Heft (20 page)

Hi, Charlene! the nurse says brightly. Hi, honey!

I say nothing.

She’s been doin’ good, says the nurse, but I don’t know exactly what she means, and I don’t ask.

I put down my hood. I don’t touch her. I don’t know what to do. I look at the nurse.

You can talk to her, says the nurse. Sometimes that helps.

Or sing to her, she says over her shoulder on her way out. Sing her her favorite songs.

The nurse shuts the curtain behind her. It’s the two of us now.

I can’t bring myself to sing. Instead I sit in the chair next to her bed and look at her, my mother, my still-living mother. My breathing mother. Her chest and stomach going up and down slowly.

Mom, I whisper. It’s Kel.

I think I see something flicker across her face.

It’s Kel, I say again. Your son Kel.

A wave of guilt hits me hard. That I have not been here with her. That I have been in Pells Landing, her favorite favorite place on earth, without her. That I ate turkey in someone else’s house.

I pull the chair closer. I put my elbows on my knees, and my chin on my hands. I pull the chair close enough so my shins touch the bed. For a while I sit and say nothing. The drone of the hospital gets louder. The drone of the fluorescent light above my mother’s head.

• • •

A
ll weekend I stay. It is a relief to be here. It is a long time.
I pretend it is my home now. I go down and get myself lunch and dinner from the cafeteria each day. I sleep in the chair next to her bed, curled up into a tight little ball. My neck hurts. My back. The nurses come and go. One of them likes me better than all the other nurses do. Without asking she brings me ten issues of
ESPN
magazine and two issues of
Sports Illustrated
.

All day Friday I talk to my mother about my life. I tell her things I never dreamed of telling her. She lies there on her back and I think she looks peaceful. I tell her about Lindsay Harper. I tell her I think she would like Lindsay Harper, and that when she wakes up I’ll introduce them. I tell her about Trevor’s parents’ house, the entire floor plan, and how they have a maid who makes their beds for them every day. And two refrigerators. I tell her about going to the party in Yonkers, missing my Yonkers friends. I tell her I’ve realized several things about my life. I tell her what I want to do in the future. I tell her that I have a private workout with a Mets scout in two weeks, which I already told her, but I tell her again. I know you want me to go to college, I tell her, but it’s not right for me, it’s not right. I tell her the things I thought about when I was little that I never had a reason to tell her. I ask her things about Dad and about herself. I tell her I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to her.

My cell phone rings at some point in the evening and wakes me from a nap. The unavailable number again. For the first time I am able to answer, and I do so as quick as I can, but there’s no one on the other end.

Hello? Hello? Hello? I say. No one is there at all.

On Saturday afternoon I run out of things to talk to her about and on one of my trips downstairs I buy two of the magazines she likes,
Redbook
and
Cosmopolitan,
and I read aloud to her from them. I skip the embarrassing parts. I read advice on fashion and men and imagine it being useful to her someday. When I’m done with this I read the sports magazines. And drift in and out of sleep.

Different nurses come by a lot to check on her. Twelve times I see her hands move. Five times I see her open her eyes. Four times her head moves.

On Sunday morning the neurologist comes by to run another test on her. They wheel her out and leave me there. I don’t try to be nice, I don’t have it in me. When he comes back he tells me things do not look different.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

He opens and closes his mouth.

He wants to see if I understand the importance of what he’s just said.

But I won’t meet his eyes.

I nod slowly and I tell him OK.

The Cohens leave seven messages asking where I am which I feel bad not returning but I can’t face them. Trevor texts me. Kurt and Peters and Kramer text me. Even Cossy.

Because I don’t want them to worry about me, I text Trevor:
with mom in hosp. tell everyone for me. sorry.

Trevor texts back,
i cant believe u just left.

Then:
i’m in so much trouble.

• • •

M
onday morning I wake up and kiss my mother on the
forehead and say goodbye. I go into the men’s room and wash at the sink. Under my armpits, my hands, my face. I have almost a beard. My hair is getting too long for me. I open the duffel bag I brought with me from the Cohens’ house and I rummage in it for something not too wrinkled and not too smelly and I come out with a polo. The only jeans I have are the ones I’ve been wearing all weekend. I pull my old sweatshirt on over the polo.

