Somebody Up There Hates You (8 page)

It's coming from behind the curtains of the other bed, a kind of mumbling snuffle. Then humming again. A melody.
Dum de dum, dum de dum.

“God almighty. Taps,” Edward says on one long sigh. “That's taps.”

Of course it is:
Day is done. Gone the sun
. I can hear it perfectly now. And it's, like, completely unbearable. Saddest sound on earth. I roll over and pull back the curtain. This is entirely against hospice etiquette, I realize. But, hey, it's been a strange night, right? And this guy can probably still smell the Grim Reaper's aftershave and he's humming taps, and I figure he could use a little company. “Sir? You okay in here?” I ask.

He's sitting straight up in bed, his right hand over his right eye, bony elbow out at a sharp angle. It takes me a minute to get that he's not holding his head in pain or something. No. He's saluting. The man is sitting up in his bed, straight as a board, hospital gown crumpled around his neck, skinny legs hanging off the side, saluting. He drops his hand when he sees me. “The man was a soldier,” he says. “Survived Bataan, damn it.”

Well, what are you gonna say? I nod. “Yes, sir,” I croak out. I kind of want to salute, too—it would feel right. But I'm no soldier, and I haven't earned that. I'm just a kid. So I just repeat, “Yes, sir.”

He leans forward. “Want to play some gin rummy, kid?”

Edward sits down on the empty bed and starts to laugh. At least that's what I think he's doing. He's making laughlike noises, anyway, even though he keeps wiping his hands down his face.

And that's how, somehow, five guys start playing cards in room 304. Gin isn't really my game, I got to say. Poker, now that's what I like. But, hey, the old guy gets to choose, right? It's his room, after all. So gin it is. There's four of us ranged around a bed table on plastic chairs, the old guy in his bed, propped on pillows. Me, the old guy, Mrs. Elkins's son, Edward, and—heaven help my sorry ass— Sylvie's dad, we all got in on it. Don't know how, exactly, we all ended up there, but Edward said he was too tired to go home, and Mrs. Elkins's son said if he didn't get out of his mother's room he was going to lose his mind, and, well, Sylvie's dad just showed up, wearing a suit that looked like it had been on him for three or four weeks and smelling like booze and smoke, eyes two red slits in a puffy bruise-splotched face. And that man came to play, I'll say. Showed no mercy, I'll tell you. I mean, I expected that he'd want to beat my sorry ass into the ground, even if he didn't know exactly what I'd been—almost—up to with his little girl. Okay, that's fair. He could whip my butt and I'd call it even. Fair's fair.

But the man doesn't even have the basic decency to let the old guy win a hand. Nope. Just wipes the floor with all of us, cackling like a hyena every time he shouts “Gin.” Which he does, like, incessantly, even when he hasn't really got it. It's the most annoying thing you can imagine.

I get to shout “Gin” only once, and when I do, I'm sorry I ever made a sound. His eyes burn holes in my chest, sweartogod.

He takes every hand, other than that one I squeak in. Drinks all the green minicans of ginger ale and eats all the little packages of saltines, too. Prick.

Game goes on until the white-capped nurse, lips pressed shut, comes in and says, “Gentlemen. Desist. You are disturbing the other patients.”

I look up, surprised to see sunlight coming in the window. Square patches of light on the yellow walls. Morning. All Souls' Day over. Halloween over. Cabbage Night over. So it's already, what, November 2? Man, only ten days until my birthday. And I got things to do.

For the first time in weeks, I'm hungry. Got to build up my strength if I'm going to be able to do my duty to Sylvie—and maybe other desperate women? I roll back to my room, and when they bring the breakfast tray I swallow big mouthfuls of slimy egg. Two pieces of toast. Orange juice. Oatmeal. And then I take a long nap.

9

A
ND WAKE UP SO
freaking sick that I can barely reach the puke basin in time. I retch for, like, twenty minutes, and then my guts knot and I know I got to get to the bathroom real quick. So I stagger my way out of bed and sit in there for what seems like an hour, sweat pouring out of my skin and pure liquid out of my butt. Finally, I'm so dizzy that I have to press the red emergency button on the bathroom wall. Cannot pass out, I say to myself while I wait. There are black smudges in my vision, with bright lights popping out around them. Will not pass out. Passing out is not an option.

