Broken Glass Park

by Alina Bronsky

  “What else can I do?” I ask, agitated. “Where’s the medicine?”

  “Shit,” Volker says. “We’ve got to get to the car.”

  “You want me to look for it in the car?”

  “No. We need to get in the car. It’s not stopping. We have to go to the hospital.”

  Felix is moving his lips and looking at me. I go closer and kneel next to him. I can barely hear what he says. “Come with us,” he says. “Please.”

  I pull my jeans on. Volker throws on a shirt. Felix puts up his arm as Volker goes to hoist him.

  “I want to get dressed,” he says through his clenched teeth.

  Volker rolls his eyes. “Stop screwing around,” he says. But I run upstairs, jerk open a drawer in his room, and pull out a pair of jeans by the ankles.

  In the car I sit in back next to Felix again. His arm is draped around me while Volker floors it.

  We hurtle down the autobahn at 120 miles per hour.

  I don’t understand what’s happening. I hold Felix’s left hand and rub it, periodically slipping down to his wrist to feel his fluttering pulse. I press down on it, hoping to keep him from passing out. I’d love to use my other hand to cover my other ear so I wouldn’t have to hear the whistling noises coming out of his mouth, each one sending a chill down my spine.

  Felix begins to collapse onto me.

  “Volker,” I scream. “He’s losing it.”

  Volker throws his mobile phone over his shoulder into my lap.

  “Call them. The number’s listed under hospital. Tell them we’re on the way. Give them our name.”

  I flip open the phone. It’s much more complicated than mine, and it takes some work to find the phone book and the right entry. Eventually I find it, push call, and hold the phone up to my ear. The sound of the road flying by under the car is so loud that I’m afraid I won’t be able to hear them answer.

  Somebody picks up the line and I barely make out the words “pulmonary care.” I stammer and then say Felix’s first name. I blank on the last name.

  “Trebur,” says Volker from the front seat.

  “Felix Trebur,” I shout into the phone.

  “Can’t breathe again. We can’t get it under control,” Volker says.

  I repeat it like an echo.

  I can’t understand what the voice at the other end of the line says. Then it’s gone.

  “Got cut off,” I say, distraught. “Volker, I lost the guy on the phone. What should I do?”

  “Nothing,” Volker says as calmly as anyone could possibly do while shooting down the fast lane in the middle of the night with someone about to croak in the back seat. “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t understand what he said to me!”

  “It doesn’t matter. They know we’re on the way. They know us well.”

  I cradle Felix’s head in my hand, trying to make him more comfortable.

  We get off the autobahn. I don’t notice where we are—I’m looking at Felix. As I look at his face in the pale light of the road lamps, I realize it has taken on a color I’ve never seen in any living person before. I’m sure he’s dead. I put a finger on his lips and am amazed to feel warm breath on it.

  A mechanical arm across the road goes up. Then everything speeds up. Felix is whisked out and disappears on a gurney. Volker hurries out and runs after it with his hand gripping my upper arm. I let myself be pulled along. My knees nearly buckle.

  Then we’re sitting on plastic chairs in a hallway. For ages. After the burst of activity, it feels like time is standing still now. The glaring fluorescent lights make Volker’s skin look yellow. He sits there with his legs spread wide apart, his head leaning against the wall, and his eyes closed. The top two buttons of his shirt are open. He’s a mess, and it doesn’t suit him. I’m tempted to tell him—or just to straighten him up myself.

  “Volker,” I say after a long time, “what color is my face right now?”

  He rubs his eyes before looking at me.

  Green,” he says and leans his head back again.

  “Volker,” I say, “where are we?”

  “At the university medical center,” he says with his eyes closed.

  “Volker,” I say, “why are we here?”

  He lifts a hand, blindly finds my shoulder, and pats me on the back.

  I get goose bumps along my shoulder blades.

  “Volker,” I say, “what’s wrong with Felix?”

  “It would be easier to tell you what’s right with him,” Volker says.

  I’m not sure what to say to that.

  “Felix was born with lungs that don’t always work,” he says. “For the first ten years of his life he spent one month out of every two in the hospital. Then he got a transplant.”

  “Oh my god,” I say.

  “If you two slept together, you must have heard it. When it’s quiet, his breathing sounds like a soft whistle.”

  I remember the noise I was wondering about as I fell asleep.

  “I thought the sound was from a mobile phone,” I say, and have the impression my ears have suddenly swollen and gone beet red. I touch them. They’re hot, but the same size as usual.

  “At first I thought I’d never get used to it,” Volker says. “But you can get used to anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The sound of his breathing. When we would go on vacation and stay in the same room, the noise used to drive me crazy. I started sleeping with earplugs. That’s why it took so long for me to hear you tonight.”

  “I didn’t think it was so bad,” I say. “The whistling, I mean.”

  Everything around us is quiet. The only sound is of muffled footsteps somewhere in the distance, down some other hall or behind some set of doors.

  “The white line,” I say. “He has a white line on his chest.”

  “That’s the scar from the operation,” Volker says. “He’s ashamed of it. It’s the reason he never goes to the pool. He thinks everyone stares at it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “You can barely see it.”

