House Arrest
Page 13
Her smile was huge
lighting up the doorway
brighter than the lightning.
Timothy!
It was a gasp.
The melted paper hit me in the chest.
I just got it. I couldn’t wait. I printed it for you.
Read it!
Mom came around the corner
holding a squirming Levi.
Maureen? What are you doing out there?
Come in! Come in!
You’ll wash away.
So she came in.
Mrs. B.
Dripping.
In my house.
Looking so young
all wet and smiley like that.
I took the soaking paper
careful not to let it tear
and read it.
Then I read it again.
He was touring medical schools.
Giving speeches.
Recruiting other doctors
to learn how to do what he does.
He is sorry for not responding sooner.
He says there is a charitable care program,
a fund, at the hospital
to pay for sick babies who need his help.
He says he has given our contact information
to the people who run that fund,
to the people who give out the money.
He says Levi will have to pass tests.
Not like school tests,
medical tests.
His lungs have to be healthy.
His stomach has to be healthy.
His whole body has to be healthy
so that he can manage the surgery.
It’s a tough surgery.
He says that if Levi is as tenacious as I am,
if Levi is as spirited as I am,
if Levi has half of my determination,
half of my guts,
he has a fine chance of passing all the medical tests,
of becoming a candidate for surgery,
of getting his trachea fixed.
He says, I look forward to meeting Levi.
I look forward to meeting you, sun.
And I can’t believe he spelled son wrong
but I kind of love that he did.
I really kind of love it.
WEEK 49
Just a few more weeks.
Then you don’t have to see me every week, James.
Well, you’ll see me
because I live in 742
and you live in 534
just over there
but you know what I mean.
This all will be over.
You’ll just be another beardy dude.
I’ll just be another kid.
Don’t look at me like that, James.
It makes me think you want to hug—
Dude.
You’re getting to be just as bad as Mrs. B.
And that’s saying something.
fifteen
thousand
two
hundred
forty
eight
dollars
and
seventy
two
cents
holy
crap
holy
crap
holy
crap
Mom is holding the check.
The PTA lady is at the door.
Look at this! Look at what you’ve done, Timothy!
Mom says it with a huge smile
with tears in her eyes
and she means it in a good way this time.
Look at what I’ve done.
Look at what I’ve done!!!
I think about that crumpled flyer
a rolled-up ball on my desk for so many months.
How I thought the Carnival of Giving
was so, so stupid and then crazy and then impossible
and now I want to frame that crumpled thing
and put it on the wall
and dedicate it to the dwarves in my head
the ones that wouldn’t give up
the ones named
Scared and Determined
Angry and Stubborn.
Thank you, dwarves,
for not screwing this up.
Levi has a cough now.
Sigh.
That means trach bullets everywhere—
shooting balls of snot
out of that tube in his neck.
It’s kind of a superpower, if you think about it.
Once someone gets hit with a trach bullet
they’re so grossed out,
they are stunned.
Frozen in place.
If Levi wasn’t trying so hard to breathe
I bet he would laugh.
You should see Marisol’s hair.
Enchiladas.
Just like the bad old days,
except man, they taste so good
I don’t care what they remind me of.
José’s mom is in our kitchen
clicking her tongue
talking to herself in Spanish
not happy with our selection of spices.
She is here with José and Isa.
Marisol with Levi in the living room.
Levi sick again.
Levi coughing.
Levi setting off alarms.
The suction machine BUZZZZZZZZZING.
It’s strange to me
seeing them here,
José and Isa,
even though their house
is only a block away,
even though it only takes two minutes
to walk here.
It’s still strange,
their faces in our new world.
I like it, though.
I’m glad they’re here.
When Mom gets home she’ll be glad, too.
Stupid germs.
I took Dad’s old sweatshirt
and made it like a blanket
to tuck behind Levi’s head
so maybe he can breathe easier.
I can’t tell if it’s working.
Mom is on the phone with the doctor,
the pulse ox is beep-beep-beeping.
It’s a little bit crazy right now.