I manage to maintain consciousness, but just. Insult to injury: the nurse that comes in is the white-capped one. She's all clean and starchy, even if she has been here all night and half the day. She takes one look at my crumpled, sorry self slumped on the toilet and—I got to give her some credit here—she says not one word. No lecture, no
tsk
ing, no nothing. She just gets cool washcloths on my face and neck. And she helps me up and into the lounge chair in my room, pulling curtains around me. She whips off my T-shirt and sweatpants with, like, only three moves. She washes all of me—and I mean
all,
with not a peep out of Bingo—with warm, soapy cloths. She dries all of me with a scratchy towel and throws my arms into a clean hospital gown. She's got an aide making up the bed clean and she's got me in it in another three moves and she's putting Puke-Away on my wrist. Okay, the woman is good at the mechanics of her job, I admit. But not exactly comforting. She manages all of this bathing without unpursing her lips once, I swear. A master of control. Without saying a word, she scares me to death.

Finally, when I'm tucked in like a three-year-old, side rails up, she speaks: “You will not get out of bed again today, young man. You will bother no one on this floor. Understood?”

I nod. “Yes, sir, ma'am.”

For the first time—maybe the first time ever—she smiles. Like a shark. “My name is Mrs. Jacobs, Richard. I raised three boys of my own. Teenage boys hold no terrors for me.”

I choke down what I want to say:
So, are those three boys still in therapy?
What I do say isn't so funny, but I figure it'll make her feel lousy, and I say it loud: “So, Mrs. Jacobs. Yeah, I guess you are an expert then. But, hey, any of those three boys end up in hospice?”

Her face gets very still. Then her eyes get wet. “No,” she says, so soft I have to lean forward to hear her. “My youngest died in a car crash. He was fourteen. He never made it to hospice.” And she walks out of the room.

“So,” I say to myself, sinking down into the clean sheets, “ever feel more like a complete and absolute shit, Richard?”

“No, sir,” I answer. “No, sir.”

***

And that state of affairs, that feeling like shit on a brick, gets even worse. I'm just sitting there, looking out into what seems like the darkest November day on record, huge gray clouds low and wet in the sky, when my mom calls. Somehow or other, she's heard about my Halloween outbreak, and she is, let us say, a bit upset. She coughs between every phrase and she's sort of choking and yelling all at once. “That miserable, sneaking Phil,” she keeps saying. “I can't believe you went with him, Richard. You went
out.
I cannot believe it. He's
always
been trouble. You know that. He is
trouble.
And you listened to him? You went
outside
with him?”

I know enough to keep quiet while the ranting goes on, and then I say, “Ma, you don't sound so good. Nasty cough. How are you?”

And then she just starts to bawl. “My fever's up again,” she wails. “And the tests were positive—it's the real flu, some kind of nasty strain. I can't come see you. Oh, Richie, they won't let me in. I begged and begged your doctors, said I'd wear a mask. I even called the CEO of the hospital. I said I'd wear a hazmat suit. They still won't let me onto your floor. Said if I came, security would escort me out. I can't stand it. I can't stand it.” Then she's just sobbing—no words, only wet gulps.

Listening to her, my chest feels like it's crushed under a load of stones and someone keeps heaping them on. Every sob, another boulder. “Ma,” I keep saying. “It's all right, Ma. I'm fine, I swear. Come on, Ma. Don't cry. Stop crying.” My own voice breaks, and then, of course, I'm crying like a baby, too. And then I can't breathe and I think maybe I'll die, right here right now. And that would be kind of a relief.

But I don't.

So we both sit there, on opposite ends of the phone, crying until we can't cry anymore. We both get quiet, clinging to our separate phones. Then, finally, I have an idea. “Call Grandma,” I wheeze. “I want Grandma to come up and take care of you. It's time. Do it.”

