by Han Nolan
I notice his wrists are tied to the bed. My chest burns again. I feel like a complete failure. Why couldn't I fix him? What did I do wrong?
CRAZY GLUE: Maybe it's too much like the blind leading the blind.
Shut up! What does that mean? What do you all keep implying? Why don't you leave me alone? You're all turning against me. Where's Sexy Lady? Has she turned against me, too?
SEXY LADY: You're just so angry. Anger's not hot. Calm down, Jason. That's all we're saying.
I'm not angry. Why does everybody keep saying to calm down! I'm calm! I'm calm! Jeez! I'm calm already!
A nurse comes into the room, holding a set of sheets. She looks like someone's grandmother, a comfortable-looking kind of person, like Aunt Bee.
AUNT BEE: Oh dear, I think I look better than she does, don't you? Am I really that overweight?
"Well now, you'll be happy to know we'll be moving your father out of ICU later tonight if he behaves himself and his heart rate remains stable. It converted on its own, so that's good news." She shakes her head. "He's a fighter, he is, just like his son, from what I hear." She smiles at me and I turn back to my dad. He looks so frail and vulnerable just lying with his mouth hanging open and his arms and legs tied down. Jeez, I hate this!
The nurse sets her sheets on the chair on the other side of the bed. "I'll take good care of your father; don't you worry."
She pushes on something with her foot and raises the bed.
I take Dad's hand in mine. It feels warm, a good kind of warm. "He doesn't know where he is. He's—he's..."
"Oh, I know all about it." The nurse nods. She grabs my dad's water pitcher and lifts the lid to peer inside. "We've got it all under control." She goes over to the sink and dumps out the water.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: See. It's all under control.
Yeah, and I'm calm and I'm not worried, and anyway, I wish everyone would stop telling me how to feel!
CRAZY GLUE: Aye-aye, sir!
Oh, shut up!
Dad sleeps all afternoon, so I sit by his bed and watch the TV. I don't want to think about anything. The TV's good for that. Around five the nurse comes in and pulls out my IV thing that's still stuck in my hand, gives me my bag of clothes, and tells me I can get dressed. I do as I'm told. When I'm done, I sit back down beside my dad. I rest my arm on his shoulder and wait for Sam. The longer I wait, the sharper the pain in my chest gets. Maybe I'll have a heart attack and die. That would solve all my problems.
AUNT BEE: Maybe all your problems are over. Your father's being taken care of; you're being taken care of...
Why won't you all leave me alone! I don't want to think about it.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Maybe you're ashamed because you feel a little relieved.
CRAZY GLUE: Or a lot relieved.
Relieved to lose my dad? To be going who knows where? No way! You all are the crazy ones.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Hmm. Just remember, you said it, not us.
I hear a knock and look up. It's Sam.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask without even saying hello. I'm pissed. I just feel pissed.
Sam gives me this quick, businesslike smile, the kind of smile that means he has some kind of unpleasant news that he's going to pass off as good news. "We're in luck, Jason. I found a nice couple who have room for you in their home. They live near enough that you'll be able to attend your same school. Pretty good, huh?" He flashes another smile at me. "So, ready to go?"
"I guess," I say. I look at Dad and notice his hand twitch beneath his restraint. I try to stand up, but I can't. I shake my head. I can't do it. How can I leave him? It's too hard. I feel so—so—my chest hurts. He needs me. We need to stick together. I can't let go of him. I look at Sam. "Why can't I just stay here? Really, I need to be here with him. I need to." I keep my voice level, no panic, no wild guy, but inside, my chest is on fire, my bird heart is in flames.
"Hey, buddy, it's going to be all right. You can call me anytime to ask about your father's progress, and you'll get to visit with him every two weeks."
"Every two weeks! Are you kidding me? That's not often enough. I have to see him every day. It has to be every day. Every day or I won't leave." I lean back in my chair and cross my good arm over the sling.
"Jason, do you just want what you want, or what's best for your father? Let him get well, okay? Can you do that?"
CRAZY GLUE: Ouch! The guy sure knows just where to plant his words.
I shrug, and he says, "I know it's asking a lot of you, but you have to be an adult about this. Let him get well."
