I just gape at her. “Why are you here so late?”
She shakes her head. “I’m here with my sister. I often stay overnight.”
I shake my head. “Your sister?”
Edward leans down and whispers in my ear. “The woman in a coma. Room 306. Didn’t you know that? They’re twins, Richard. Why do you think she sits here all day, playing that music?”
Okay, so my jaw is about to hit the floor. The harpy and the woman in the coma are twins. One dying, one strumming her heart out, every damn day. The mind boggles. I can’t say a word. But I try to cover up my abysmal ignorance with words, anyhow. “Cool,” I say to the harpy. “Glad to have you. Hey, what about the old guy in 304? You know, we played with him the other night? Let’s ask him.”
Everyone in the room goes quiet, and they all look at me. “Oh, Richard,” says the harpy.
I close my eyes for a minute. The things I don’t know. I think I’m so smart. But there’s a whole lot here I’ve been missing. I pull my chair up to the table.
Edward says, “I am not joining this game. I’m just here to watch over Richard.”
Sylvie’s father grins. “Ah, King Richard has brought his body servant. What’s next, a food taster? No matter. Let the games begin.”
It’s plain old poker, nothing fancy. We don’t have chips, so Sylvie’s dad has come up with substitutes, stuff he’s apparently lifted from the supply room. Piled in front of him, there are little plastic pill cups, small gauze pads and big gauze pads. We all look at him fingering the piles. The harpy lays down the pack of cards and asks, “So, what are these items worth? I mean, what are we playing for here? I like to know the stakes.”
Sylvie’s dad raises his eyebrows. “Oh, didn’t I make that clear? We’re playing for days.”
We all stare at him.
“Come, people, it’s very easy to understand. A pill cup equals one day. Small gauze pad, two days. Large gauze pad, three. Got it?”
Mrs. Elkins’s son clears his throat. “Yeah. But. Days of what?”
“Days of life, of course. For our loved ones. Or for ourselves.” He stares at me. He’s so tired and so wasted away that his face looks just like a skull. A grinning, clacking skull. “For whatever patient on this floor we represent.”
The harpy’s eyes glitter. “Fine,” she says. “You’re on.”
I think for a minute. One day, two days, three. Multiply that times however many go into the pot. Times however many times I can win. That’s plenty, I think. Plenty of time for the science geeks to do their thing. To come running up this hallway with beakers full of snake-venom magic. To sprint in here with a cure. Listen: I want to be for Christmas, too. For my birthday, even. Like everybody else, I want to be.
So this is very, very cool. Here’s the thing I haven’t mentioned: except for that night with the old guy playing gin, I’ve always been super-lucky at cards. I mean, ever since I was a little kid—a champion. I was beating my mom at Go Fish when I was four, no kidding. Weekly poker nights with my friends in junior high—I won nearly every week. Eventually, they wouldn’t play with me anymore. Late-night games with roommates in whatever hospital room I was in—I won. I always win. And we’re playing for days. I am psyched. I’m going to win a whole lot of days. No joke.
“Let’s play,” I say. And the harpy deals, slapping down the cards like she’s working in Vegas.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to bore anyone with the whole play-by-play thing. I’m not doing some cheesy Texas Hold ’Em broadcast here. It’s standard poker and, at first, everyone’s winning some and losing some. We’re just playing, that’s all. Pretty relaxed, to start. That harpy, though, I got to say, she’s tough. Can’t read a wrinkle on that face; she is dead, solid serious. I can see that she wants to win her sister more time, big-time, though I can’t imagine why. I mean, really, “Long Time Gone.” But there’s no reasoning with people about this kind of thing, is there? Life is life, until it’s not, right?
Mrs. Elkins’s son, he’s pretty half-assed about it. Yawning and fiddling with his cards. I bet he’s ready for his mother to check out—she probably is, too—and he’s just messing around here. Makes sense to me.