There's a very long silence. See, my mom and her mom don't see eye to eye on much of anything. Not since my mom was seventeen and knocked up and wouldn't even tell anyone who did that to her. Locked her lips. Or maybe even since way before that; maybe from when Grandma, a tough Jersey girl, was sixteen and herself knocked up, and the baby in her belly—the one that made her leave high school and miss her prom and basically ruined her life—was my mom. I mean, it's hard to understand, for me. They talk on the phone, like, daily, but in person, they're horrible. In person, they're crazy, always mad, always both of them right, about everything. Both of them just constantly pissed off and throwing verbal punches. But from what I can hear, when Mom's whispering on the phone lately, Grandma has been begging to come up, to help us, she keeps saying. For months, she's been begging. To be here, to see us through this. But Mom's been saying nothing but no. No. No. Not yet. Like she's totally terrified that when she calls her mom and lets her come up here, that's like the signal for the end. Surrender. White flag. SUTHY wins. And maybe even Grandma feels like that, too, because she hasn't just shown up on her own, either. I get it, I really do, but right now I just want my mom not to be alone. I want someone to take care of
her,
for once in her life. 'Cause if she's all alone and she's sick and crying, I swear to god, I'll break out of here and take care of her myself. I'll call a cab. I'll walk.

And that's what I tell her. “Ma, do it. Or I'll come home. I'll just fucking break out of here and come home. I mean it. No one can stop me, if I really want to go. You know what? Maybe I'll just call Phil. He'll come get me.”

There's still silence. See, here's the other thing: she's totally scared that if I step one inch outside of this hospital, germs will pile all over me and carry me off. That's part of why she's so pissed at Phil. He took me outside these sacred walls. She thinks—she makes herself think—that being in a hospital keeps me safe. Maybe even that a hospital, despite all she knows about it, equals a cure. The miracle around the corner.

“I mean it, Ma. I'm on my way.” I throw off my sheets and start banging the rails of my bed, loud enough for her to hear me.

Finally, there's just the smallest whisper. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

And what scares the holy shit out of me is her voice, giving in. Giving up.

***

Rest of the day, I lie on my side in bed, looking out into the gray sky. I keep my back to the door. If anyone comes by, they'll think I'm asleep. Once, I think I smell Sylvie's perfume, floating in from the doorway, and I hear a soft little, “Hey, Rich-Man,” but not even that can make me turn around.

Three o'clock rolls around and Edward comes in. He bends over the bed and says, “You still with us, my man? I heard you had a rough morning.”

I just sort of shrug under the sheet.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Sulking, Richard? That's not like you.”

I roll over and glare into his round face. “I just wanted to eat, man,” I say. “I wanted to, you know, get stronger. And all it did was make me puke my guts out.”

He nods. “Right. I get it. You want to eat, good. Just don't be a total jerk about it. Think, man. You can't just start scarfing down everything in sight, out of nowhere, after so long. Got to start small. Jell-O. Soup. Apple juice. Ginger ale.”

I think about it. “Sylvie's dad drank all the ginger ale. Every single can from the whole freaking fridge. Prick.”

Edward laughs. “Richard, there is an endless and everlasting supply of ginger ale around here, trust me. So sit yourself up and I'll bring you some.”

I elbow my way into a sitting position. “The Big Nurse said I can't get out of bed.”

He packs pillows behind my back. “Mrs. Jacobs went home early,” he says, all low-key and no-blame. Then he whacks me upside the head. Gentle, but still, a substantial whack. “She's a good nurse, Richard,” he says. “A really, really good nurse. And she's had a rough time, and you go and remind her of it. Everybody's got troubles, you know that? The world's a universally sad and fucked-up place. People hurt, all of them. You beginning to get that? Or do you still think it's just you, man? Only you that suffers? Like you've been singled out?” He doesn't wait for an answer, just heads out the door. Then sticks his head back in. “I forgot. You got a visitor. Been waiting a while for you to wake up. You up to it?”

I look up. “A visitor? Who?”

He winks and waggles his eyebrows. “An interesting girl, young Richard. My, my, my. You are turning into quite the rock star.”