The night stretches ahead of us.
I have the oxygen ready.
If he needs it.
I have the breathing medicine ready.
If he needs it.
I have an extra trach ready.
If he needs it.
Mom is on her way home
from the new job,
from her long day of training.
She is bringing us coffees.
A treat, she said.
We’ll watch movies, she said.
It’ll be fine, she said.
He’ll be fine, she said.
I have the doctor’s number.
If we need it.
WEEK 50
I stayed home from school today.
I’m telling you now,
don’t freak out.
Mom had to work.
No sick days during
the first thirty days of work.
Marisol had to stay home
to use one of her sick days.
I’m a kid, so pretty much
I can kind of have all the sick days I need.
And Levi, well,
for Levi pretty much every day is a sick day.
Someone had to stay with him
so it was me.
I’ll be gone just a couple of hours.
Just while he’s napping.
I’ll get my work computer and bring it home.
They said I could work from home
the whole rest of the week.
It will be fine.
I’ll be back before you know it.
Famous last words, Mom.
Famous last words.
You know when you print pictures
and they
come matte or shiny?
Shiny is . . . shiny.
But matte is a little more dull, the colors kind of muted.
Levi is matte today.
His face is darker, blurrier.
I wish Mom wasn’t at work.
He’s scaring me.
Four stoplights.
Why is it taking this long?
It shouldn’t take this long.
Where is the ambulance?
Where where where where where
where where where where where
oh my god
levi
wake up
levi
wake up
levi
wake up
Please forgive me.
It’s the only thing I can think to do.
WEEK 51
I didn’t care about the cars,
I didn’t even think about them.
Have you ever seen a blue baby?
If you have then you know
you can’t see anything else
only that awful color
spreading through his face
settling in his lips.
I was holding him so close.
Running,
just running
down the sidewalk
hoping to meet the ambulance
but it still wasn’t there
and suddenly José’s house was there
and the turtle car was there
and I know the keys are always under the visor
and so I took it
even though it was probably going to catch on fire
even though I’ve never driven one inch in my life
I took it.
I stole it.
I stole that turtle car.
Did you say five, James?
I hit five cars?
Well, I was really distracted.
Five counts of leaving the scene of an accident.
Five counts of vehicular negligence.
One count of driving without a license.
One count of driving underage.
One count of grand theft auto.
One probation: violated.
I’m reading the charges
while I wait for the judge.
These khaki scrubs scratching me,
these white slippers not fitting right.
They left one thing off this sheet:
one count of saving Levi’s life.
Which counts for everything
don’t you think?
Your mom will be here as soon as she can, Timothy,
as soon as Levi is stable.
Her fingers gripped the metal table
right where someone had etched
F F F F F F
across the surface.
The surface of Mrs. B’s face
was also etched
with lines that meant
timothy timothy timothy timothy timothy.
OK,
I said.
Thanks for coming.
Oh, Timothy,
she said.
Oh, my sweet Timothy.
I probably don’t need to worry about this journal anymore
do I?
Now that I’m in new trouble?
Now that I’ve been taken to juvie
so fast
my head spun.
I like writing in it, though.
I like that Mrs. B made them let me keep it.
So at least one thing from house arrest worked.
This stupid journal
turned out to be not so stupid
after all.
José’s dad won’t press charges.
He refuses to say I stole the car.
Only that I borrowed it
with his permission
even though I am thirteen.
Is that going to get him in trouble?
I don’t want to get him in trouble.
WEEK 52
Ducks.
Little yellow ducks.
On the mask.
Well, masks.
One over Levi’s nose and mouth.
One over his trach.
Just to be safe, Mom said.
She held him in her lap
across the table from me.
This one scratched like the other one,
the word SNART
in rock band letters.
It was a blockage,
she said.
You did everything right,
she smiled.
Well, everything regarding Levi.
She sighed.
It only took an overnight procedure
to remove the blockage.
He’s fine now, see?
Levi smacked his hands on the table.
The doctors say you saved him, Timothy.
