“What?” I feel like when I have a really high fever and I can’t figure out something easy. “Wait, what?”
The doctor is nodding like I asked him a yes-or-no question. He says, “We did all we could, but we couldn’t save him. Malik was already gone.”
“No.” I stand up. I look the doctor in the eye and point at him. “That’s a lie and you know it. He was alive in the car, and he’s alive now.”
The state trooper stands up next to me. “Travis,” he says, “I’m so sorry.”
“We’re all sorry,” the doctor says. “There was too much internal bleeding. He was gone before we had him in the operating room. And unfortunately—”
Before he can finish, I hit him. I want to shut him up, and I do. I punch him in the face, in the left eye, and he goes down, and I step up over him and yell, “You fucking liar!” and that’s when someone tackles me and I hit the floor, and I’m facedown and my arms are pulled behind my back and two people kneel on me while someone zip-ties my wrists.
WHEN YOU GONNA WAKE UP?
I’m in a bed, in a room with the lights off. I don’t know where I am. My brain is wet steel wool. I blink and try to clear my mind. Try to open my eyes all the way, but my eyelids are weighted down and I think of fishhooks pulling the lids closed. I can’t keep them open, and I start dreaming, then force my eyes open once again. Take a deep breath. Blink. The corners of the room go gray. The window. The light fixture turned off.
Drugs like syrup drizzling over my brain.
I remember one needle, one needle going into my leg at the hospital, on the floor of the emergency room’s waiting area. My hands behind my back, zip-tied. My yelling and yelling. That one needle and that’s it. Nothing after.
My eyes close. I’m so tired. I go back to sleep.
CORRECTIONS
It takes me a minute to realize where I am. The light’s on now. There’s light coming in the window too. I lie there. Stare at the ceiling. Sit up. Swing my legs off the edge of the bed and put my feet on the floor. I think about standing up, but I don’t feel coordinated enough to do it.
My wrists are bruised. Small cuts wrap around each one. My left elbow is sore. My ribs are sore.
A corrections officer opens my door and says, “Lunchtime.”
I shuffle down the hallway, still hazy from the drugs. A kid in front of me makes a birdcall and the corrections officer to our right says, “That’s enough of that.”
We go to the cafeteria, everything shiny, everything stainless steel.
We stay in line. Move forward every five seconds. The kid in front of me turns around and stares at me. A corrections officer says, “Eyes forward, feet forward,” and the kid turns back around.
I get my soup and sandwich, orange juice, and walk to a seat on the far side. I don’t sit near anyone. I’m not hungry, but I try to eat. Take a bite and chew. Think about Creature. He and I have both been in here. Him for beating the shit out of two white kids who called him “a nigger rapper bitch.”
I keep looking for Creature in the lunchroom even as I remember the hospital. I imagine Creature as the tall kid to my right, the one with the long arms, but when he turns toward me his face is all wrong and I look back at my own food.
I look for Creature in the next line, when the second detention pod comes to get its lunch. They’re told to wait, and we’re finishing up even though I haven’t eaten much, and I look along that line for Creature, but he isn’t there.
After lunch, they take us back to our rooms and close the doors so they can select who goes out to the common area in the afternoon. I remember this from before. And like before, I’m not let out into the common area.
—
Later, it gets dark outside. A corrections officer brings me a small paper cup with two white pills in it. Then he hands me a Dixie cup of water.
I put the pills on my tongue and swallow them with the water.
“Open your mouth,” he says.
I open it.
“Now lift your tongue,” he says. “Left. Okay. And right. Okay.”
—
Fuzziness. Dreaming and awake. My mom sits on the bed next to me. Pulls up her sleeve. Shows me the track marks. I picture leeches sleeping on her arm, her brushing them off, and this is what they left behind.
VISITING HOURS
Sunday, after lunch, we’re back in our rooms until 3:00 p.m. visiting hours. A corrections officer comes to my door and says, “You have visitors.”
My grandma and grandpa are waiting for me at the table. I look for a third visitor and wonder if Creature will come. Then I blink and try to clear my head. I feel like a grasshopper caught by a fence lizard, feel its teeth against the sides of my skull.
Grandma hugs me and I kiss her head. She’s thin. Feels brittle.
Grandpa hugs me too, and I don’t think he’s ever hugged me before. He says, “I’m so sorry, Travis.”
“It’s okay.”
“No.” He taps his chest with his finger. “I’m sorry.”
I start to cry then and I sit down, and I can’t look at either of them.
“Oh, sweetie.” Grandma leans across the table and takes my hands. Then I’m crying harder, and I put my hands over my face and duck my head, and I’m shaking and crying, and I can’t stop.
Grandma says, “I love you, Travis. I really love you.”
It takes a long time for me to stop crying.
Grandpa says, “We’ve talked to your lawyer, and you’re lucky. Things look good for you. You have it pretty easy, considering that you’ve been in here before.”
Grandma reaches into her purse and pulls out a manila file folder. Sets it on the table in front of me.
