The Tear Collector

by Patrick Jones

  “Another stroke,” he mumbles. Not a stroke, but another one. No wonder he’s thinking about God; he’s counting on a miracle. That’s why he was so distracted the other day.

  I take a step toward him, then ask softly, “How bad?”

  “The doctors don’t know yet,” he says, then finally looks up. Not at me, at his grandmother’s room. His hands come out of his pockets; they’re balled into fists. In every lounge, I think the hospital should install a punching bag to release all the pent-up rage.

  “I’m sorry, Scott,” I say, and instinctively reach out a helping hand toward him.

  “Thanks,” he says, but in that one word and the look in his two eyes, I learn so much. His green eyes are fields of emotions, with rows of fear, anger, worry, and grief swaying together.

  “If you need to talk to someone…,” I offer, almost a whisper.

  “Thanks, Cassandra,” he says. I flutter like a leaf on a tree when he speaks my name.

  “There are people at the hospital, and then at school, you know—”

  “The peer counseling thing,” he says, interrupting and surprising me. He’s never been in as far as I know. “That’s a great idea.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “I think it’s great you try to help people,” he says, taking a step back toward me. He sighs, then points into his grandmother’s room. “She was—I mean is—like that.”

  “I’m here if you need me,” I say very softly.

  “That what she used to say,” Scott says, his sighing sad face now cracking if not a smile, then something close to it. “My grandmother’s a saint. I guess soon she’ll be in heaven.”

  I let that go; instead, I inch closer. “What kind of person is she?”

  Scott starts telling me stories about his grandmother. He talks about how he never knew his father, and his mom always worked two, sometimes three, jobs to support him and send him to Catholic school. They moved in with his grandmother, who raised him while his mom worked. After the last story, he musters a half smile, then says, “I’ve got to keep it together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like the other day in class. I think Mr. Abraham was getting angry with me for choosing faith over science. I can’t afford anything other than an excellent grade in Honors Biology.”

  “Mr. A is all right,” I assure Scott. “He’s a tough teacher, but fair.”

  “I know, but I’m worried. It’s going to be hard to get into a good college with the rep of Flint-area public schools. I wanted to stay at Powers. There just wasn’t enough money.”

  “That’s a good school.”

  “I want to go to med school and be a doctor,” he says with pride in his voice at what he plans to do with his life. For some people, the future is all that pulls them through the present. Part of me wants to say, “I want to be a doctor too,” but instead, I’ll let Scott feel special.

  “You should volunteer here,” I tell him. “You’d learn a lot.”

  “I’d like to, but I don’t have time to volunteer,” he says. “I’ve got a job waiting tables.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Besides, I’ve already spent too much time in hospitals these last few years.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, moving ever closer.

  “Her husband, my grandfather,” he says, looking back into the room. “Brain cancer. I watched him fall apart day by day. And that’s when I knew I wanted to be a doctor. I know doctors can’t cure everyone, but I want to help other families not go through the pain we went through.”

  “So, is he…,” I say, but trail off to let Scott fill in the blank about the void in his life.

  “Six years ago,” he says, then actually lets out a small laugh. An escape valve for emotional steam building up inside him. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

  “A Tale of Two Cities,” I say, never shy about showing off my intelligence to smart guys.

  “So, she’s well read too,” he says, making me wonder exactly what he means by “too.”

  I smile back. Like London and Paris, it seems we have many connections. Until now, he’d always seemed too shy, too secure, too centered. I like the vain but thin-skinned boys.

  “When he was like this, in the ICU, I was so conflicted because—,” Scott says, then stops.

  “It’s okay, Scott, you can trust me,” I remind him. He lets out a loud sigh of relief.

  “Before I’d walk into the room, I would pray to God that he was alive,” he continues. “And then when I’d leave and think about his suffering, I’d pray that he’d be dead by morning.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “No human being should suffer like that,” he says.