But Sylvie’s dad? He is dead-ass serious and scary as shit. He’s not playing cards; he’s in a war. His skin gets grayer by the minute, he’s got stubble sticking every which way out of his face, he smells like someone pissed Wild Turkey all over him and there’s this weird glow around his mouth. Couple of times I catch him staring at me and I shudder. I mean, the man is on fire. I wish I could take an infrared photo of him so everyone else could see the little flames leaping off the man’s ears. I can see them, that’s for sure. So, what with that and trying to push the green lights out of my sight, trying to focus on the hearts and spades and clubs and diamonds that keep leaping around in my eyes, I’ll admit that I get myself into a pretty weirded-out mental state. I start to believe that Sylvie’s dad really is the essence of evil, and somehow we’re not just playing for days. We’re playing for my soul. Not, like, days. Eternity. And that surely is enough to shake a guy’s confidence, whether he’s bluffing or not.
By, let’s say, five A.M., Mrs. Elkins’s son has dropped. He’s flat asleep in his chair, head back, snoring like a chain saw. The harpy? She started to curse, last hand, when she drew crap cards, and then she threw her cards onto the table and marched right on out of the room, nightgown sweeping behind her. Edward? He’s crashed on the couch, curled up like a baby, sound asleep.
Of course. This is how it was meant to be, all the time. It’s down to Richie vs. the Dragon. Screw Hatfield vs. McCoy. This is the real thing. Highest stakes in the world. Dawn’s just coming into the sky outside, finally. There are whole heaps of days lying on the table between us, and we’re both out of anything to add to the pot. It’s the moment. The one where everything is just hanging there, waiting to tilt in one direction or the other. Waiting for just that one tiny nudge.
And I’m looking at the three jacks I’m holding in my hand: three strong young lads. All mine. Sweet. And he’s looking at?—who knows? Well, really, he’s looking at me, that’s what. He’s waiting for it—the blow to fall and wipe him out. He hasn’t got a thing, I know it. I can tell. Here’s a little trick I’ll pass on: it’s not the eyes, like some people say, that give away the bluff. It’s the lips. Lips tremble, you know? When you really, really, absolutely, positively, no shit have to win, lips betray you every time. And Sylvie’s dad, his mouth looks like a pair of bat’s wings, all fluttery.
I look hard at the pot. I figure there’s four, five weeks of life there. Maybe more. More than enough time for the scientist-dudes to come through, right? More than enough for all kinds of stuff to happen.
And I’ve got the winning hand, no question. I’m just about to lay it down and claim my days—my days—when the man pulls the nastiest trick I’ve ever seen. First, he lays down his hand, faceup. He’s got a pair of queens. Clubs and spades. Both dark-haired, dark-eyed ladies—beautiful, both of them. Then he leans across the table and looks right into my eyes. Real quiet, he says, “She’s fifteen, Richard. Fifteen.”
In other words, I’ve already had two more years. Hits me like a slap in the face. I already lived something like seven hundred and thirty more days than Sylvie. I look at my three-of-a-kind: Jack Spade, Jack Diamond and Jack Heart. Two of them are those shifty one-eyed guys, little skinny mustaches, slicked-back hair, look like pimps. Third one, Jack Diamond, he faces me head-on; he’s the good guy. Solid. I think about Sylvie’s tiny breasts, soft as baby birds in my hands, how she trusted me, let me in.
Took me a while, didn’t it, to get it? What we’re really playing for here? Hearts and souls. Hearts and souls.
I fold my cards up and put them on the table, all their faces hidden, those three young dudes invisible. Doesn’t matter, Sylvie’s father is not going to look. Can’t stand to look. Doesn’t want to know. “You got me, sir,” I say. “Congratulations.”
Sylvie’s
father sweeps all the days into his arms. He’s laughing like a hyena. Tears running down his face. He grabs the days and he takes off, running down the hallway toward his daughter’s room.
I sit back in my chair. For that one minute, grabbing those gauze pads and pill cups, Sylvie’s dad looked just like her. She grabs, too. For that one minute, I feel like I could love him, too. I mean, think about it. Isn’t that how a father should be? I mean, what wouldn’t you do, if Sylvie was your child?
