Don't Stay Up Late (3 page)

“I've been out?” I glanced at the window. Orange sunlight filled the bottom half. Afternoon sunlight?

“You've had a serious concussion,” Dr. Martino said. His breath smelled of coffee. Light reflected on his glasses and hid his eyes. “You may have nightmares and even hallucinations for a while. Your brain had a nasty jolt.”

I shut my eyes. Everything hurt. My whole body. Even my eyelids.

“Hallucinations?” I said. I opened my eyes. “You mean just now when I saw my dad in the bed?”

The doctor nodded. Beside him, Mom let out a sob. She cut it off quickly. She never likes to show emotion. It's a Scandinavian thing, I think.

“I really thought I saw him,” I said, my throat suddenly tight. “I can't believe I was hallucinating.”

“We will have to keep you here,” Dr. Martino said. “Perhaps for a week or more. Internal bleeding is something we have to watch for. We need to keep a close watch for that. You may suffer other hallucinations. I feel I must warn you.”

I only half-heard his words. He kept fading in and out. His eyebrows seemed to move on their own as if they were alive.

I twisted my head toward Mom. “But—Dad? Where is Dad? Is he okay?”

Mom bit her bottom lip. She took a breath before she replied. “No, Lisa. I'm sorry,” she whispered. “He … he's not okay.”

 

PART TWO

 

6.

I don't want to describe my week in the hospital. It was a time of boredom and headaches and frustration and pain and tears and bad dreams. The first time I was allowed to walk on my own to the bathroom across the hall, I suddenly saw the floor turn to a swampy green ooze. I felt the sticky-wet gunk on the bottoms of my paper hospital slippers and watched in horror as the hot ooze bubbled quickly up to my ankles.

I began hopping up and down, frantically trying to scrape the green slime off my feet. “It won't come off! It won't come off!” I screamed.

I had to be rescued by two nurses, who held me firmly by the elbows and returned me shaking and shuddering to my bed.

“Am I always going to be crazy?” I asked one of them, a tall black woman who was strong enough to lift me off my feet and onto the bed.

“We're
all
a little crazy,” she said. She had a surprisingly high, soft voice. “You're going to be fine. Give it time.”

I wasn't sure I believed her.

I had nothing but time in the hospital, time to stare up at the ceiling and think about my dad. Mom rented me a television over my bed. But the only time I turned it on, it was a commercial for dog food. I started to sob because Morty ran from the car and hadn't been seen since. I switched the TV off and never turned it on again.

Some people sent sympathy cards and some sent get-well cards. My cousins in Vermont sent a huge bouquet of white and yellow lilies. The sharp fragrance of the flowers filled the room, and I started to sneeze. I'm allergic to lilies, I guess. The flowers had to go.

Who cares anyway?

I had a lot of bitter thoughts and a lot of thoughts I couldn't describe. I guess you'd call them dark.

When I finally was released and sitting in the backseat of an unfamiliar car with Mom at the wheel, everything appeared too bright. I kept my head down, waiting for my eyes to adjust. But they refused, and everything I saw had a blinding glare around it.

“Mom, how can you drive with one hand?” My voice was hoarse, I guess because I hadn't used it much. I rubbed my right wrist. It ached from where the tube had been inserted. I had a round blue bruise there.

She didn't answer.

I shielded my eyes with one hand. The sunlight was just too bright for me. I wondered if sunglasses would help. We pulled out of the hospital parking lot and a few seconds later were speeding through the narrow streets of the Old Village.

I should have felt happy. Freedom at last! I was going home. But it was like happy feelings took too much energy. I slumped against the seatback. I felt numb. You know when your foot falls asleep? That's how my whole
self
felt.

“Mom, are you okay?”

Still shielding my eyes, I peered out the windshield—and let out a sharp cry as I saw the big, white dog slowly crossing the street. “Mom—stop! Stop the car! Look—it's Morty.”

The car didn't slow down. Mom swerved the wheel to the left.

