Cracked (21 page)

This is unbelievable.
I
don’t want to interrupt
him
.

“And the poem? Well, now, that’s mighty personal. My uncle gave me that poem after I had my son. I tucked it away and never thought anything of it. I wasn’t a poem kind of guy. And let’s just say I wasn’t the best father in the world. I was tough on Michael, real tough. Never laid a hand on him, but I used my words. Nothing that boy did was ever good enough for me.

“Got lots of regrets about my parenting.” Frank presses his lips together, then turns and looks out the window. I’m not saying a word. He takes a big breath and says, “But regrets
don’t get you anywhere, no matter how much time you spend thinking them through on a mower. Best thing to do with a regret is to share it with the person, tell him how you feel, how you wished things could’ve been different. Won’t do much for the other person, but it takes a breeze of guilt out of your hurricane. Just a breeze, though.”

Incredible. Is this guy for real? I mean, he shows up out of the blue, and it’s like he knows exactly what to say to me. Out of nervousness, I shift my weight in my wheelchair. A pain shoots down my bad leg. I cringe.

Frank is at my side before I can even exhale. “Are you all right?”

I nod, let out a long breath, and slowly get myself back into a comfortable position.

Frank waits. “You okay now?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

He sits back down. “I know you’re still wondering why I gave you that poem. I apologize for my long-winded answer. I haven’t spoken this out loud to anyone yet. You are the first person to hear my ‘mower thoughts.’” He laughs.

I smile at him. He has the best voice. It reminds me of the grandfathers I used to see on television. Kind, patient, gentle.

Everything Pop isn’t.

“Being the quiet type, I notice things. Now, I hope you don’t
think I’m prying in your private life or anything, but I noticed your bruises. I could see them across the cemetery. A young man doesn’t get those kinds of bruises by accident. Not over and over again. And when your neighbors said it was just your mom and your grandfather living with you . . .” Frank’s voice trailed off.

My smile disappears. I am not going to discuss my pop with this guy. I don’t even know him. But I don’t know how to make him stop talking.

“I’ve offended you. I’m sorry. I was just trying to help. This was a mistake. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” Frank stands up.

I don’t want him to leave. I’m not sure why, but I don’t.

“It’s all right. I like the poem,” I admit.

“I do too. I do too.”

“My favorite part is the last line: ‘Some wait for no one, they fill themselves up.’ It makes me feel . . .” I don’t know how it makes me feel. Feelings are new to me. I’ve always shoved them down and ignored them. I’ve never acknowledged them, let alone named them.

“Hope?” he asks.

I take a second and think about it, and yeah, that is the perfect word to describe how it makes me feel. I tell him this.

Victor walks in. His eyes are red and his face is blotchy. He’s definitely been crying. I can tell he doesn’t know what to do because he just stands there, staring.

Frank walks right up to him and introduces himself, and they shake hands. Victor sits on his bed with his back to us, but he doesn’t pull the curtain closed. Normally, I’d bitch at Victor to close the curtain, but I can’t take my eyes off of Frank. I study him. He moves slowly but with precision, and he smiles a lot. Not like a creepy clown or anything, a real-deal smile. And know it sounds crazy, but I swear to God his eyes twinkle.

Today has been a wild day. I just want to crawl into bed and relax. I get myself up on one leg. Frank says, “Would you like help getting into bed? I know I’m old, but I’m still pretty strong.”

I almost say no, but then I tell him sure. He helps me up and tucks me under the blankets. For real.

Frank holds out his hand, and I grab it. We shake, and he says, “Rest up. And tonight, dream of hope.” Then he squeezes my shoulder.

When he walks out, I wonder when I’ll see him again, because I want to.

I GUESS THAT WAS BULL’S GRANDFATHER. NOT WHAT
I pictured in my head at all.

“He’s not my grandfather,” Bull says from his bed.

Weird.

“Oh,” I say nonchalantly, trying to act as “whatever” as possible. This is the first thing Bull Mastrick has ever said to me that wasn’t evil.