I look at my dad lying on his back with his mouth hanging open. The skin on his face is pale yellow. His hands are so long and thin, and veined like an old man's hands. He's just in his forties, too young to look so old.
I know Dad has no idea I'm even here. I think of jumping on top of him and beating him sane, or doing something, anything, to bring him back, now, right away, so that I don't have to leave him. I shake my head and feel the sting of tears welling up. I can't leave. No, I can't leave. I can't stand up and walk out of this room. I'll fall apart. My arm will break off or my heart will cave in, or all my bones will crumble into a million pieces; something terrible like that will happen. I'm sure of it.
Sam comes over to me and sets his hand on my good shoulder. "Time to go now. Here we go." He puts his big Popeye arm around my back and pushes me, and I stand. He keeps his arm around my shoulder and leads me out of the room, talking the whole time. "That's the way. Here we go now. I thought we'd stop off at the Lost Dog Café on the way. Ever been there? Super sandwiches and great pizzas. You up for pizza? They've got one there that's my favorite. It's a white pizza, no tomato sauce and lots of garlic. Lots and lots of garlic."
Chapter Twenty-Three
MAYBE I STILL have a bit of the stomach flu, because I couldn't eat anything at the restaurant. I sat across from Sam, who stuffed piece after piece of pizza down his throat, all the while talking to me about nothing, just yammering with his mouth full, exposing his half-chewed garlic pizza every once in a while, which made the thought of eating even less appealing.
I guess I'm grateful to Sam for talking, though. The music, the people, the food, the bustling of the waitresses and waiters, and Sam's voice, helped me get through that first hour spent separated from my dad.
Now we're in the car, which reeks of garlic and warm car-heater air, and we're on our way to the foster home.
I stare out at the night, watching all the lights from the cars and streetlamps and shops with neon signs that advertise beer and places that are open, while Sam tells me about the foster family.
"Their name is Lynch," he says. "Margaret and Captain Tony Lynch, naval officer."
CRAZY GLUE: Cap'n? Did he say Cap'n?
LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).
"They have two other children living with them, a four-year-old African American girl named Gwendolyn and a seventeen-year-old Caucasian boy named Reed."
"Uh-huh." Do I care who they are or what their names are?
CRAZY GLUE: Is that a rhetorical question?
Sam turns onto Gelb Road and heads in the direction of Haze's neighborhood and, for a moment, before I block them out, thoughts of him and Pete and Shelby flood my mind, and then a surge of anger roils in my gut. Okay, I know they did the right thing reporting me. I'm sure that's just what Mouse would have told them to do, but I still can't forgive them, and I hate myself for that as well as everything else.
CRAZY GLUE: Life just sucks!
Sam turns off Gelb, still heading toward Haze's neighborhood, and I wonder for one sick moment if maybe Haze's family has agreed to take me in. Maybe Sam is going to surprise me.
He turns again and we ride down a street lined with split-level homes, brick on the bottom and clapboard on the top. They all pretty much look alike except for one that has strings of white Christmas lights outlining the whole house and more lights buried in the lawn that spotlight a bunch of weird metal sculptures. We slow down and
Sam signals to turn into the driveway of that house.
CRAZY GLUE: Figures.
LAUGH TRACK: (Nervous laughter).
We ride past one sculpture that looks like a dragon with metal strips cut like flames coming out of its mouth, and then another that's a snake shaped like a loosely formed lowercase m, with some thick coil for its center and a metal mouse with giant whiskers captured inside.
Sam pulls into the driveway and drives up to the garage. "Mrs. Lynch is the artist," he says, turning off the engine.
I don't say anything, but already I don't like the place. I don't like metal. I like rocks and wood—natural stuff.
We get out of the car and walk up to the porch and find a life-size metal dog sculpture. It has a bell in its left paw and the sign around its chest says RING ME.
Sam reaches for the bell and rings it, like this is normal.
CRAZY GLUE: What kind of asylum has he brought you to, goob?
The door opens and a boy, tall and fat with a face that looks kind of like a girl's, all smooth and pink, stands in front of us. "Yeah?" he says. Then he opens the door wider and sees Sam with me. "Oh, hi ya, Sam. Come on in. Mom's in the hut-hut out back."
CRAZY GLUE: Hut-hut? Not good.