“No—Mom! You're going to hit him! Mom—stop!
Please!
”

She jammed her foot on the gas. The car roared forward. I saw the oncoming car. A dark blue SUV with a chrome grille that looked like animal teeth. I heard its horn blare like a siren.

And then the crash tossed me hard against the back of the front seat.

Oh, no! Nooooo! Not again!

I bounced back against my seat. I saw Mom's head hit the steering wheel. It didn't bounce up. It stayed down on the wheel, her arms limp at her sides.

A gusher of blood from Mom's head splashed onto the windshield. The windshield was quickly splattered bright red.

Not again. Not again.

The car began moving again. Slumped over the wheel, Mom didn't budge. But the car began roaring forward. I couldn't see out, couldn't see through the covering of darkening blood over the windshield.

I reached over the seat and grabbed Mom by the shoulders and shook her, shook her hard. “Wake up! Please! Stop the car! You've
got
to stop the car.”

And then her head slowly turned to me. And I saw that it wasn't Mom. It was my dad, smiling so sweetly at me, Dad with his head split wide open, smiling at me from beyond the grave.

 

7.

I felt a hard tug and opened my eyes to find Mom shaking me by the shoulders. “Wake up, Lisa. Come on. Wake up.” Her voice was a tense whisper.

I saw the curtains blowing at my bedroom window. Darkness behind them. Still night.

I blinked several times, trying to force away the sight of my dad's split head.

“Another nightmare,” Mom said, shaking her head. Her blonde hair was matted against one side of her face. She straightened her long nightshirt. Her hands stayed on my shoulders, soothing them now.

I tried to say something, but my throat was still clogged with sleep.

Mom clicked on the blue lamp on my bedside table. I turned away from the sudden bright light. “You've been home a week, and you're still having the nightmares,” she said. “When do you see your doctor next?”

“Dr. Shein? Not sure,” I managed to whisper. I ran both hands back through my hair. My skin was damp from perspiration. “The same nightmare,” I told her. “I was in the car, and I saw Dad again.”

Mom sighed. In the harsh light from my lamp, she suddenly looked a lot older. “Dr. Shein says it will take time, Lisa.”

“But I'm not getting better, Mom. I keep seeing Dad and Morty everywhere.” I pulled myself to a sitting position. My sheets were damp, too, from sweat. I shuddered. “Nightmares and hallucinations. I'm a total crazy person.”

“You know that's not true. You know this is only temporary. I'm sure that as time passes—”

“Mom, I really think it will help me if I go back to school.”

Mom sighed again. “It's four in the morning. I know you've just had a frightening night. Do you really want to have this discussion now?”

“I don't want a discussion at all,” I said. “I just want to go back to school. I … I haven't seen any of my friends. And all because you say I'm not ready.”

“It's not me,” Mom snapped. “It's Dr. Shein. She's the trained psychiatrist. She's been working with you since the hospital.”

“But, Mom—”

“I think we should listen to her advice, don't you? I know how frustrated you are. But she feels you have to work out some of your grief, some of your guilty feelings before you can go back to your normal life.”

“Wow. That's a mouthful, Mom. Have you been practicing that answer all day?”

She took a step back. I could see that I'd hurt her. I didn't really mean to sound that angry and sarcastic.
Where did that come from?

Maybe Dr. Shein was right. Maybe I wasn't fit to see other people yet.

I'm going to rely on her,
I decided.
She's been so wonderful to talk to. I'll do whatever she thinks best.

“Sorry, Mom,” I blurted out quickly. “I didn't mean—”

“Let's try to get back to sleep,” she said.

*   *   *

The next day was a cloudy, gray Saturday, gathering storm clouds low in the sky. Outside our front window, the whole world appeared in somber shades of gray, which fit my mood perfectly.

At breakfast, Mom said it was okay for Nate to come over, and he showed up a little after eleven. I greeted him with an awkward hug. I could see he was nervous.

“Hey,” he said. “You look good.”

“Liar.” I had circles around my eyes from so little sleep. And I'd lost at least ten pounds. I just didn't have any appetite.

