Birdie (18 page)

Birdie

Memorial Hermann hospital is
huge. The entrance is lined with gift shops and coffee stands. I bypass them all making my way to the circular information desk in the middle of the lobby.

“May I help you?” the woman behind the counter asks. She’s so pleasant. Her smile is so wide and inviting. Like she’s unaware of the horrors happening on the floors above her.

“I’m looking for Wesley Lott,” I blurt out. I can’t ask for directions to a room number or inquire after a specific doctor. All I have is the name of a guy who never wants to speak to me again. My eyes sting. I hope I’m doing the right thing. “He’s a patient here,” I continue.

She clicks on her keyboard with her eyes trained on the computer screen. I glance at the time. Ten-thirty.

“Are the visiting hours over?”

She turns back to me. “He’s on the third floor. There are no set visiting hours, you’re fine to go in as long as it’s okay with the family. Just see the desk on that floor. They’ll call the nearest relative.”

“Um, okay.”

Did Wesley tell his family the same thing he told me? Would I even get past the desk?

I make my legs carry me to the elevator. If I don’t go up, I’ll never know. If I don’t try, then I’m hollowing out our entire friendship and any feelings we’d ever had for each other. He’d come blazing down the  interstate in the middle of the night when I’d called him crying and drunk, I damn sure was going to be here when he was laid up in a hospital bed. Even if he didn’t reach out to me.

The elevator dings and I step out, looking warily in both directions. There are counters that look like desks in all directions. I approach the first one that appears to be staffed by nurses.

“Hi. I’m looking for Wesley Lott please,” I tell the first one that smiles at me. At the mention of his name her smile gets wider and little dreamy and I know I’m in the right place. He still has that effect on women.

“Are you family?” she asks.

I swallow. “No. Close friend.” I hope that’s true enough.

“Your name?”

“Birdie Clements.”

She picks up the phone and presses a couple buttons, then speaks quietly to whomever is on the other end. After a few moments she hangs up and looks at me. “Room twenty-nine oh four.”

She points down the hallway to the left and I begin passing identical beige doors, reading the numbers as I go. Who did she speak to? Was Wes on the other end of the line? My mouth feels cotton dry.

As I round the corner, I see Bunny. Her back is to me. She’s leaning against the wall, sagging really, her back in a slump. It looks wrong, this slouched stance. I’ve never seen her any way other than regal and straight. “The better to look down on you, my dear,” Lacey used to say with a cackle, imitating the wolf from the Red Hiding Hood tale. Right now however, Bunny Lott is anything but regal. A tired hand rubs her temple.

I approach cautiously. She straightens as she sees me, but I’ve already witnessed her moment of vulnerability and her attempt to regain her composure doesn’t erase the worried image now lodged in my mind.

“Birdie,” she says to me with a nod.

I nod back. “Lacey told me what happened. Her boyfriend and Grant are friends. Is he going to be all right?”

Bunny’s eyes give me relief because they soften without the sadness I’d fear I would see. “His leg is badly broken but the images they ran today had good news. The doctors are hopeful that surgery and a couple months of physical therapy will have him back to normal.”

“That’s great.” The words escape from me in a sigh, letting out a surge of tension that had knotted up in my chest. It’s replaced now with trepidation. “Can I see him?” My question is hesitant.

“He’s asleep right now. The pain medication he’s on is strong.”

I watch her still not sure if it’s a yes or no.

“He has no wish to see you,” she continues and I suck in a surprised breath. So his anger towards me ran deep enough to share with his parents. The two people that are clueless about every aspect of his life know of this demand.

I nod, defeated. “I know. But when I heard…I mean. How could I not? It’s Wesley. I’m just glad he’s okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

I turn to walk away when her voice stops me.

“I need to run downstairs for some coffee if you want to sit with him while I’m gone. I could use the caffeine.”

I turn back around and face her. Her expression is resigned. She walks towards the elevators, pausing briefly when she reaches me. “You and I do not have the greatest history. But you are here despite whatever happened between the two of you. So as a protective mother, you are exactly the person I would want next to him if I must step away.” And she continues on her way.

Just like that, I’m alone with Wesley. I shuffle forward and peer into his open door. All I can see is a sheet-covered foot elevated in a sling. I step further into the room and he comes into view.

He’s still asleep. His eyes are heavily closed and his breathing is deep. His blonde hair is shorter than the last time we saw each other. It’s cropped short, messy on top. Off his ears. He’s covered in hospital blankets. There are no beeping machines like I see in the movies. There is one next to him keeping his vitals and a bag full of clear liquid drips into his wrist through an IV.

“Wes?” I whisper. He doesn’t stir. I stand there awkwardly for a moment before I settle on commandeering a low arm chair and scrape it over to the side of his bed. I am slow in taking his hand. He has no idea I’m even here and I’m not sure he’d be receptive of me if he were conscious.