  “The doctors do their best to ease people’s pain.”

  “Drugs only help the patient, not the pain of the families,” he says. “My grandmother hated to come see him in that condition. It was just so hard for her.”

  “It can be difficult to watch—”

  “No, it was too hard for her not to want to reach over and pull the plugs from the machines keeping him alive. She used to come home after every visit and go on and on how she never wanted to end up like that. But now look at her,” he says, on the edge of losing it.

  Scott looks at his grandmother. He’s talking about the past because she has no future.

  “It’s against the law. Even if it wasn’t, the Church doesn’t believe in euthanasia. Only God decides who lives and dies,” he says, then turns back and our eyes meet in that special way. I’ve learned to listen not to what people say but how they say it. I watch them closely as they speak, in particular their eyes. Lips may lie, but the eyes never do. I know he doesn’t believe what he says. He loves his grandmother and he wants her out of her misery. He believes in God and he believes in mercy; he’s got to learn you can’t believe in both and make it in this world.

  “Scott, if there’s anything I can do,” I say.

  “Thanks. I didn’t know this about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t know you worked here. I didn’t know how much you cared about people. I guess I didn’t know you at all,” he says, then smiles. “I guess that was my mistake.”

  I stay silent so he’ll keep talking. “We both know why,” he says.

  I shake my head, then ask, “What do you mean?”

  “You on Facebook or MySpace?” is his strange follow-up. I nod my head. I’m not into it like so many people at school, but like earrings, these sites are a required Lapeer High female accessory. I’m one of the few who have both. Facebook connects me to people at the center, like Robyn, while MySpace allows me access to Samantha and others who dwell on the fringes.

  “From what I hear, every girl writes how they want a guy who is funny, kind, and smart,” Scott says. He’s not looking at me anymore; rather, he’s not letting me look at him.

  “So?”

  “Well, I’m funny, kind, and smart, so why have I only had one girlfriend in high school?” he asks. “And that girl, well, Samantha has a lot of problems, including her judgment in men.” Again, there’s no eye contact, which is good for me. He’d see my eyes lighting up like somebody hitting the jackpot. Cute guys like Cody act confident because life is easy for them, so when things get hard or go wrong, they’re totally crushed. They’re so hot, they easily melt and grow soft. Scott’s right; he’s not a hottie. I’ve learned, however, that it is the look in a boy’s eye, not his looks, that matters most. Scott’s green eyes reveal a field of hurt needing healing.

  “Well, this year isn’t over yet,” I respond in the best flirting voice I can summon. I pause for a second, as I pull out one of the hospital pads I use to take notes. I write down my cell phone number, then offer it to him. His hand shakes a little as he reaches out.

  “If you need to call,” I say as he takes the paper from my hand. I let my hand linger.

  “I’ll do that,” he says. “But what about Cody?”


  “It’s just a phone number, not a marriage proposal,” I say, then laugh.

  “I don’t want any problem with Cody,” he says. “I have enough problems.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” I say. “He’s nothing to fear.”

  “Unlike you, from what I hear,” he says, almost in a whisper.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard,” I counter.

  “I heard you’re a heartbreaker,” he says.

  “Sounds like your heart is already broken,” I purr. “So …”

  He manages a laugh, then says, “So maybe I got nothing to lose.”

  “Maybe so, Scott.”

  “Well, almost nothing,” he says as the dark cloud returns to his face. “I have to go.”

  “I understand,” I say. I turn around toward the elevator. Just before I enter, I look back at Scott. He’s standing at the door of his grandmother’s room—probably her deathbed—like there’s something in his way. I sense, even from this distance, that he’s taking deep breaths, which slowly turn into the familiar hospital soundtrack of sniffles, sobbing, and stifled screams.