"Thanks, Reed." Sam steps inside and wipes his feet on a mat. "This is Jason Papadopoulos. He's going to be staying with you all awhile."
I stay standing on the narrow porch while Reed glances at me a second, then says, sounding bored, "Yeah, so you told me on the phone." He turns away from the door and heads for a set of stairs.
Sam smiles at me. "Come on." He leads me through the hallway and down the same few steps Reed took. The steps are covered in a shaggy green rug that feels super cushioned underneath, and for a second, before I can block out the thought, I remember my fall down the staircase and then my dad. I don't—I can't think about him.
I follow Sam into a large room at the bottom of the steps with a huge television that covers most of one wall, and lots of oversize chairs. Reed flops down into a plastic-covered recliner and it makes a loud farting noise. He hoots, then grabs a package of Oreos and pops one in his mouth.
"What are you watching there?" Sam asks, even though it's hard to miss Homer Simpson's big mug on that television.
"Simpsons," Reed says. "Great religious satire, don't you think?" He pops another Oreo in his mouth. "Mom's out the back there." He points his thumb in the direction of the sliding glass doors without taking his eyes off the television.
Sam slides open the glass door, and we step back outside and go over to a miniature version of the house we just left. Sam raps on the door and a woman wearing a canvas apron and a set of large safety glasses opens the door. "You're here already? Great!" she says, pushing her glasses onto her head. She looks me over and steps back into the building to let us in. "Welcome to my hut-hut."
I step inside behind Sam and squint in the brightly lighted room. A little girl in red overalls and with waves of black hair decorated with a red ribbon toddles over and throws her arms around the woman's leg. She stares up at us.
The woman bends down and scoops the girl into her arms. "This is Gwen," she says. And I'm Margaret Lynch, but you can call me Mom if you want, or Mrs. Lynch, and you have to be Jason." She laughs and holds out her hand for me to shake—and I freeze.
CRAZY GLUE: Whoa! Uncanny likeness to your mom's laugh.
AUNT BEE: But she looks nothing like her. She's so small, with short salt-and-pepper hair and lots of lines around her eyes. Your mother was tall and graceful with auburn hair and...
I know what my mother looked like. Quiet!
CRAZY GLUE: But dude, why did she ask you to call her Mom?
I stand with my mouth gaping open, too stunned to move.
Sam gives me a little shove from behind. "Jason?"
I see Mrs. Lynch's hand still extended and I squeeze it, and the little girl in her arms slaps my head. "Hi ya there."
"Yeah, hi," I say to her. I let go of Mrs. Lynch's hand.
Then Mrs. Lynch says in this excited voice, "Well, this is where I create my sculptures. I suppose you saw my creatures on the lawn?" She opens a dog gate that sections off part of the room and steps inside, then nods for me to join her. "People love to stop by and see what kind of creature I have out on the lawn. It changes every time I sell a piece. They're strangely popular." She laughs. "I'm not sure why, are you?" She spreads out her free arm to indicate the workshop. "So, what do you think?"
I look around the room at all the machinery, round saws and straight saws and blowtorches and all kinds of nuts and bolts and junk, and beyond the gate on the opposite side of the room, there's an orange rug with a child's table-and-chair set, wooden puzzles, crayons and paper, and several dolls, dressed and half dressed.
I shrug. "Yeah, it's cool."
"I try to keep it tidy," Mrs. Lynch says, "but I don't always succeed. But you don't want to see all this. You want to see your bedroom, I bet. Did you bring a suitcase and your things?"
I look at Sam. All I have is what I'm wearing—jeans too short, a flannel shirt too Dad-like, and my pea coat with the newspaper lining.
Sam says, "We'll go by tomorrow and pick up some of Jason's things." He winks at me like we are great buddies now that I've watched him swallow slices of pizza whole.
Mrs. Lynch sets Gwen down. "I'm sorry you'll have to share a room with Reed, but it's a good-size room. He and Carlin, the last child, managed to get along just fine." She takes Gwen's hand and leads us back outside and into the house where Reed is still watching television and eating Oreos. The bag is almost empty.
"Reed, would you mind showing Jason the room you'll be sharing? He looks rather beat." She turns to me and puts her arm around my shoulder and kind of jostles me. "A good night's sleep will do you some good."
