Less Than Hero (23 page)

While he enjoys stealing people’s identities for kicks, Blaine has taken to chatting up well-to-do women at bars and going back to their luxury hotel rooms or uptown apartments. There he indulges in their physical charms before he wipes their memories clean and leaves with whatever money and jewelry and personal possessions he can take. And getting the combinations to their safes is as easy as getting them to spread their legs.

He knows eventually he’ll get bored with this and want something more, something bigger and better. Even now, at this moment, he can feel his power increasing, expanding, pushing past the boundaries of what he thought was possible. In the meantime, he figures he’ll continue to take advantage while the taking is good.

Bella appears at the back of the bar and makes her way toward him, her eyes catching his and a playful smile tickling the corners of her mouth.

Yeah
, Blaine thinks.
This is going to be fun
.

“I was thinking,” Bella says, brushing against Blaine as she sits
down next to him. “Why don’t we take this conversation someplace else?”

“What did you have in mind?” Blaine asks.

“Well, I have a room in the towers,” she says, then sucks some of her mojito through her straw. “But that’s just one idea.”

Blaine gives her a smile and picks up his drink. “I think that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

T
he clock on the ICU waiting room wall says it’s 12:37 a.m., which means we’ve been at the New York Presbyterian Hospital for nearly three hours, but it feels more like three days. No one else is in the waiting room at this hour. On the flat-screen television mounted above us, CNN plays a relentless tune of death and disease and tragedy. Not exactly uplifting ambiance.

Maybe Sophie was right. Maybe the news needs to be less sensational and more inspirational. And right now, we could use some good news. But apparently CNN isn’t in the feel-good business.

“Do you think Blaine caused Charlie’s s-s-seizure?” Isaac asks.

According to the doctor, Charlie suffered what appears to be a grand mal seizure that put him into a coma. Isaac showed up at Randy’s just before the ambulance and we all came down here together.

“I don’t know,” I say, as the death toll rises in some natural disaster somewhere. “I think it looked more like Charlie did it to himself.”

“Kind of like how you thought Blaine was Illusion Man?” Frank says.

At least no one’s assigning any blame.

“We all thought Blaine was Illusion Man,” Randy says.

“I didn’t,” Isaac says.

Frank chugs down a Diet Coke and belches. “That’s because you don’t understand the concept of punctuality.”

Frank found the vending machines not long after we got here and is eating his way from Almond Joy to Zebra Cakes.

“What does it matter who Blaine is?” Vic says, which is appropriate, considering he actually doesn’t know who Blaine is. “Charlie’s in a coma.”

And that shuts everyone up.

The five of us sit in silence, watching the clock and trying to ignore CNN while listening to Frank eat a bag of Fritos.

“Do you ever stop eating?” Vic asks.

“I always eat when I’m stressed,” Frank says before he shoves a handful of peanut M&M’s into his mouth.

“You must be stressed a lot,” Randy says.

Ten minutes later, the doctor finally comes into the waiting room and we all stand up.

“How is he?” Vic asks.

“Mr. Dinkins appears to have suffered from what is known as an ischemic stroke,” the doctor says, whose name tag identifies him as Dr. Carey.

“A stroke?” Frank says. “But he’s not even twenty-five.”

“It is unusual for someone of his age,” Dr. Carey says. “But it can happen, especially if he smokes or drinks regularly or uses recreational drugs such as cocaine or amphetamines.”

“Charlie’s not a smoker or much of a drinker,” I say. “And as far as I know, he’s never used any recreational drugs.”

“Does anyone know if Mr. Dinkins is diabetic or taking any prescription medications?” the doctor asks.

None of us mention that Charlie takes prescription medications for a living. We probably should, but we don’t.

A number of prescription medications can increase the risk of stroke. Beta-blockers and anticoagulants and contraceptives. Medications for ADHD and arthritis and Alzheimer’s disease. Drugs approved by the FDA and then withdrawn after the manufacturer admitted to withholding information about the drug’s risk.

“No,” Vic says. “He’s not diabetic.”

“Is he regularly taking any over-the-counter medications for pain?” the doctor asks.

In addition to certain prescription medications, regular use of nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs can increase the risk of stroke.

“Not that we know of,” Vic says.

“Well, that rules out the more common risks for stroke,” the doctor says. “It’s possible he could have high cholesterol or some arterial abnormalities, perhaps an undiagnosed heart condition that could have contributed to the stroke.”

“Could his seizure have caused the stroke?” Frank asks.

“Usually it’s the other way around,” the doctor says. “And true to form, Mr. Dinkins has experienced several light to moderate seizures since he was brought in.”

“Shit.” Randy sits down with his head in his hands and stares at the floor.

“While seizures can lead to unconsciousness, it’s rare that we
see a single seizure precipitate a coma,” the doctor says. “However, continuous seizures can prevent the brain from recovering from one seizure to the next, which can lead to prolonged unconsciousness and, in some cases, coma.”

No one says anything.

“Does Mr. Dinkins have a history of seizures?” the doctor asks, almost as if he knows we’re hiding something.

We all avoid looking at one another as we try to come up with an answer that doesn’t reveal Charlie’s identity as a superhero and, consequently, our own.

“What would some of the symptoms be?” Frank asks.

“Fluttering eyelids, lip smacking, and hand fumbling are typical indications of a petit mal seizure,” the doctor says. “In partial or focal seizures, staring episodes or lack of awareness are common, as are blackout spells that can last anywhere from ten or fifteen seconds to up to several minutes.”