My skin meets his. I rub a thumb over his fingers. He can be mad at me if he wants to if this wakes him. I’ll leave then. Until that moment, I will be here for him. I rest my chin on the metal bars that serve as barriers to keep him from falling out of bed I suppose.

The pull of the day and the late hour gets to me. It’s only after I’m startled awake that I realize I dozed off in that position, clutching Wes’s hand. A nurse is rearranging his blanket over his leg, having just checked it. She smiles when she sees me.

“I’m just about done,” she says quietly.

I sit up and wriggle in my seat. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“It’s late,” she agrees. “Almost midnight.”

The time surprises me. “Is Mrs. Lott here?”

“She poked her head in a couple of times, but she’s sleeping right now in the waiting area. Are you the girlfriend?”

My stomach drops out at the question.
The
girlfriend? As in, there is definitely one and this nurse just hasn’t met her yet? I blink back moisture. This is the first I’ve heard of someone else in all these years.

“I’m not,” I say, proud of my control. “Just a good friend.” Again, I hope that’s not a lie.

“I’ll say,” the nurse agrees. “He’s got a few of those. He’s had someone with him every minute these past couple of days. Can’t say the same for all my patients. You have a good night.”

The door clicks behind her and I stretch my sore limbs. I reach down into my oversized purse. I’m determined not to fall asleep again. If Wes wakes up and sees me here after everything that happened, I at least want to be conscious so I can explain myself. I grab my notebook and flip through it. Lacey bought it for me to write down every vicious thing I want to say to my mother but won’t.

“Vomit in this thing,” she instructed, holding out a pale purple notebook with a blue tree etched into the corner. I’d been pretty mopey after my trip to the Ackersons and she abandoned trying to cheer me up days ago. I took the notebook from her. The leather was supple under my fingertips. Not a cheap purchase. “It does wonders for me,” she promised. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

Now, several months later, it holds exactly zero entries addressed to my mother and pages and pages of song lyric snippets. Every time I hear a song I like, I write down a section of it I can understand so I can find it later. Doctor’s offices, car stereo, grocery store…it’s become sort of a game to me to unearth these things. Usually they tickle my brain and I forget about them. Now I can just open up this book and experience the sensation again. When I get one, it feels like Christmas.

Wes stirs and my pen freezes over the paper. My eyes superglue themselves to his but though they flutter, they don’t open and he soon relaxes back into a sound sleep. The tension melts from my body. I hadn’t prepared what I would say when he saw me here. I just heard about his accident and reacted.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but I’m deep into a Mercedes Lackey novel when Mrs. Lott eases back into the room. My neck is stiff and my eyes are watering from the dim light.

“He’s still asleep?” she asks.

I nod and stand slowly. The beginnings of a headache nudge my brain. “What time is it?” I ask. I can hear the sleep in my voice.

“Four-thirty in the morning.”

I sigh. Another two hours and I’ll be going on a full day without rest. I must look like a tired carcass because Mrs. Lott actually touches me. Rests a hand on my arm with concern in her face. “Go get some sleep,” she says. “The coffee and the nap did wonders for me.”

I look at her hand like a third grader trying to comprehend algebra and her eyes follow mine to the contact. She quickly removes it, trucking stray hairs behind her ears and we both stand there uncomfortably for a moment.

I glance at her. “Please don’t tell him I was here.”

The request is sudden and is out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying. But as soon as it’s spoken, it feels right. I don’t need him to know I was here. I just needed to see him. Make sure he was okay. I can’t bear to have him angry at me for creeping into his hospital room in the middle of the night like some stalker.

Bunny is quick to nod. “Of course,” she says. Her voice is determined and suddenly, we’re in the roles I know so well. I’m to be swept under the rug and she is to be the shield between me and her son. I wear the familiarity like an old coat. Picking up my things, I glance back at him briefly then make my way towards the door.

Wes

Pinball. That is the
activity of choice every weeknight after a long day of work. I've been logging extra hours at the community college as an adjunct professor so when the next full time position comes up, I can throw my hat in the ring. Unfortunately teaching two algebra classes on top of my full time job at the tutoring center means that I'm pretty much zombie-fied by the time I walk through the door of my small apartment I share with Clay and Adam, a co-worker in the same financial bind as I am.

Today I drop my jacket on the counter and peer into the fridge. Making a face, I snag a raspberry Smirnoff because all that's left in the stockpile of drinks is the fruity shit Clay buys when we host laid back, bare bones parties to serve to the ladies he hopes to score with.

Adam laughs. "Today is killer if you're sinking that low," he says, commenting on my drink choice.

I wipe a dribble from my chin with my sleeve. "We're even out of water," I complain going over to the pinball machine. It's the last of our college pieces from the first apartment I shared with Clay. The foosball table, the lazy boy, and the ridiculously oversized aquarium all met their deaths as we began cementing adulthood around us but the pinball machine survived. Good thing too, since my brain is shot and the only thing I'm good for is batting a plastic ball around in a box.