***
Next morning, I’m back in my room, tied to the bed with oxygen tubes up my nose. But, even so, I keep my ear open and the floor gossip reaches me. I hear that, overnight, the harpy’s sister died. And so did Mrs. Elkins. “Tough night,” people are whispering. Tough night. I don’t think, really I don’t, that there’s anything, like, supernatural or spooky about those two checking out. I figure that both of them most likely hurried to do it, get it done, while their watchers were out of the room playing games. People do that, I hear, all the time—wait until they’re alone. Makes sense to me. When you’re all alone and you finally got some privacy, that’s when the strings that fasten you to earth go snap, and then you got liftoff. Not sure I’ll ever shake off my mom, though. She’s, when you come right down to it, she’s just as fierce as Sylvie. And that’s okay. Actually, I’m fine with her being here now. Glad about it. And it’s funny—the harpy is still playing, I can hear her. She’s still there.
And there’s other news, too—and it’s amazing. Turns out that, overnight, even with all that snapping going on around her, Sylvie rallied. Mrs. Jacobs comes in to tell me that Sylvie’s awake. Sylvie’s sitting up in bed, drinking coffee. That’s what she asked for. Not water, not ginger ale—coffee. Hot, black and full of caffeine. Said it was time to wake up. That’s my girl.
I know for sure she’ll grab that four or five or however many weeks I won her. That girl is crazy-fierce. Hey, she’s got dragon’s blood running in her veins. She’ll grab every one of those days and run with them. She’s going to walk on out of here, I know it. She’s got things to do.
Me, too. One more thing to do. It’s cool, though. I’ve got role models. I’ll wait for my moment, and then I’ll do it right.
I mean, no sense waiting for your birthday when you already grew up, right?
Don’t worry about me. It’s all right. Shit, any way you look at it, me and Sylvie, we’re both going to be okay. Swear to God.
And, really, that’s all I got to say.
Over and out.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, profound gratitude to my brother-in-law, Matt Dyksen, who enjoyed the harpist in his hospice unit and who really did, through it all, maintain a cheerful mind. Many thanks to the readers of earlier versions of this book who gave me such helpful suggestions: Bill Patrick, Tobias Seamon, Dan Dyksen, Libby Dyksen, Erika Goldman, and Nalini Jones. I am also grateful to Danielle Ofri, who published the original “SUTHY Syndrome” story in Bellevue Literary Review and who has been a wonderful supporter of my work. Thanks to the College of Saint Rose for the gift of a sabbatical leave to work on my writing. And a very special thanks to Gail Hochman and Elise Howard for sharing their enthusiasm, knowledge, and wisdom.
Finally, to the doctors, nurses, and staff who care for sick kids in hospitals and hospices everywhere, unending gratitude and admiration.
SOMEBODY UP THERE HATES YOU
Hollis Seamon
Algonquin Young Readers
Questions for Discussion
The book begins with an epigraph—a quotation—from Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius: “Wait for death with a cheerful mind.” What do you think of that philosophy? Do any of the characters embody it completely? Who has the most trouble embracing that attitude?
Richie calls his disease SUTHY Syndrome, an acronym for “Somebody Up There Hates You.” What does this tell you about Richie’s attitude toward his situation? About his sense of humor?
Why is Richie’s nickname, “King Richard,” significant? What do you think it says about how other people see Richie, how he sees himself, or the role he plays in the hospice?
Phil’s drawings of the patients on Richie’s floor are not exactly true-to-life. What might Phil be trying to depict in his illustrations? In what ways are his drawings realistic?
Why is Kelly-Marie an important character? In what ways does she help Richie?
Why does Sylvie believe that she’ll get better, even in the face of terminal illness?
After Richie upsets Jeanette by staying out too late, Edward tells him, “You got to grow up, man.” What does “growing up” mean in a context where Richie won’t age much more at all? Do you think Richie grows up or changes at all over the few days during which the book takes place?
Richie’s mom and Sylvie’s dad have very different ways of dealing with their grief. How do these differences come across? How do you think their attitudes might affect their kids?
What do you make of the poker game scene? What does it tell you about the value of time in the hospice?
The end of the book is somewhat open-ended. Do you think it’s a sad ending, or a hopeful one? Why?
Questions for Discussion prepared by Avery Finch
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Published by
Algonquin Young Readers
An imprint of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
P.O. Box 2225
Chapel Hill, NC 27514
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2013 by Hollis Seamon.
All rights reserved.
eISBN 978-1-61620-313-9
Somebody Up There Hates You Page 16