  The rest of my shift is uneventful. I check in with Scott a few times, and he seems happy to see me each time. I think about asking him for a ride home in his car (he calls his Chevy Cobalt the “no volt”) but it seems too much to ask too soon. Instead, Maggie picks me up at work. I don’t pick a fight, and she manages not to mention Alexei the entire ride. With the reunion coming up, everyone is trying to get along. Veronica wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Since I arrive on time and without incident, Mom has nothing to say to me. Unless there’s conflict, we barely communicate. I pass by the living room. She sits listening to classical music and sipping a bottle of water. Maggie heads into the kitchen, while Veronica remains in her room. I’ll need to see her sometime tonight; she always wants to see me after I volunteer at the hospital. She usually lights up after I visit; it’s as if she’s the bulb and I’m her battery.

  Once I get into my room, I think about calling Scott, but it seems too soon for even that. I need to deal with Cody; I need to comfort Robyn; I need to focus on my family.

  I call Robyn, but she’s still not answering her phone. I don’t want to call her home phone, just in case one of her parents picks up again. I can’t be the one to tell them. It’s one thing to stir up the bubbling pot of high school drama, but this is beyond that. I look for her online, but she’s not there either. I seek out Scott online, but he’s off the grid, it would seem. I pull up Samantha Dressen’s MySpace page. She’s online, but her profile remains set to private. I see that her profile name has changed to “I Hurt, Hurt, Hurt” and that her new profile picture is a work of art: a black-and-white photo of her with the colors inverted. Very artsy, very strange, very Samantha. From what I’ve observed, Samantha’s one of these girls with six hundred friends online and none in real life. I send another friend request in the virtual world, and vow to make one more real-world attempt. She’ll probably reject me; I’m sure rejection is one of her gifts.

  Before I log off, I find another news story, then print and file it. One of the hardest things for Robyn in dealing with Craig breaking up with her is that it took her by surprise. What Robyn doesn’t realize is that out of the blue is the best way for awful events to occur. Better to have the lights turned out all at once than to slowly succumb to a looming darkness.

  NEWS REPORT #3

  Another child has disappeared in the mid-Michigan area. Twelve-year-old Jason Hamilton was last seen at Midland Middle School on Friday, March 13. According to his friends, Hamilton left the park after an altercation during a basketball game that left him both crying and bleeding. Police believe this disappearance might be connected to a similar incident that occurred about a week ago in the Bay City area. In that case, an eleven-year-old was reported missing but appeared days later back near the playground where he had been abducted. The police report that the Bay City boy was pulled into a black Ford van, blindfolded, and gagged. Police are not releasing any other details or officially discussing any possible motives. One anonymous police source described the entire incident as “odd” because the only thing the perpetrator achieved was terrifying the child. The source added, “It seemed like all the perp wanted to do was make the kid cry.”

  CHAPTER 7

  MONDAY, MARCH 16

  I’m sorry, Cody. You know that, right?”

  “I don’t believe you!” he shouts.

  We’re in his basement, surrounded by his sports memorabilia, electronic toys, and sweaty memories. Cody—like Tyler and my other boyfriends before him—is not welcome at my house. And since I never allow breakups to occur in public or in parked cars, we’re sharing this private space one last time. Tonight, both of us are standing, although Cody looks ready to crumble.

  “Cody, it just isn’t working out,” I say, softly. “I adore you. I want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy,” he says. “And you don’t know what I want. I want you, Cass.”

  I try to reach out to him, but he turns away. He readjusts his backward-turned Detroit Tigers ball cap, then stomps to the other side of the room. He sits on the sofa—the place where I gave him most of what he wanted—and pouts like some two-year-old.

  “Cody, baby, I’m sorry.” I’m standing still, unsure which way the wind is blowing.

  “I want my jacket!” he shouts. I unsnap it and throw it to him. It feels like a weight has lifted.

  “Cody, it’s okay to be upset,” I reassure him in a tone I’ve used a lot in our six months together. Last fall, when the school’s football team lost in the playoffs, we left the end-of-season party early. After a few beers, Cody poured out his disappointment, crying on my shoulder rather than in his beer. Now he’s suffered another setback, and I need to help him.