I open it. It’s half an inch thick, full of typed forms and letters. I flip through the pages and stop on my mug shot from my first arrest.
Grandpa says, “You’re going to have a pretrial hearing. And it looks like the charges will be dropped in exchange for what they call ‘concessions.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you’re going to have a suspended driver’s license until you’re 18. That’s for the hit-and-run without a driver’s license. But that’s not the good news. The good news is that the doctor at the hospital, the man you punched, doesn’t want to press charges. He said he understands your grief.”
“Oh.”
Grandma leans across the table and pats my hand.
I feel like I’m going to start crying again.
Grandpa says, “You’re really lucky. Everything could be a lot worse…legally speaking.”
“So is that everything?”
“No,” he says, “but the resisting-arrest portion will be paid for by your time in here. The lawyer said that adults at the Lane County Jail get out after two days on that charge, so we’re confident that your time this week will amount to enough time for that.”
“Okay.”
Grandma says, “You’ll have counseling too, once a week for 12 weeks. The meeting with the judge is tomorrow morning, and if you accept the terms, everything will be put in place. You’ll get out in two or three days.”
I say, “All right.”
It’s hard to explain, but this all feels like it’s happening to someone else. I don’t know if it’s the drugs they give me, or how tired I am, or everything that’s happened, but I don’t feel like myself right now.
The corrections officer comes over and says, “That’s time.”
Grandma pats my hand once more and takes the file folder. She puts it back in her purse and stands up. Then Grandpa and I stand as well.
The corrections officer is standing behind my grandparents, and they both look at him. He points to the door.
My grandma steps around the table and hugs me, her arms feeling so thin, then my grandpa hugs me again too. Grandpa says, “We’ll be back to see you soon, okay? If you’re not released tomorrow, we’ll be back again.” He smiles and puts his hands on my shoulders, and I keep myself from crying.
> The corrections officer says, “It really is time now.”
I watch them leave through the double doors, and I wave to my grandma when she turns and looks back.
—
I have a phone call later, and they come and get me from my room.
I say, “Hello?”
The person on the other end of the line clears his throat. “Travis?”
“Coach?”
“Yeah, it’s me. How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay.”
“I just heard about you last night, and I was worried about you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Coach. That’s not your job.”
“Well,” he says, “anyway, I was worried.”
I flick my fingertip against the wall a couple of times. Say, “I know this is pretty messed up. Will I even be able to play after all of this?”
“I hope so,” Coach says. “To be honest, I don’t know, though. You might be able to play this year, and I’ll do everything I can to make that happen. I’ll be behind you the whole way.”
My throat feels thick and scratchy. I don’t say anything. Coach waits for me to get my voice back. Finally, he says, “Travis?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about before, about how hard I was on you. And I’m really sorry about Creature.”
I put my hand over my eyes. Take a deep breath. Try not to cry again. I tap my forehead against the wall.
Coach says, “That should never happen. You guys are good kids with rough lives. Or…he was a good kid, I guess. And you still are. You’ve got a lot going for you.”
“Yeah, well…”
“And I’m going to help you as much as I can, you hear me?”
“Thanks, Coach.”
I nod and close my eyes. Feel the cool of the wall against my forehead.
The corrections officer taps me on the shoulder, then points to the sign on the wall next to the phone. It says: THREE-MINUTE CALL LIMIT.
I say, “Sorry, Coach, but I’ve gotta go. There’s a time limit.”
“I understand,” he says. “We’ll talk soon, all right?”
“All right, Coach.”
NO MATTER WHAT
The woman psychiatrist is young and pretty but she doesn’t smile. We sit across from each other in a room in the front of the building. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. I look around the room. There’s a bookshelf with lots of thick books on it, and I wonder if she’s read all of them. There’s a desk with a lamp. Nothing else on top of the desk. We’re sitting on blue plastic chairs in front of the desk.
The psychiatrist crosses her legs. She has thin, strong legs and I wonder what sport she played in high school. She’s reading a file. “Tell me about your mother.”
I point at the file. “What does it say there?”
“Well, let’s start with your living situation. Why don’t you live with your mother?”
“She uses heroin.”
The psychiatrist closes the file folder. “Have you seen her use heroin?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
I shake my head.
“A lot?”
“Yes.”
The psychiatrist cocks her head sideways. “When you were little too?”
I nod.
She picks up a yellow legal pad and writes a few notes. “And when was the last time you saw her?”
“Last summer.”
“You saw her this last summer?” She makes a circular motion with her finger. “So that means roughly a year ago?”
“Yes. Once.”
“And how long had it been before that?”
I count on my fingers. “I think maybe three years?”
“And how was she doing when you saw her last summer?”
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “This is really sad. We have to collect these facts, though.” She doesn’t smile, but she says “sorry” like she means it.
I breathe. Look around the room. Try to think about anything other than my mom. Anything other than Creature.
I look back at the psychiatrist and she leans forward. “Now tell me about Malik.”