Your quick thinking saved his life.
Levi pulled the ducks off his face
away from his neck.
He smiled at me,
put his dirty finger in his trach,
and said,
BUH BUH
BUH BUH
and then he signed more dog
and my heart almost exploded
right there
in the visiting room
at Tall Pines, Texas Juvenile Correctional Facility.
The thing about juvie is that
it’s not like jail.
Not really.
You don’t get an end date.
They don’t just say:
You get six months in juvie!
You have to stay until they think you’re fine.
So it could be six months.
It could be a year.
It depends on me.
We’re on Timothy time now.
We fly out next week.
Mom showed me the paperwork.
We’ll stay for two weeks
for tests.
Then we’ll come home.
After we find out the results
we’ll go back for the surgery
if Dr. Sawyer thinks he can do it.
I looked at the paper.
Everything I’d worked for
typed out neatly
in rows
on a white sheet
just like any old regular paper.
So simple.
So not simple.
Regular words.
But not regular words.
I looked up at Mom.
You’ll have to tell him hi for me, OK?
Dr. Sawyer, I mean.
You’ll have to tell him thank you.
One year ago.
Like one of those machines
where the ball falls in a bucket
and knocks over a bottle
that lights a match
that pops a balloon
that scares a chicken
who lays an egg
that cracks in a pan
and makes your breakfast for you.
One year ago it all started.
One year ago I made this crazy meal
that I am still eating.
It was weird to see you guys together,
James.
Mrs. B.
In the same room, I mean.
I know you’re together together,
but seeing you here
across the table,
this one scratched with BARF,
was a little disorienting.
And even though it was weird
seeing you together
without any plants
or grouchy looks
I’ve actually missed you guys.
Can you believe that?
On my cot
in the room
they call a dorm room
though I guess it’s probably nothing like
a real dorm room.
The walls are yellow.
Yellow like Mrs. B’s hair.
Yellow like the Baby Signing Adventure DVD case.
Yellow like the lasers killing José’s aliens.
Yellow like James’s gym T-shirt.
Yellow like Mom’s wallet.
Yellow like Marisol’s scrubs.
Yellow like the stars on Isa’s fingernails.
Timothy Davidson?
One of the guards who is not called a guard
but who is still technically a guard
stood in the doorway.
Come with me.
You have a phone call.
The phones all line a hallway.
I picked one up.
I said, Hello.
There was a crackle, and then,
T-man?
I looked at the yellow wall.
I saw the words scratched there,
the words HOPE and FIGHT
and BREATHE and SUCK.
I put my hand on the cool cinder blocks
on the strength of those walls.
And I took a deep, deep breath.
Dad?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is one of those circumstances where the Acknowledgments word count could easily outnumber the actual word count of the book, but I will endeavor to keep it short.
To Ammi-Joan Paquette, Virginia Euwer Wolff, and Tamra Tuller—you brought Timothy and Levi to life. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Thank you. And to everyone at Chronicle—
a million high fives for being so darn supportive. I often wonder if I’m the most fortunate author in the whole universe.
To Tracy, Annie, and Chris, thank you for your professional expertise. I am amazed and awed every day by people who work
in the juvenile justice system and with Child Protective Services. You are heroes.
To Sam Mirrop, a king among men, a leader among doctors, and the best Tigger impersonator I’ve ever met, here’s to no more Letters of Medical Necessity.
To Anne, Michelle, and Delicia, thank you for your years of loving hard work. When a mother learns she’s going to have to share her baby with in-home nurses it’s kind of hard to accept, but you all became part of our family. Thank you for being nothing
like Mary.
To everyone on our aerodigestive team at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, and especially to the nurses in the Complex Airway ICU and step-down unit—you made a difficult time so much easier. You are amazing, and you saved our lives in more ways than one.
There are not enough thanks in the world for Don and Carole, Rose Marie and Ken, Julie and Chris, Sharon and Adam, all my mamas who circled the wagons when we needed it most, and of course to Amy, who saved me a thousand times just by making