Bertrand nodded, smiled a little, and said, “Well, Mr. Jones, I would say that you are fortunate to live in a nation that welcomes immigrants, since this ICU, where you receive such wonderful care, would be near empty without us.” All the while, he was expertly locating Mr. Jones’s artery, to replace the stint in his neck.

  The nurses love telling that story. I’ve heard it several times. And it’s true: almost every nurse and nurses’ aide here is an immigrant or the child of an immigrant. Except Richard, and he would be lost without them.

  “What is it?” Bertrand asks Ángel, his voice softly coaxing.

  “I’m just thinking,” Ángel says. “You know, about Friday and—”

  Bertrand nods and takes the cup from Ángel.

  “Open,” he says.

  Ángel opens his mouth and Bertrand places a pill on his tongue. Then he holds the cup to Ángel’s lips so that he can take some water. They repeat this process five times, neither one of them saying a word.

  “I’ll help Vivi find you a pillow,” he says, after Ángel has swallowed
all of his pills. Bertrand is looking right at me, and I’m already holding a pillow. He doesn’t want me to be in here, but I’m not sure why.

  I back out of the room as quietly as possible. He comes into the hallway and leads me to the break room in silence. When he sees that we’re alone, he closes the door behind him.

  “One condition,” he says, holding up a single finger. “I will help you on one condition.”

  “You will?” I ask, my face opening into a smile. “You’ll let me take him to the beach?”

  “TJ will come with you.”

  My smile falls. I don’t think I can manage being with him, even if it is for a good cause. Every time I see him I feel like I’m melting inside.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Ángel will need his oxygen tank, his IV drip. He needs a professional with him if he’s going to leave this hospital. TJ knows how to care for him.”

  “I get that,” I say, “but why not—I don’t know—Richard? I’ll ask Richard.”

  Bertrand lets out a huff. “Richard is a coward. He’ll never agree to it. Plus, he deeply values his sleep.” He looks at me and smiles a mischievous smile. “You could perhaps ask Prashanti?”

  “Funny,” I say, deadpan. “What about Sharon?”

  “Sharon is a lovely woman. I adore her as if she were my own mother. But—on this little adventure you’re planning—Ángel will not be needing someone to change his sheets and sing songs about Jesus; he’ll be needing someone to check his fluids, replace his IV medicines, and carry his oxygen tank. That person is TJ. He knows better than anyone in this hospital how to care for Ángel.” Bertrand leans against the door, crosses his arms, and smiles wide. “He’s very skilled, your TJ.”

  With those words, a heat crawls up my throat and onto my cheeks. I’m certain that my face and neck are turning scarlet.

  My TJ?

  “And I’m certain he will do it, Vivi. He’d do anything for Ángel—and for you.”

  “Not for me,” I say. “We’re not really, um … We had sort of a—”

  “Ask him,” Bertrand breaks in as he opens the door to the hallway. “He may surprise you.”

  * * *

  This morning, TJ surprised me.

  “It’s an insane idea, but I’ll do it,” he said.