CRAZY GLUE: Well, she's cheerful, anyway.
Reed gets out of the chair with a lot of grunting and groaning from both him and the chair and says, "Follow me."
I follow, creeping up the steps behind him, while he climbs each step with his feet spread apart, shifting side to side and breathing heavily as we near the top of the second set of steps. We go down a narrow hall, also covered in green shag, to the last room on the left.
"Bathroom's there," he says, nodding at the dark room just before our room. Then he switches on the bedroom light and steps inside. I walk in behind him. The room has a thick red line painted down the center of the wooden floor. On the left side of the room is a twin-size bed covered in a plain navy spread, a desk and chair, and along one wall, shelves with several model airplanes set up on them.
"Wow, lots of planes, there," I say. I remove my coat and set it on the desk over on what I figure is my side of the room. The house feels too hot—much warmer than I'm used to.
Reed shuffles over to the shelves and picks up one of the planes. "All military," he says. "This is the Japanese Zero Pearl Harbor model." He spins the propeller, then sets the plane back down on the shelf and turns to me. "See all this?" He spreads his arms, taking in the CD player, the computer, his model planes, a few books. "This is all mine. This is my side of the room. You step over that red line there..." He pauses, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a switchblade.
LAUGH TRACK: Uh-oh.
He moves closer to me, near the red line, his eyes gleaming. "You step over that red line and I'll slit your throat in your sleep."
I look at Reed standing with his switchblade aimed at me.
CRAZY GLUE: Buddy, you picked the wrong guy on the wrong day.
Yeah, what do I have to lose? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I step up to the red line, my toes just touching it, maybe three feet away from Reed. I spread my good arm out, indicating my side of the room. "See this? Tomorrow I'm going to go pick up my stuff and I'm going to bring it here and I'm going to keep it on this side of the room. If I ever catch you crossing the red line, if you ever touch anything of mine, I won't wait until you're asleep to kill you. I'll do it right then, right there—no sw
itchblade, no gun, just my bare hands. You got that?"
We stand looking at each other for a few seconds, sizing each other up. Then Reed lets out a yell like Tarzan, King of the Jungle, and lunges at me with his switchblade open. It enters my stomach, and I don't even feel it until I notice the blood spreading out across my shirt.
Chapter Twenty-Four
REED'S YELL alerts Sam, and he shows up in the doorway in a matter of seconds. Mrs. Lynch isn't far behind him. I'm on the floor, crouching down and holding my hand against my stomach as though this is going to keep the blood from pouring out of me.
CRAZY GLUE: Out of the fat and into the fire. We got us another loony-tooney, here.
Reed keeps whining, "I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" He falls to his knees, the bloody switchblade still in his hands and tears running down his face. "I swear to God, I didn't do it!"
Sam orders Reed to set the knife down on the desk, but Reed just keeps whining, "I didn't do it!"
"Reed, put the knife on the desk. Do it now!" Sam barks. "Now, Reed!"
"But I didn't do it. You gotta believe me."
SEXY LADY: Oh, he's good.
Looking at his wide-eyed, pink blubbering face, even I almost believe him.
AUNT BEE: Oh dear, they're going to blame you for this. He looks so innocent.
Nobody moves. Sam raises his voice and shouts again, "Put the knife down on the desk. Do it now! Now, Reed! Now!"
Finally Reed puts the knife on his desk and collapses on his bed as if he's fainted.
Sam runs in and grabs the knife, and Mrs. Lynch runs to me. She helps me to my feet. Then she sees all the blood and she lets out an "Oh!" and then, "We need to go to the hospital, Sam."
CRAZY GLUE: Didn't we already do the ambulance scene?
LAUGH TRACK: Isn't it a shame?
All I can think of as I lie on a slab with my gut cut open is that I might get to see my dad again. But I don't. There isn't time and everybody's tired, blah, blah, blah.
Three hours later, I'm back in Sam's car on the way back to the Lynches' house with a bottle of pills in my hands, to prevent infection, the doctor said, and an aching stomach. I didn't understand half of what the emergency room doctor said to me except that the wound looks worse than it is, and there's no penetration of the peritoneal cavity, which he said is a good thing. All I know is, hell, I've been stabbed!