I’m sitting on my bed with my back to him, and I look at my watch. Ten minutes until my follow-up appointment with the psychiatrist. Everyone says the ticket out of here is to say the right stuff. Lacey gave me all the buzzwords yesterday. She
said Kell told them to her in the one and only verbal interaction they’ve ever had. I’m definitely done with this place, even though that scares the hell out of me. I’m done.

Agnes is at the door and tells me I have a phone call.

“My mother?” I ask.

“Nope, Patty Cullen,” she replies before turning to leave.

I am in shock for a few reasons:

1. This means everyone in school must know what I did, and

2. Patty Cullen is calling me. In the crazy house. Me, Victor Konig, is being called by a girl. And not just any girl. A really pretty girl from school. That girl is on the phone. Right now.

Agnes leans in our doorway again. “You having a hearing issue, Victor?”

I do not want to annoy Agnes. I jump up and follow her down the hall. I don’t have any thoughts right now. My head is blank, like someone wiped me clean. I have no idea what I’m going to say to Patty Cullen. Then guilt pokes at me because I feel like I’m betraying Nikole. But that’s stupid. Nikole went back to her life, where she’s popular and her friends call her Queenie, and she’ll have another hot guy after her in, like,
two seconds. Nikole told me to be happy. She told me to live because I’m worth it.

Agnes huffs with a smile. Then she hands me the phone, pats me on the back, and tells me to just be myself. Great, Agnes has figured out I’m a loser without me even saying a word.

“Hello?”

“Victor?” Patty sounds as nervous as I am.

“Yeah, hi. Is this really Patty?” I ask. I have to ask, even though I know it’s her. I don’t want to be tricked or fooled. Not now. Not today.

“Uh-huh, it is. Are you okay? I’ve been thinking about you.”

Now, she’s said this to me once before, the day after I passed out on my lunch tray. She said she was thinking about me; I remember that. So that means she’s thought about me, like, twice. That’s a lot, right?

“Really? You’ve been thinking about me?” I guess I just need to be completely sure about everything.

I hear her laugh, then she clears her throat. Patty breathes into the phone and then says, “Yeah, I have. Are you okay, Victor? Because I want you to know something.”

This could be good. Or bad. Probably bad. She’s probably going to tell me the whole school laughed their asses off at my botched demise.

“You still there?” she asks after a moment.

“Sorry, yeah, still here.”

“Well, how are you really doing, Victor?”

That same feeling washes over me—the same feeling I got when I was on the phone with my nana. I really am okay.

I tell her, “I’m okay.”

“You are? Seriously? Because I was beyond worried. You are always in class, so when you weren’t there for the last day of school, I had this horrible feeling that something was wrong. I went to the guidance counselor, and she promised me she’d look into it. When word got out about you, and about Bull, at the end-of-the-year parties, I freaked out, Victor.”

“So everyone at school knows what I did?”

“Everyone was really upset about it. Honest.”

I don’t say anything. The reality of having to go back to school in September crashes into me like a linebacker. I know I still have two-and-a-half months of summer vacation, but I don’t want to go back to school ever. No one has noticed me for years, and now I’ll be stared at and whispered about. I don’t want to see any of those people.

“Hey? Listen, okay? I’m here for you. I’ve sort of had a thing for you. My friends always talked me out of saying something. But it’s my life, you know? And I am making you a promise right now on this phone. I am here for you, okay?”

Holy crap. Patricia Cullen just told me that she has a thing for me. I jam my elbow into my thigh to see if I’m dreaming. Nope, awake.

“Victor, you’re very quiet. You there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Are you freaking out?” Her voice cracks at the end. She sounds worried.

This is too much for me. This will never work when I’m out there, with people. “No, I’m not—, ” I start. Then I have an immediate change of heart. Must be the courage juice. “Look, Patty, I’ve been through a lot, and I’ve grown up a lot in here, which is weird because it’s only been a few days. I met this girl, and . . .”

“Oh, oh, I’m . . . wow, I’m sorry. I guess I never expected . . . oh, wow,” she stumbles.

I am ruining this. “No! No! Let me finish, okay?”

“Go ahead,” she whispers.

“I met this girl in here and she told me to stay alive. She told me I’m worth it.”