"There's always tap water," Adam says, laughing harder.

"That stuff is brown," I mutter. "As soon as I score a spot at the college, I'm getting a decent place."

Adam nods. "Yeah. Twenty-five and living with two other guys isn't where I thought I'd be either."

He fiddles with the stereo remote, scanning radio stations and a snatch of music jolts my brain. I twist from my game and the ball sinks but I don't care. "Go back," I say urgently.

Adam looks at me. "Huh?"

"The last station is was on. Ugh!" The stereo's still scanning. I rush over to it, falling to my knees and turning the tune dial back to find the song. It takes a few turns and pauses but finally I hear it.

Love's not easy to ignore

When your heart lies bleeding on the floor.

"Yes! This is it! Yes!" I run to my room, Adam pacing behind me carefully as if I'd gone mad. I must have looked it. He pauses in the doorframe to my room and leans against it as he watches me sift through a box on my desk.

"So...you wanna tell me why this song has your drawers in a bunch?" he asks.

I find what I'm looking for. A purple leather notebook with a black tree embedded in the corner. I hold it up with one hand and slap it triumphantly with the other.

Adam nods as if it explains everything but his eyes give away the sarcasm. "Nice diary. Something I should know?"

I sit on the corner of my bed and flip it open. "It's not a diary. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. It's full of song lyrics. Just random ones. Pieces of ones. Written all over the pages. See? Look. There's no order to it."

Adam crosses the room and peers over my shoulder. "I still don't get it," he says.

I laugh but mostly because I'm so happy. "Neither do I," I say. My words come out in a grunt because I'm stretching past him to grab a pen sitting on my night stand. I pour through the pages until I find what I'm looking for.
Love's not easy to ignore, when your heart lies bleeding on the floor.

Underneath it I write,
Sponge: Live Here Without You.

"Remember that accident I told you about? I was in the hospital for three weeks. Someone left this journal there. I didn't understand it at the time when I read it but I remember seeing a video on MTV a couple weeks after finding it and recognizing very vividly a lyric from Madonna's Cherish during a tribute to her."

"Two hours of Madonna videos while laid up in a hospital? That had to be worse than the actual accident."

"Whatever. Anyway, I realize why it stuck out in my brain. It was in this journal. And
then
I realized that's what all the phrases were. I solved a few of them. I knew the songs right away. But there were some I didn't know. And when it finally connects like this..." I smile widely. "In some random place at some random time...the feeling is more satisfying than popping bubble wrap."

"Nothing is more satisfying than bubble wrap," Adam argues.

"This is."

He considers for a moment then shakes his head. "Nah. I'll get you some of the rare big bubbles and you say that again to my face after popping a few."

I rib him and he laughs. But nothing can rid me of this stupid feeling. Raspberry Smirnoff and pinball don't seem to be needed anymore. I once again have energy in my limbs.

"Well whose is it?" Adam asks. "And are you going to make the owner wait seven years to give it back while you figure out every lyric?"

My mind flashes to Birdie for an instant but I shake the image loose. I hadn't seen her since I let her have it after that trip to Nacadogches and told her never to call me again. I meant the words I spoke but it was still a sharp pang before it became a dull ache to now a regretful wisp that she abided to my wish.

"Some ex-girlfriend of Grant's," I answer. "I don't think she's missing it."

My phone lights up and plays some tinny sounding Beethoven. I pick it up off my bed and glance at the screen.

“That Katy girl again?” Adam asks, and I nod setting the phone back down. I flip through the journal pensively, on a roll not that I solved another lyrical mystery. “Are you ever going to go out with her?” Adam prods.

I glance up at him. “We’re just friends,” I answer. “We’ve been friends since I started at UT. If anything were going to happen, it would have already happened.”

“Dude, she’s working her ass off to make sure something happens.”

I frown slightly but I know he’s telling the truth. I’ve been dodging her for years. I know if I asked for more, she’d be more than willing.

“I’ve never seen you date anyone,” Adam continues.

“I go on dates,” I argue.

“Date, singular. First dates. You have one night stands, not girlfriends.”

I shrug. “It’s working for me.”

“Yeah, but for how long? You don’t want to be that fifty year old guy still trying to get laid by a different woman every night.”

“I don’t get laid by different women every night now. I just…I haven’t met someone I want to let in.”

Adam picks up my phone and scrolls through it. “Well,” he says. “This Katy chick is cute. If you don’t want her, can I have her?”

“She’s not a sweater, Adam.”

He laughs. “Maybe not, but I’m sure she’d look good on me.”

I roll my eyes and use my pillow to cut off his voice. He lets out a surprised “oof!” as it connects with his open mouth. I smile and return to the journal. That’s better.