We sat down on the low green leather armchairs across from one another in the den. He kept gazing at me, studying me as if he'd never seen me before. And his right leg kept tapping up and down, like he was really tense.

We'd been texting and we did some video chats, but it was different being in the same room with him. Sure, I was happy to see him. But it was hard to get a conversation started. I felt like someone had built a tall picket fence between us, and we were trying to talk over the fence.

“Sorry about your dad,” Nate said, lowering his eyes to the white carpet.

I should have just said
thank you
or nodded and kept silent. But I felt a burst of anger. “I can't talk about it,” I said, my voice cracking. “My dad is dead, and it's all my fault.”

Nate actually flinched. As if I'd hit him.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

“It isn't true,” he said finally. “It wasn't your fault, Lisa. He was driving—not you.
He
caused the accident. You can't blame yourself.”

“Ha,” I said bitterly.

The phone rang. I heard Mom hurry to answer it in the kitchen.

I stood up and climbed onto Nate's lap. I thought maybe if he held me for a while I could lift myself from this dark mood.

Nate put his arms around me. I snuggled my face against his cheek. I could hear Mom talking on the phone.

“Every time it rings, I think it's someone calling to say they found Morty,” I told Nate. I sighed. “My poor dog. He ran out of the car and just kept running. He was so scared. And now it'd been nearly two weeks.…”

Nate tightened his arms around me. “He'll turn up, Lisa.”

I shoved his arms away and jumped to my feet. “Give me a break!” I cried. “Stop being so cheerful. What's your problem, anyway? Can't you see that my life is
over
?”

His mouth dropped open.

I shook both fists at my sides. “I
killed
my father, Nate. How can I live with that?”

He stared up at me from the chair. I could see his eyes dart from side to side. He was thinking hard. He didn't know how to deal with me.

Who would? I knew I was being impossible but I couldn't stop myself.

He lowered his hands to the arms of the chair. I think he wanted to get up. He wanted to leave.

But the front doorbell rang, startling us both. And I heard a dog bark outside.

“Nate—it's Morty!” I cried. I tugged Nate to his feet. “Someone has found Morty!”

We both tore across the living room to the front door. I pulled the door open and held my arms out to hug my dog.

 

8.

The young guy on the front stoop wore a black leather vest over a white T-shirt and baggy denim jeans. He had a green and yellow John Deere cap pulled over his forehead. A stubble of black beard covered his tanned cheeks.

“I saw your thing online about your missing dog,” he said. “I found him in my backyard and—”

“But that's not my dog!” I cried. “That's not Morty!”

My voice came out high and shrill. Nate put a hand on my shoulder as if to steady me.

“Wrong dog,” he told the guy.

The dog gazed up at me, panting softly. It was some kind of shepherd-mix. Its tail was tucked between its hind legs. A patch of gray fur on its back was missing.

The guy squinted at me, then at the dog. “You sure?”

“Of
course
I'm sure,” I snapped. I wanted to slam the door shut. I didn't want to look at that ragged, forlorn animal on my stoop. I wanted Morty.

“Who is it, dear?” Mom called from inside the house.

“No one,” I shouted back.

“Sorry,” the guy said. “I thought maybe—”

“Thanks for trying,” Nate told him.

I pushed the door shut. I led the way back to the den. I was walking stiffly, as if every muscle in my body had tightened. Total tension and frustration and disappointment.

Through the living room window, I saw the guy leading the dog down the driveway. He and the dog had their heads lowered with the same unhappy expression on their faces. It would have made a funny photo … if I was in the mood for funny.

In the den, Nate slid his arms around my waist. His hair fell over his forehead as he started to kiss me. I cut the kiss off with a shudder. I shook my head. “I'm sorry, Nate. I'm just not good company right now. Seriously. You'd better go.”

*   *   *

Late that night I sat straight up in bed when I heard a dog howling outside my bedroom window. I was still in that space between asleep and awake, but I knew I wasn't dreaming.

The window stood half-open. The curtains at the window were still. No breeze tonight. But as I climbed to my feet, I could see pale lights, the sky clear and full of stars.