I remember how Charlie spaced out while staring at the window just before Blaine showed up. And again, during lunch at Curry in a Hurry. I wonder if those were the only times Charlie had an episode or just the ones I happened to notice.

“I saw something,” I say. Then I tell the doctor about Charlie’s episodes.

“Those certainly sound like they could have been seizures,” the doctor says. “Until we have the chance to speak with Mr. Dinkins, we won’t know for sure.”

“So you think he’ll wake up?” Vic asks.

“In spite of the damage from the stroke, his brain activity is positive,” Dr. Carey says. “So we’re optimistic he’ll regain consciousness. It’s just a matter of when.”

Everyone takes a collective sigh of relief.

“So he’s going to be okay?” Randy asks.

“At this point, it’s too early to tell,” the doctor says. “The CT scan shows that Mr. Dinkins suffered significant trauma to the motor cortex on the left side of his brain.”

“What does that m-mean?” Isaac asks.

“It means that once he recovers from his coma, Mr. Dinkins is likely going to experience some loss of the use of his right arm and leg, as well as some paralysis of the right side of his face,” the doctor says. “How much use he regains will depend on the severity of the stroke.”

So much for the sense of relief.

“How much is all of this going to cost?” Frank asks, always the pragmatic one. “Charlie doesn’t have any health insurance and he doesn’t have any family.”

“I’m not able to answer that for you,” the doctor says. “But I can assure you that we’ll do everything we can for Mr. Dinkins and won’t discharge him until he’s stabilized.”

Dr. Carey asks several more questions, then indicates that we’re free to visit Charlie but asks that we limit visitors to two at a time. Vic and Frank go first, leaving Randy, Isaac, and me in the waiting room.

The three of us sit in silence, alternately staring at the walls or watching CNN, which is now reporting on a massacre in some African country. This is followed by another story about a car bombing in Pakistan. Then a report on a sniper shooting at cars on the Los Angeles freeways.

Murder. Madness. Mayhem.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

It’s enough to turn an eternal optimist’s outlook from sunny blue to perpetual gray.

Isaac stands up. “I’m gonna get a C-C-Coke. Anyone w-want anything?”

Randy and I both shake our heads and Isaac goes to visit the vending machines, leaving me watching CNN while Randy continues to stare at the floor between his feet.

“This is all my fault,” he says.

“No, it’s not,” I say. “If anything, it’s my fault. I should have figured out something was wrong the first time I saw Charlie space out.”

Randy shakes his head. “I called him out on being a superhero when he said he didn’t want to meet Mr. Blank or Illusion Man, so he tried to show that he had what it takes.”

“You don’t know that,” I say.

“Yes, I do,” he says.

I try to come up with something to make Randy feel better, but I’m running low on anti-guilt remedy, having used up most of it on myself.

“I should have done something,” Randy says. “We
all
should have done something.”

“We couldn’t,” I say. “Blaine stole our memories. We didn’t have any way to fight him.”

“Sure we did,” Randy says. “There were four of us and one of him. We could have taken him. Instead we just stood there and let that asshole get away.”

“Vic doesn’t even remember who Blaine is now,” I say, trying to justify our inaction. Or maybe just mine. “And you’ve read the
news reports. Some of these people who’ve run into Blaine have suffered permanent memory loss.”

“So?”

“So even had we all rushed him, chances are at least one of us would have ended up losing our memories.”

“That’s the price of being a superhero,” Randy says. “You have to be willing to make some sacrifices. Otherwise, you’re just a guy wearing colored spandex and a satin cape.”

And here I was thinking we were making sacrifices by not going out for a round of post-superhero beers.

On CNN, a young woman is talking about how her brother was killed by two men who beat him to death while a group of bystanders watched without doing anything to help. Then Isaac comes back into the waiting room with a Coke and some more vending machine bounty.

“Hey,” he says. “Anyone want some S-S-Skittles?”

Y
ou’re
who
?”

Sophie sits next to me on the couch, staring at me, her head cocked at a slight angle and her eyebrows pinched in concentration as if she’s trying to understand me.

“I’m Dr. Lullaby,” I say.

After what happened with Charlie, I decided it was time I told Sophie about my dual identity. There’s nothing like having one of your superhero pals end up in a coma to make you come down with a severe case of honesty.

“Dr. Lullaby?”

“You know,” I say. “The superhero.”

Sophie shakes her head back and forth a couple of times, and it occurs to me that since she doesn’t watch or read the news, she probably has no idea what I’m talking about, so I show her a recent copy of the
New York Post
with an article about our latest exploits.

Sophie looks up from the article. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

“No,” I say. “No joke.”

She gives me another puzzled look, then goes back to reading.
When she’s done, she looks up again with something closer to concern. “You make people fall asleep?”

I nod and give a little smile, hoping she’ll get the vibe that this is a good thing rather than something to be concerned about, but Sophie continues to wear her serious face.

“How is that possible? That you can make someone fall asleep?” She looks back at the paper, a single finger tracing along the text of the article. “Or vomit or gain weight or go into convulsions?”

“Well, I can’t do
all
those things,” I say. “That’s Vic and Frank and Charlie, also known as Captain Vomit, Big Fatty, and Convulsion Boy. And Randy is the Rash because he makes people break out in rashes. And Isaac gives people erections, so we call him Professor Priapism.”