Flicker (6 page)

I look at the doors.

"The doctor already talked to your mom. She
wants to stay here, although there really isn't any need. Do you
have a way home, or do you have anyone you can call to stay with
you?"

I bristle, then immediately chastise myself.
She's just trying to be nice. "I'll need to find a ride home, but
I'm fine by myself."

She looks around. "You know, I bet Rick can
drop you off. I'll radio him and find out where he's at."

"Rick?"

"Martinez. The EMT who brought your dad
in."

"I don't know…"

She dismisses my concern with a wave of her
hand. "He's completely harmless. I bet he'll let you play with the
lights if you ask nicely."

That's so not where I was going with that,
but there's no sense arguing. I need a ride home and apparently
this Rick will do whatever she asks. If only I had a tinfoil hat
for the ride home. "Let me make sure my mom's okay with me
leaving."

"Your dad's in room 214. I'll come get you
when Rick is here."

Great.

I trudge up the stairs to the second floor,
digging deep for the energy to comfort Mom.

She's sitting in a plastic chair pulled
tight against the bed. A fluorescent light flickers over Dad's
bandaged head, the blue-white impulses casting long shadows around
the room as he sleeps. Or lies there unconscious.

I knock lightly on the door before entering.
"Mom, can I get you anything? Have you eaten?" I know she won't—not
while my dad is like this—but I can't not offer.

She looks up as if surprised to see me. The
mascara's been wiped from her face, revealing red puffy skin that
threatens to close her eyes. "No, I'm fine. I'll just wait here
with your father."

My eyes close against the harsh lights, but
the stabbing near my ear remains. I take a deep breath. "The nurse
said you're gonna stay here?"

She murmurs softly, but I can't tell if
she's answering me or talking to Dad.

"Mom?"

"You go on home, dear. There's no sense in
us both staying."

I tell myself she's a little concerned with
how I'll get home, or the fact that I'll be staying home alone. I
mean, I could have a party and trash the house. I back away towards
the hall.

"Biz?" Mom lifts her head, her glassy eyes
on me.

My hand rests on the doorknob.

"Please be careful. I know you don't want
the doctors looking at you, but I haven't forgotten what
happened."

My chest tightens. I give her a small smile.
"I will, Mom."

*****

Rick is leaning against the ambulance when I
walk outside. "Samantha says you need a ride home."

Something about the way he's standing—one
foot propped against the ambulance, his arms crossed over his
chest—makes me uncomfortable. Earlier I hadn't really looked at
him, but now that it's just the two of us out here I'm suddenly
aware of how… male… he is. Strong arms, with tendons twisting to
his wrists, ending at hands could crush my head. I'm not sure
whether to be frightened or—

"So, do you?"

My hand snakes to the back of my neck and
squeezes. I can't think straight with this stupid headache. "Yeah,
thanks."

"Well hop on in." He shoves away from the
ambulance with his foot and opens the passenger door in one fluid
movement.

I move past him, suddenly self-conscious.
I've never been inside an ambulance before. For the most part it
looks like a regular truck, just bigger and with a lot more
buttons. Not to mention the computer. A row of switches on the
ceiling catch my attention.

"You can flip ‘em on once we're on the road.
Most kids think it's fun."

I scowl at him. "I'm not twelve."

He holds up his hands. "Hey, I don't know.
I'm doing Samantha a favor and thought I'd try to be nice." He guns
the engine and we roll away from the hospital.

Dusk has settled and neon lights blink all
around us. My eyes close out of habit. I'm about to ask him how he
knows where we're going when I remember he was already at my house.
My thoughts flit to Dad and I sink back in the seat. Maybe I
shouldn't have left.

"You sure it's just a headache that's
affecting you?"

I raise an eyebrow without opening my eyes.
"Why do you ask?"

Based on the length of his pause, he's
considering his answer carefully. "Like I said, I'm into neurology
and the way your pupils were all over the place…" He shakes his
head.

My pupils?
This is new to me. I open one eye. "What were they dilated or
something?"