I walk outside. It’s raining, freezing. The snow has melted but ice covers parts of the parking lot. A car has parked too close to mine and I have to climb in through the passenger’s door of my car to get inside. On the drive to school it occurs to me that I have none of my books and that I have done none of my homework. But I can’t miss a practice and I can’t miss a game. They’re the only things I feel like doing, so I go to school, I walk in through the front doors and walk into my homeroom and say hi to people, I talk to them. I feel empty as a balloon. I feel like my words are echoing off of something.

When I pass Trevor in the hallway he doesn’t stop.

When I see Kurt in physics second period he says Oh my God, Kel, what’s wrong with you, which is a strong thing for him to say. You look like shit, he says.

Is Trevor really mad? I ask.

What do you think, says Kurt.

Are his parents?

He shrugs.

My mom, I say, but I stop.

Ms. Dietrich begins class by giving us an exercise to do while she walks around and checks our notebooks to make sure we’ve done our homework.

Kel? she whispers, when she gets to me. I don’t have paper and I don’t have my textbook and I don’t even have a pencil.

I forgot it, I say.

Forgot what? she whispers. Your homework? Your bookbag?

Everything, I say.

She sighs and moves on to Kurt, making a little red mark in her grade book.

While everyone else works on the problem she’s given us, I reach into my back pocket for my mother’s letter and take it out. I keep it below the desk and feel every corner and every edge of it. I stick a finger into a little pocket where the glue is coming loose a bit, but I don’t pull. I think again of Lindsay, and of how nice it would be to see her. I want to find her after class. I know where she’ll be.

When the bell rings I stand and walk out quickly, and Ms. Dietrich goes, Kel, hang on a sec. Kel!

I don’t stop. I walk faster.

I walk to A-Hall, where Lindsay Harper will just be getting out of French class. My lower lip goes numb when I see her and I pinch it.

She’s with her friend Christy. They’re walking toward me. The sight of Lindsay Harper releases something in me and I feel my muscles go loose in relief, I feel that everything will be OK if I can just tell her the things I’ve been wanting to tell her. I want to tell her. I want to tell her.

She sees me when there’s still half the hall between us and stops, and her face twists as if in pain, and she grabs Christy’s wrist.

Oh my God,
I see Christy say, and she puts an arm in front of Lindsay protectively, and I don’t know what’s happening.

I don’t pause. I keep walking faster and faster toward them. People are watching me now, I can see their heads swivel from me to Lindsay to me to Lindsay.

Lindsay’s whole body is tense, her jaw is tense as if it’s braced for impact. She puts both hands halfway toward me, palms out, as if to say stop.

When I reach her I try to take them and she pulls them away. I must look insane, I think—dirty sweatshirt, dirty jeans—unshaven, unshowered, insane.

What, I say, and Lindsay says, Don’t talk to me, and Christy says, She doesn’t want to talk to you.

Why— I say, and Lindsay says, Get away from me, and Christy says, Get away from her.

I don’t understand, I say.

I’m sorry, I say.

Please, I say. Please let me just talk to you.

Christy grabs her hand and starts to walk down the hallway but Lindsay jerks free and stays facing me.

Then she pulls me by the elbow into an empty classroom and shuts the door behind us.

I am facing her. I should tell her everything. I imagine it.

I think you’re an asshole, Lindsay Harper says.

I stare at her.

I know what you did with that girl Thanksgiving night, says Lindsay Harper, and I think you’re an asshole.

I stare.

What are you talking about, I say.

Kel. Kel, says Lindsay Harper. Kel. Stop it. I knew what your reputation was before we started . . . whatever. It’s just. I just never wanted to feel stupid.

Her face is red, red. Her ears are red. She is pointing at me, one tight finger extending from a bright little fist.

Where are you getting your information, I ask. My voice is so quiet I can barely hear it myself.

It doesn’t
matter
, says Lindsay, and then she starts crying, two tears followed by several. She puts her hands over her face completely.