“And you’re going out with her?”

Still ruining this.

“No. What I’m trying to say is, she made me stop feeling invisible to the world. It’s almost like she filled in the white spaces with color or something. And she made me want to live.”

“And you’re going out with her?”

“No, I’m not going out with her. She’s already gone. She left this morning. But she made me want to live. I want to live. And I want you to be there for me. I want
you
to be there.”

“I
am
here for you.”

Not ruined. So not ruined.

SOME DOCTOR COMES IN AND WAKES ME UP FROM
my nap. He asks if I know where Victor is; he says he’s late for his appointment. I guess he’s the psychiatrist. I tell him Victor’s on the phone. Then he wants to know how I’m doing. I zone in on his eyebrows as soon as my eyes are awake enough to focus. They are unbelievable. I tell his eyebrows I’m good, and I ask him when I can get out of here.

“Well, I think I owe you an apology, William,” he says.

I squint. “For what?” What could this guy possibly have to apologize to me for?

“I apologize that we haven’t talked yet. Both times I had
you on my schedule I had to deal with another patient’s emergency. So, since I’m here and it’s rather difficult for you to move around, why don’t we have our session?”

I’m pretty sure he’s talking about Andrew and his freak-outs, which were both my fault. And
he’s
apologizing to
me
. Classic. “Yeah, I guess,” I say.

He picks up the phone and asks the nurse to tell Victor we’ll need some privacy until he’s finished the session. I swear his eyebrows tickle the receiver.

He hangs up, pulls my curtain closed, and says, “So, William, where is your head today? At this very moment?”

“Good.”

“Good how?” he asks. He sits down in the chair in the corner.

“Good because I’ll be getting out of here soon.” I smile after the words leave my mouth.

“Have you had any thoughts of harming yourself while here?”

I shake my head.

“I’d like to hear you say it, William,” he says.

I exhale through my nose and almost roll my eyes, but I catch myself. “No, I haven’t had any thoughts of killing myself. Not one.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Well, if you did know, what would you say?” he asks
without moving anything but his mouth.

He is a strange man, but damn, he’s good. I smile and nod to show him that I’m thinking. I look over his shoulder and out the window. I watch the summer clouds floating by all free and not connected to anything, and my answer just comes to me. “Well, I guess because I feel connected to living now.”

He raises his eyebrows and I feel a breeze,
I swear. “Go on,” he says.

“Before I got here, I just sort of rolled through life—and I rolled over people, too. I wasn’t connected to anyone. Or anything.”

“And you feel connected now? Why do you feel that way?”

This guy doesn’t quit, does he? I take a deep breath and pause. He waits. I puff my cheeks up and blow out a huge breath. “Probably because I know that other people have shitty lives too, that I’m not the only one, I guess.”

“You guess? Are you sure, or are you still evaluating your feelings?”

I shrug my shoulders. What does this dude think I am, a genius?

“How do you feel about going home?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Fine, I guess.”

“Fine? Nothing is worrying you? Like, say, how you’ll make it up the steps to your apartment?”

I squeeze
my
eyebrows together. How does he know this?

“I had a conversation with your mother and your grandfather about how you will navigate your apartment. They were at a loss. Your mother suggested you recover at a friend’s house, but she failed to offer any feasible options or contact information. She said you have no other family in the area. So the social worker’s been working on placing you in a rehabilitation facility. You can’t go home until you are able to use crutches to get up your stairs.”

I am stuck on the part where my mother told him I should recover at a friend’s house. She is too much. What friend? She knows I don’t go anywhere. She knows I never have anyone over to our hellhole.

Then I get a crazy idea. Really crazy.

“Do you know Frank?” I ask him.

“Frank? Frank who?”

“Frank. His kid is the head of this place.”

“Are you referring to our president, Michael Blessing?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he said his name was Michael. That’s him.”

He tells me he’s confused and that he’s not following my thinking here.

“Well, me and Frank are really good friends. I could stay with Frank.”

There it is, the crazy idea.

“You are suggesting that I call the father of the president of the hospital and ask him to let you stay with him while you recuperate?”

“Yep, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.” If I could hug myself right now I would.