  “I tell him that all the time. But he never believes me.”

  “What a crock of shit,” I say. Then I’m suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

  Volker opens his eyes and looks at me questioningly.

  “For what?”

  “That we’re here. I figured everything was perfect for you. I thought you guys were happy people with no problems.”

  Volker lets out a joyless chuckle.

  “Such a long scar,” I say.

  “He was cut open,” says Volker. “They sawed his breastbone in half. So they could get at his bronchial tubes. He was in intensive care for a long time afterwards. A little boy with a million tubes stuck in him. Sorry, I know that sounds maudlin—but you can hardly take it when it’s your kid.”

  “Of course,” I say. “How could anyone not be affected by that?” I think of Anton and suddenly feel cold.

  «I had a problem with my gallbladder two years ago,» says Volker. «Gallstones—totally routine. I had an operation at a hospital. Minimally invasive surgery. Absolutely nothing compared to a lung operation. But even so, when the anesthesia wore off, I was lying there, and, Christ, it hurt so bad. I was begging for painkillers at every chance. And I couldn’t stop thinking about Felix the whole time. He hadn’t cried at all through his entire ordeal. Can you imagine how much it must hurt to have your breastbone sawed open? To have parts of your lungs cut out? Can you imagine how every breath must hurt after that? He tried to take shallow breaths so he wouldn’t scream.»

  He doesn’t look at me. He stares straight ahead.

  “He never complained,” says Volker. “He’s never had it easy, but he never whined about it. Before the operation, there were lots of things he couldn’t do. Couldn’t play sports, no horsing around. He was a really sick child. Afterward things got better. With the transplant he was able to live a normal life—at least compared to the way he’d been forced to live prior to it. He h
as to take a lot of medications—to keep his body from rejecting the transplant, to keep his blood from getting too viscous—and everything has to be constantly monitored. He jokes that this place is his second home.”

  “But why are we here right now?” I ask. “Was the transplant rejected?”

  “God, no,” says Volker. “What are you saying? No. But for the last couple years he’s had these attacks where he can hardly breathe. Allergic reactions or something. Over and over—out of the blue. The bronchial tubes seize up. The nerves in charge of the tubes just go haywire.”

  “The nerves?” I ask.

  He holds up his hands and spreads out his fingers. “See, these are the bronchial tubes. And this is where the pulmonary lobes would be. Here’s where the transplant is grafted on. With exertion, your breathing rate increases. That’s normal. But with Felix, everything seizes up. He can’t get any air. His body’s oxygen supply is reduced. Emergency. As just happened.”

  “What causes it?” I ask, feeling suddenly guilty.

  “Nobody knows,” says Volker. “It’s erratic. Though usually at night. I really can’t say what the source of the problem is. I can’t figure out any pattern.”

  “And the doctors?” I ask. “Do they have any idea?”

  “No, they don’t know, either. Felix is a riddle.” He smiles. “A medical mystery. There’s probably not a single allergen he hasn’t been tested for. The assumption is that it’s some rare genetic defect. And by the way, these attacks sometimes go away on their own. There are a few tricks that can help sometimes, too—like cold water. But it doesn’t always work, obviously.”

  “And what happens if they can’t get it under control?” I ask, and put my hand to my mouth.

  “Well,” says Volker slowly, “that would be bad. Very bad.”

  “What are they doing all this time?” I ask, after taking my fingers out of my mouth.

  “I’m not sure. They have drugs they use to try to get it under control. A series of steps. If the first one doesn’t work, they try the next one. Twice they’ve had to hook him up to a respirator because they had to give him such large doses of muscle relaxants to open up his breathing passages. You know what relaxants are?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Medicines that put your muscles to sleep—they can stop your own breathing.”

  “Right,” says Volker. “That’s what happened to him.”

  I feel sick. “What is taking them so long?” I ask.

  Volker doesn’t answer.

  “Volker,” I say. “I think it’s my fault.”

  He turns to me with a look of shock on his face.

  “Yeah,” I say, “we probably shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Done what?” asks Volker.

  My face flushes. It feels like a dozen bees have just stung me.

  “Oh, that,” Volker says, scanning my burning face. “Are you trying to say you took my son’s virginity tonight?”

  “No,” I say.

  “No?” he says. “It certainly looked that way.”

  “Not tonight,” I say. “This afternoon.”

  Volker laughs. Here in the empty hospital hallway, it sounds horribly out of place.

  “That’s what happens when you leave children unattended,” he says.

  “We’re not children,” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I don’t think it had anything to do with that. This has happened before. Although,” he glances sideways at me, “it’s been a while since it was this bad.”

  “Maybe he needs to conserve his energy better,” I say awkwardly.

  Volker laughs again. “Poor Felix,” he says. “I’ll never be able to tell him what he should do. I’ve never had any success with that.”

  “Stop laughing,” I say. “Please. It’s creeping me out. It sounds freaky in here.”

  Volker shakes his head in disbelief. “Little Felix,” he says. “Who would have thought.”

  I don’t like his tone or the topic.

  Just then a door opens. A short doctor with dark brown skin and short black hair waves Volker over.