I sit up straighter, and before I can think how to get out of the dorky gown—this one has cowboys on it, like it escaped from pediatrics—and into a T-shirt, this
interesting
girl sticks her head inside the room. She's got black, black hair—like she dipped it in tar and spiked it up in points—and black eyeliner an inch thick. She's wearing camouflage pants with a bright orange vest. It's like she's copied her outfit from
Field & Stream.
Like she's just stopped by on her way to the woods, got her rifle in the pickup, got doe pee sprayed on her neck. I haven't a clue who this is, but what the hey? I try to be charming anyway— because it is a female of the species, after all. “Hey,” I say. “Got your buck yet?”

She blinks those black-lined eyes. “What?”

I point toward her vest. “It's deer season. Started yesterday. And you're wearing . . .” I can see that she hasn't got a clue what I'm talking about and she's ready to back right out of the room, so I give up on being clever. “Never mind.”

She hovers in the doorway and then holds out a shopping bag. “Your cape, Your Majesty, washed and all.” She makes a little awkward bow.

I get it, finally. “Marie! You look so different. Hey, come on in.”

She smiles then and walks over to the bed. She shakes the bag and out falls my starry night blanket.

I sweep it up and try to cover up the fact that I'm ready to cry at the sight of it. I hold it to my nose. “Smells nice,” I say. It does—all clean and fresh. “Thanks.” I swing it up around my shoulders like a cape again. “Have a seat.” I wave, regally I hope, toward the chair next to my bed.

“It was all crumpled up in the bar,” she says. “I had to look for a while. I took it to the Laundromat, used fabric softener and all.” She puts a hand on the bed rail. “Listen. I want to say I'm sorry. I kind of freaked, you know, when I heard you were sick. I thought—well, it doesn't matter what. I'm sorry.”

I take a minute to really look at her. Under the hostile hair and aggressive eyeliner, there's a chubby, young, shy kind of face. And round blue eyes. Her fingernails are chewed to ragged stubs. I put my hand over hers. “You were great,” I say. “You were super.”

Her face lights up. “Really? You're not, like, mad? Or anything?”

“Or nothing, Marie.”

She leans forward. “My real name is Kelly,” she says. “Marie was just part of my costume. Marie was, like, you know, my alter ego? Like, I could be much braver, more, uh, bold as Marie than as me? Mostly, you know, I'm kind of, I don't know, scared and not too smart. A real dim bulb, my brother says. Do you understand that, how a costume, you know, can make a huge difference?”

I'd like to say that I'm paying full attention to these deeply insightful questions about issues of human identity and all—but, really, I am looking down her vest. See, she isn't wearing a shirt under it, even. I mean, it's just a shiny orange vest with a deep V open in front and kind of wide-open sides, and from any angle, there are big-time, fully visible breasts under there. Creamy plump round white breasts, rolling around free. And hazy memory or not, I can most definitely remember sliding between those breasts. I try to pry my eyes upward, focus on the girl's face. But once I do, I see that she's holding her bottom lip between her teeth. And I most surely do remember those lips, too. And I can feel myself making a tent pole beneath the sheets. “Yeah,” I say, brilliantly. “Well, nice to meet you, Kelly-Marie.”

She giggles. “And, you, too, Richard Casey.” She leans even farther and the breasts press right up against the bed rail and kind of squoosh over the top. “See? I had to find out your real name, too. I kept asking around. Some people knew your uncle and some know your mom, too, and they told me the story about you—how you've been sick for a long time and how you were here and, well, I found you, didn't I?”

I'm resisting, just barely, the urge to grab her and haul her into the bed, when Edward comes in. He smiles this great big grin and nods at Kelly-Marie. “Hello,” he says. “Thought you guys might like something to drink.” And in his hands there are two cold cans of Coke. Not the hospice-size minicans. Not ginger ale. Real Cokes.

And I know that he must have gone to one of the machines down on the first floor, by the ER, and actually bought these himself. Shelled out a buck fifty each. Sometimes, you know, human kindness just knocks you off your feet. “Thanks, man,” I say. I hope he can hear how I know what he did and how I really appreciate it.