He glances at me, his eyes bright with
curiosity. "One of them was."

Excuses leap to my lips, but I keep them to
myself. I get the feeling he already knows it's all bullshit.

"I don't know what's going on with you, but
you should really get it checked out. You don't want to find out
too late that you have something seriously wrong with your brain.
It's not like pulling a muscle or breaking a bone. Once your brain
goes haywire it's a lot harder to fix."

Fantastic.

"I'm not trying to scare you. At least, not
too much, but you seem like a smart kid," he smirks. "I'm sorry,
young woman. And I'd hate for you to waste that because you're
skittish around MDs."

"Who
are
you?" The words fly from my mouth before I
can stop them. "I mean…" I'm more shocked than pissed but I can't
backtrack now. "You meet me for two seconds and you think you can
analyze me? Don't they have patients at the hospital for you to
play around with?"

His jaw clenches. His hard eyes meet mine.
"Yeah, they do. But the ones with these problems are already
dead."

That shuts me up.

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be a
jerk. If you say you're fine I guess I have to accept that. But
will you promise me one thing?"

"Sure. Because I make promises to strangers
all the time."

"If whatever is wrong with you gets worse,
will you tell someone?"

I turn away, unable to bear the intensity of
his gaze. He'd be a good doctor if he's this passionate about every
person he encounters.

The streetlights on my block are on, but my
house is dark. He pulls into the driveway. "You didn't answer."

"I know."

"Okay, at the very least, don't forget what
I've said. I guess that's all I can really hope for."

I smile at him, but my lips feel lopsided.
"That I can do." I open the door and jump down to the driveway.
"Thanks for the ride."

He nods and waits in the driveway, the
ambulance idling, until I've let myself into the house.

Inside, I check every room, lock every door
and window, and turn on every light. I put a frozen dinner in the
microwave and lean on the counter while it cooks.

I text Amelia to say hi, then Cameron, then
continue to wait.

Three minutes later the microwave beeps but
neither of them have texted back. I bring my food to my bedroom,
stopping by the bathroom to grab my medicine, then flop onto my bed
with the stereo blasting.

Some Friday night.

Chapter 9

A slamming door wakes me up. Faint
sunlight streams through my curtains.
What
time is it?

I slowly sit up, flinching in anticipation
of the daggers that are ready to pierce my brain, but they remain
sheathed. I gingerly poke my chin and wince. Seems the daggers have
relocated there.

"Biz?" Mom calls from downstairs.

"In my room." I reach for the glass of water
on my nightstand and pause, my hand in midair. The plastic dish
from last night's dinner is flipped upside-down on the floor,
cheese and pasta oozing from beneath it, completely crusted to the
carpet.

Mom sighs in the doorway.

"At least my headache's gone." I smile my
best ‘aww-shucks' grin and rap my knuckles against my skull.
Lightly. "Did they release Dad?"

She crosses her arm over her chest so her
hand settles on her shoulder, as if she's holding herself together.
"Not for a couple more hours. His doctor is doing rounds and will
see him after that."

I'm surprised she left.

"I'm sorry I—" her eyes drift closed. The
remorse plays out on her features before it leaves her mouth.
Tightly clenched lips, crows feet deeper than usual, flexing her
fist.

I save her the trouble. "I know Mom. You
were worried about Dad. I was too."

"But that doesn't excuse me from looking out
for you. It didn't occur to me until the middle of the night that I
had no idea how you got home."

Sometimes I wish she'd keep these things to
herself. It's how she copes, I know that, but it just reinforces
the fact that I'm not the most important person to her.

"So?" She's watching me now.

"The ambulance driver drove me."

She raises an eyebrow. I can tell she wants
to say more, but she's the one who put me in that position and
prolonging this conversation will only make her feel worse.

"Well I'm glad you're feeling better. Will
you be around today?"

That's a good question. My phone beckons,
but I hold off. "I'm not sure. I'll stick around until Dad gets
home. Maybe get started on some homework."