I start to cry. I’ve cried more this week than in my whole life combined, and now I can’t stop myself. I grit my teeth and close my eyes and drop my head. Try to breathe through my nose, the tears leaking out the corners of my eyes.
“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s all right.”
I open my eyes and wipe my face with my hands. Take a big, deep breath.
The psychiatrist stands up and walks over to her desk. Opens a drawer and gets out tissues.
I say, “Thanks.”
She sits back down. Leans forward. “You’ve had a tough life in some significant ways, Travis. But the key here is making positive choices going forward. It’s my job to determine if you understand that.”
I wipe my eyes and nose with a tissue.
“So,” she says, “do you understand that?”
I look around for a garbage can and the psychiatrist reaches back for the wastebasket. Holds it out to me.
“Yes,” I say.
She hands me another tissue, and now she does smile at me. “I believe that. I think you do.”
We sit there and don’t talk for a minute. I hold the tissue in my hand because I don’t really need it now. I’m not crying anymore.
The psychiatrist picks up the file again. Settles back in her chair. Says, “Is there anything that you want to pursue? Anything that you love?”
“Basketball.”
“Basketball?” She flips to a different page in the file and taps something with her finger.
“Yes.”
She says, “And what’s your goal there?”
“To play D-1 college ball, to get a scholarship.”
“And are you playing now? I mean, I know you played on the school team last year until your first assault, but do you still play now? AAU? Or on another summer team?”
I shake my head. “I’ve been running drills. Working on my game.”
“And do you work hard?” She looks up from the file.
“What?”
“Well, most of reaching a long-term goal is doing daily practice. So, do you work hard when it’s not basketball season?”
“Yes,” I say. “Creature and I worked out every weekday morning this summer when we weren’t hurt. 500 shots, dribbling drills, push-ups, and pull-ups.”
“Creature?”
“Malik.”
“Oh,” she says. “I see.”
I don’t cry then. I don’t know why. I picture Creature practicing spin moves, right to left, left to right, and I smile. And that’s how it is in here, this week. I can’t tell these days whether I’m gonna smile or cry at any moment. It’s like I don’t even know myself right now.
The psychiatrist leans toward me. “So will you continue to pursue your dream now, even without Malik?”
“Yes.”
“No matter what?” she says. She closes the file and looks at me.
“Yes,” I say. “No matter what.”
FAMILY
I’ll get out today, and there are too many thoughts in my head, like trying to hold a gallon of water in my bare hands. Someone keeps pouring and I keep trying to make a better cup out of my palms and knitted-together fingers.
The drug’s haze wears off and I sit on my bunk in the afternoon and watch the angle of the sunlight slowly move across the floor.
I’ve spent a lot of time alone in my life and I always wonder at the strange concept of brothers and sisters, of a family that sits down and eats dinner together, of people talking in turn about what happened during their day at school and work. I wonder how many people really have that. I wonder if that exists anymore beyond TV shows and movies, if that’s something we’re supposed to think is real, something we’re supposed to hope for.
This is what I know about brothers:
Creature is dead, and the
re’s no way around that.
FINDING
At home, I unzip the pillow and take out the jar. It’s stuffed with money. I don’t count it, but it’s a lot. $2,000 maybe. I pull twenties out, count and lay them down by hundreds until I have exactly $1,000 on the floor. I’ll pay the court-appointed fine with that. I slide the thousand in an envelope, seal it, and slip it underneath my mattress. Then I put the jar with the rest of my money in my backpack. Go to the kitchen.
I make sandwiches. Spread yellow mustard on both pieces of bread. No mayo ’cause she always hated it. Salami, turkey, and cheddar. Slice tomatoes. Add lettuce. I make three sandwiches. Cut them in half and wrap each in foil. Pull Chips Ahoy! out of the cupboard and drop a dozen in a Ziploc. Find two unopened Gatorades and put those in my pack as well.
I look along the river first. Spend an hour on the North Bank trails. Then through Alton Baker. The shelters. The lowlands. Under the two bridges, Ferry and DiFazio.
Then I pedal down to the Washington-Jefferson Bridge and lock up my bike. I don’t walk out onto the court because I don’t want to see the bloodstain if it’s still there. In my head I can see a game going, fives running shirts and skins, but it’s daylight and the court’s empty.
I walk south under the bridge, past the cleared pylons, no ivy, but two tables, groups of people huddled next to shopping carts. Blankets. Army tarps. Rolled sleeping bags and extra coats. A tent without a stuff sack. They’re sitting on the benches, cans of Sparks and Mad Dog 20/20 on the table.
I look at each face to make sure. Then I keep walking. Walk to the sculpture at the end of the park, its iron painted red, a film of green lichen creeping from the corners.
Two men stand at the end of the highway off-ramp. A woman across from them, 60 or 70 years old. I check the west end of the park. See no one. Walk north again, back past the picnic tables to the basketball courts, then up past the construction zone for the skate park. Check underneath the forms, the first one empty, but the second one with two people in it.
This is the Part Where You Laugh Page 22