  I stay seated and feel my heart slowly sink.

  Volker shakes me by the shoulder. “You still with me?” he asks. “You seem to have checked out there. We can see Felix.”

  “Is he . . . ?”

  “He’s okay for now. He has to stay under observation.”

  “He doesn’t have anything with him.”

  “That’s exactly what he’s going to say to me. Come on, we’ll say goodnight to him.”

  “Is it okay?” I ask timidly.

  “I’m sure. Come on.”

  We go up one floor. Up here the walls are even whiter, and the silence is even more pronounced. There’s a long wall of doors. One is open and a nurse gestures for us to come.

  “Just be quiet,” she says.

  We enter the room. I’m scared about what we’re going to see.

  There are two beds inside. There seems to be someone sleeping in the bed nearer to the window. There’s a dark-haired head on the pillow. In the other bed sits Felix, glaring at Volker. I can’t believe how alive he looks. He’s not blue anymore. Only later do I notice the cable running from beneath his T-shirt to a frightening-looking machine next to the bed.

  “I want to go home,” he says.

  “You’re not a little kid anymore,” Volker says.

  “Why do I need to be here?” Felix hisses.

  “They want to keep you under observation.”

  “They didn’t do that last time.”

  “You didn’t almost die on them last time,” says Volker sharply.

  Felix starts to open his mouth, then closes it.

  He’s sitting on top of the covers in the jeans I pulled out of his armoire and the T-shirt he was in when he fell asleep snuggled up to me. He looks as if he’s ready to hop up and go. One hand is balled up in a fist. The pointer finger of his other hand is in some sort of sleeve that’s connected to another machine.

  “I’ll come first thing in the morning,” Volker says. “We. We’ll come first thing in the morning.”

  “I don’t have anything here. No toothbrush, no computer, no pajamas, nothing.”

  “I’ll bring it all in the morning.”

  “I want it now.”

  “Abracadabra. Felix wants it right now. That’s crap. It’s not going to happen tonight.”

  “You can cut the lecture.”

  I start to leave. I feel out of place.

  But as I start to move, Felix notices me. He looks at me. And there’s great disappointment in his face.

  “Sleep now,” says Volker. “We’re going home to sleep too. It’ll do us all good.”

  Felix’s eyelids close halfway, depressed. He keeps looking at me without saying anything. I can’t tell what he’s trying to tell me with his look. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to spend the night here.

  Volker turns the door handle.

  “Four o’clock,” he says, yawning. “What a night. Get undressed and go to sleep. You’re a big boy.”

  “Idiot,” Felix mutters.

  Then I get the impression Volker wants to leave before me so Felix has a chance to talk to me privately. But I don’t feel like hearing whatever it is he wants to say.

  “Sleep well,” I say quickly. “See you tomorrow.”

  I duck under Volker’s arm and out into the hallway.

  He catches up to me in front of a glass door.

  “Where are you going?” he says good-naturedly. “That’s the wrong door.”

  I turn around and walk along next to him until we’re outside.

  In the parking lot, I greedily breathe the fresh night air.

  “What a night,” Volker says again. “Look. Stars.”

  “Yep,” I say. “A lot of them.”

  The drive back home passes like a dream. The gentle sway of the car makes me drowsy.

  Volker turns on some music. “Dido,” he says. “You know her?”

  “Yea
h,” I say.

  “Great, huh?”

  “It’s all right,” I say. “I’m not a huge fan.”

  Volker pushes the buttons on the CD changer. “Mary J. Blige?” he says. “You like her?”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “There’s worse.”

  “Geez,” he says, annoyed. “Is there anyone you like?”

  “Yes,” I say. “You. Only you.”

  After that I don’t hear anything more.

  I’m awakened by the wind coming in the open door. Volker gives me his hand.

  “We’re home,” he says. “Or do you want to sleep in the car?”

  I take his hand and let myself be pulled out of the car. Then he lets go again quickly.

  Then don’t, I think.

  We walk up the stone steps to the front door. His keys jingle. Inside I brace myself with one hand on the wall and work at my shoelaces with the other.

  At some point I realize Volker is standing next to me. And that he hasn’t turned on any lights.

  I lose my balance and my forehead lands on his shoulder. His shirt smells good, though it’s sweaty. I like the mix of sweat, cologne, and gasoline scents. The smell of the hospital is in there, too, along with cigarettes from the restaurant earlier tonight and a touch of alcohol.

  I rub my forehead on his shoulder.

  Volker tussles my hair, pushes me upright, and turns on the light.

  Then don’t, I think again, turning my back to him and walking slowly up the stairs.

  He passes me and turns into the kitchen.

  I stop there, too.

  I lean against the wall and watch as he pops open a bottle of red wine and pours himself a glass. He empties it and refills it. And again. And again.

  Then he notices me.

  “Would you like some?” he asks. “Or have you had enough for tonight?”

  “More than enough,” I say. “Actually, I don’t drink.”

  “That’s a shame,” he says. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because I come from a country where so many people drink themselves to death.”

  The glass clinks as Volker puts it down.

  “You’re still young,” he says and walks past me out of the kitchen. “You’ll change your mind a few more times.”