This seems to please her. "I'll go make
breakfast." She eyes my spoiled dinner. "You must be hungry."

I wait until I hear pots banging before
calling Amelia.

"How's your dad?"

"Still in the hospital, but supposedly
coming home soon. What'd I miss last night?"

There's a rustle of fabric, followed by the
squeak of bedsprings. "I ended up at the mall and saw Trace. We
didn't talk or anything, but I'm pretty sure he looked at me."

I laugh. "Looked at you? What, did you run
by screaming or something?" I wouldn't put it past her to create a
scene just to get his attention. A minor scene, but a scene
nonetheless.

She huffs. "I'm not
that
bad. I just made sure we
crossed paths. Several—well, maybe a dozen times."

"Subtle."

"Hey, it made him look at me. Don't they say
any publicity is good publicity?"

"Yeah, unless he thinks you're a freak. Just
don't scare him off before the game on Tuesday, otherwise my plan
won't work."

"Do you really think he'll go for it?"

"You know him better than me, but I think
so. Especially if I take a bunch of pictures of him. I don't think
we have to submit the project to the paper, but I can promise him I
will."

"Biz, you rock."

"Yeah, yeah. I still haven't figured out
what other game to go to."

"Too bad the swim team doesn't start until
next semester. That could make for a hot spread." She bursts out
laughing and I roll my eyes, smiling.

My phone vibrates in my hand and I check the
display. A text from Cameron. "Speaking of hot…"

Amelia snorts.

"Give me a call if you decide to do
anything."

"Tell Cam hello."

I read Cameron's text. "No games today.
Wanna hang out?"

This text is no different from any other
I've received from him, but my heart seems to think it's a sonnet
from Shakespeare. I take a deep breath and text back. "Love to.
Later today?" I meant what I said to Mom about staying here until
Dad comes home. I need to see for myself that he's okay.

"Pick you up at four?"

That could almost be a date. Is it a date?
Now I'm gonna have to call Amelia back. "See you then."

I peel myself out of bed and cheese squishes
between my toes. "Ew!" I jump in the air, landing on my trig book.
"Well that seems fitting." I grab a random sock and wipe off my
foot before heading downstairs in search of something to clean the
carpet.

I must really like Cameron. No one's ever
had me so distracted that I've stepped in my dinner.

*****

I'm passed out on the couch when my parents
get home. My big plans to study gave way to a movie marathon, which
gave way to a nap. I sit up as they come inside.

Dad's head is bandage-free and the two-inch
gash on the back of his skull gives me a gnarly smile.

"Holy crap! That's just from hitting the
floor?" I rush to his side and lightly touch the stitches, then
give him a hug. He rubs my back, up and down, like he did when I
was little. I turn to Mom. "There wasn't any blood on the
floor."

She glances at her pants. "Most of it was on
me."

Now I feel like a shit. I've been so pouty
about being the poor neglected child that I failed to notice Dad's
blood all over her.

Dad touches my chin and lifts my face so I'm
looking at him. His brow furrows. "I hear I knocked you a good
one." His thumb runs over the tip of my chin and I try not to
flinch. What he's gone through is so much worse than getting kicked
in the face.

I shrug. "I'll be okay. Everything happened
so fast that I didn't have much time to think about it."

He doesn't say anything at first, just looks
at me with a curious expression on his face.

Mom clears her throat. "I'll let you two
catch up. Are sandwiches okay for lunch?"

We both nod, still looking at each other. He
walks to the couch and lowers himself carefully, first gripping the
back, then the armrest, then falling awkwardly onto the
cushions.

"Why don't you let me help you?"

He ignores me. "What else happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"I can tell your mind's going a thousand
miles a minute, and it's not about this latest case of child
abuse."

I smile despite myself. When I was seven he
clocked me in the side of the head during a seizure and an
overly-protective substitute teacher alerted the school that she
suspected I was being abused at home. It's happened countless times
over the years—the accidental injuries, not the reports of
abuse—and the joke helps lessen his anguish over hurting me.