  He puts the jacket on, then says, “All my friends told me you played games.”

  “I don’t want to play games. I just need to end this,” I say.

  “More games,” he says. “Like all the other times.”

  “No, this is it,” I say, trying to remember if our six other breakup scenes contained my announcement of the finality. “We’re through.”

  “Is it Craig?” he says. “How could you do that to your best friend?”

  “It’s not Craig,” I say. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Robyn.”

  “I bet it’s that freak Scott Gerard. Kelsey said she saw the two of you in the library just laughing it up,” he says. Anyone who is not an athlete is a freak in Cody’s eyes.

  “Who are you to talk!” I shout, ensuring the tension continues to build. “I know all about you and Burnt Knees! She’s doing both you and Craig. Teammates in everything.”

  “That’s a lie,” he counters.

  “That’s not what I heard,” I say, which is a lie.

  “I’m not cheating on you,” he counters. “You are the one who is—”

  “Why do you think there’s someone else?” I ask, then start my breakup speech. I’ve said it so many times it bores me. I start with, “It’s not you, Cody. You’re so sweet and sexy.”

  He responds as expected; a thin smile wipes out his angry glare. I motion for him to sit with me on the sofa. As he sits next to me, I take his hands in mine.

  “But I know it’s just not working. Prom is coming up,” I say. There’s always some marker coming up in high school. This is the fill-in-the-blank part of the speech. “And you should be with someone who can make you happy. That’s not me, babe, that’s not me.”

  “I need you,” is his answer. He’s toughing it out, so I’ll take another tack to get his tears.

  “Okay, Cody, baby, it’s not you and it’s not me,” I say as softly as I can. “It’s my family, my mom in particular.”

  “I know she doesn’t like me,” he says.

  “That’s not it,” I continue. “She doesn’t want me dating in high school and getting involved. She has plans for me, and whenever she sees I’m getting serious abou
t someone...”

  “Serious?” he says, his trademark smirk almost returning to his face.

  “I love you, Cody,” I say, using a smile to camouflage my lie. “That’s why we can’t see each other anymore. You’ll just get hurt more. This is for the best. You understand?”

  He’s silent, taking it all in. I move closer, then kiss him on the cheek. “It’s over, Cody, for good. I understand if you’re angry and upset. I know we can stay friends.”

  He stares back at me in horror as if I were a monster. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ll see over time this was right, and you’ll want us to be friends,” I tell him, still gently stroking the side of his face. “You’ll need a shoulder to cry on, and I’ll be there for you.”

  He stares deeper now, eyes like drills. “You bitch.”

  “What?”

  “You bitch,” he repeats, almost leaping off the sofa. “You want me hurt.”

  “Cody, you’re talking crazy. You don’t—”

  “Do you remember how we started going out?” he asks, but I don’t want to answer. “I was at Saint Dominic’s Church. You were an altar server at my uncle’s funeral. I was sitting in the front pew. I was crying because I knew my mom was upset. You winked at me.”

  “That’s not true,” I half lie. I didn’t wink, but I did make contact with his damp eyes.

  “At school the next week, you came on to me,” he says. “None of us could figure it out. You’d never talked to me before. Then, bam, you’re giving it up before breaking up with Tyler.”

  I just look at the floor as Cody stares into our past. He’s right so far about how wrong I treated him. Finally, I mutter, “At first, I thought you were just another jock like Tyler, but I learned you were better than him. I thought it would work out, but it can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” he says, adding, “I’m sorry I ever met you.”

  “Cody, baby, please—”

  He stomps past me toward the far side of the furnished basement. On the paneled wall hang some of his sports awards and certificates, mostly for participation. Cody’s not a star. He’s the second-string cog that keeps sports teams churning along. He’s in it for the letters and the ladies.