Tell me, I say. Tell me. Matt Barnaby?

The bell rings which means next period has started. Neither one of us moves.

She is still standing in front of me, fully upright, her back straight, her hands covering her face.

Tell me, Lindsay, I say. Please.

I move toward her and put one hand on each of her shoulders and she doesn’t move.

I say, I want to tell you something. I want to tell you something.

I say it twice.

I pull her head to my chest and for a minute she is still and calm. I feel her breathing slow down. Then she slips out from under my arms and goes out of the classroom, shutting the door behind her quietly. I sit on the floor right where I am because I’m afraid my legs won’t hold me. If I could cry I would but I can’t right now.

I sit in the classroom for the whole of third period. I’m missing Pottsy’s class but I couldn’t go to it anyway. Lindsay’s in it. It’s not important. I crawl under several desks to get to the wall and lean my head against it and reel with aloneness.

I try telling myself things like
There’s always Arizona
, but the idea of going and finding my absent father makes me hate myself. Why should I do that, I think. Why, when he’s had fourteen years to come find me.

When the bell rings I walk slowly to the cafeteria, knowing I will have no one to sit with, knowing Trevor Cohen will not let me sit at his table. I sit at a different table, throwing the entire system off. Two junior girls glare at me. I have nothing to keep busy with. Nothing to read or look at. I stare at the dirt under my fingernails.

The next time I lift my head I’m facing two boys: Cossy Van Konig. And the bastard Matt Barnaby.

I don’t even think I don’t even talk.

I get out of my chair and walk toward them. I stop when I’m three inches from Matt Barnaby. I tower over him. I breathe in deeply so my chest expands. I lower my chin at him.

I’m gonna kill you, I say, and I mean it, and it isn’t me talking, or maybe this was me all along and maybe I didn’t know it.

You’re fucking dead, I say.

What
are you . . . says Matt Barnaby, and he puts a hand on my chest to stop me and I shove it off.

Don’t touch me, I say. You’re fucking dirt.

I’m throwing my chin out at him. I’m swaying side to side.

Look, man, says Matt, and he looks so scared and dismayed that I feel bad for him for half of one second. And then I feel nothing.

Cossy goes, Kel, Jesus. Calm down.

I ignore him.

You told her, I say to Matt Barnaby. You fucking told her, you little bitch. You couldn’t get with her so you told her instead.

His face changes and in it I see an admission of guilt.

Without hesitating I reel back and punch him as hard as I can. Straight across his face. I don’t aim. I think I get his jaw and nose both. I haven’t punched anyone since I was thirteen or fourteen and it feels good, it feels real.

The bastard Matt Barnaby is lifted off the floor. His hands go straight out to his right and left. He is thrown backward then he is on his ass on the floor. His hands come down last. He takes a chair down with him on his way. His nose is broken. It bleeds. He does not move for three or four seconds, and then it seems as if he can’t breathe. He lies perfectly still but his eyes are open. Looking at me. Finally he takes a deep ragged breath and wails once.

Cossy is standing there shocked. One hand on his cheek. Oh my God, he says, oh my
God.
He crouches down next to Matt. I think, Maybe Matt Barnaby’s jaw is broken too. Maybe his whole face.

I’m breathing hard. My hand is throbbing. I can’t open my fist. My throwing hand. Peripherally I see a little crowd forming and I see two teachers running toward me. I don’t look at them. I look at Matt Barnaby on the floor before me.

Before anyone can put their hands on me I’m gone. I run very fast out of the cafeteria and then out of the closest set of doors to the outside. I’m halfway around the building from where my car is but no one gets in my way. I run faster.

My car starts reluctantly and then I leave the school, not slowing down for speed bumps, not slowing down for the guard that comes out of the front entrance and tries to wave me down.

KEL KELLER, he says. I hear him through my car window but I don’t even look back.

I drive without really knowing where I’m going. I get on the Saw Mill and then get off the Saw Mill and drive north again on local roads. Back into Pells. It’s been raining on and off all day and it’s raining now and I put my wipers on and then my headlights. It’s dark as night. Now I’ve really done it, I think, with something like satisfaction.