Somebody Up There Hates You (14 page)

15

N
EXT MORNING, TWO DOCS
come in and look me over. They unwrap the bandages around my face and cluck their tongues at what they see. I put a couple fingers up and feel the damage—there's a line of stitches under my left eye, and my nose is like a huge swollen softball. I'm sitting up, dangling my feet over the side of the bed, and I can feel that I've lost ground: my legs are like soggy noodles. And my vision is all foggy, and there's this dark hole over to the left. Like a wormhole in space or something—just this empty spot, where every once in a while a stream of green lights goes past. I say nothing about this to the docs. Why bother? What are they going to do anyway? And really, it's sort of cool, my own private light show. They do notice that my left ear isn't hearing much. Except a kind of constant low buzzing, with the occasional louder screech. Sounds are, like, bubbling away over there in what seems like the key of crazy, like the sound track for the wormhole. I smile at the docs. “Hey, it's cool,” I say. “Like an acid trip. I dig it.” I make a little peace sign with my hand.

Only one of the docs smiles. He's an older guy and he gets the reference, I presume. The other one, little Asian guy, he just shakes his head. “Richard,” he says, “you have a ruptured eardrum on the left side. Not to mention a cracked rib. I don't think that's very cool.”

“Whoa.” I put a hand over my ear and cup it. I'm sort of shocked, I got to say, that it's really, like, broken. But, again, what the hell? I grin at the guy. “Hey, I can hear the ocean, man.”

The older doc laughs. He taps my shoulder. “We're going to leave the bandages off now. Your face will be fine. Oh, and there's going to be a police detective here in a few minutes,” he says, “asking if you want to press charges. Up to you, entirely. You up to that? You okay with talking about what happened?”

That one does surprise me. I shake my head, trying to clear away the funny noises and the light show. “No shit. A detective, for real?”

“No shit, son. But if you're not feeling well enough, we'll tell them to leave you alone, come back tomorrow. What do you think?”

I think that I'd like some time to think about it. I mean, really. This is a lot for a guy to take in, with one good ear and one half-good eye. But they're waiting and, you know, a lifetime of hospital training tells me never to make the docs wait. They are always, always in a hurry, and you got to catch them on the fly. And waiting for tomorrow, around here? That's taking a chance, wouldn't you say? Tomorrow is what we ain't got a lot of, right? “It's cool,” I say. “I'll talk to the guy. But I want to be up and dressed and sitting in a chair. I'm not dealing with this wearing this stupid gown.” I pluck up the offending garment—this one has little pink roses all over it. Where do they get these things? Got to have strayed from the maternity floor.

He nods. “Good call. I'd burn that thing, if I were you. We'll tell the detective to give you half an hour, okay? And we'll send your mom in to help you get dressed.”

I make a face. “Come on, man. Not my mom. Send Edward, okay? Or that nurse with the white cap. Mrs. Jacobs. She's okay, too.”

***

Mrs. Jacobs does her thing, quick and efficient. And scowling the whole time, so I don't say a word. But then, when she's all done fussing and arranging and whatnot, she runs her hand over my bald head and she leans over and drops a little tiny kiss there. “You are a total pain in the ass, Richard,” she says. Then she marches out of the room, back straight as an arrow.

Anyway, I'm washed up and tooth-brushed and wearing my own T-shirt and sweatpants when the detectives— not one, but two, that's how important I am—come in. I'm sitting in my wheelchair and feeling about one-eighth human. The main detective is a woman, tall, gray-haired, but with bright blue eyes. She's not in any kind of uniform, just a plain black skirt and red turtleneck. Her partner is a younger man, dressed in a sport coat and khakis. I'm glad I got dressed. You can't hold your own in a nightgown. Following these two is my mom. She got sort of dressed up, too, I notice. She's wearing what she normally wears to work—skirt, blouse, sweater. And that white mask. But no yellow gown and no gloves. She's making her own rules, too, when it comes to attire. Got to admire that.

Mom sits down on the edge of the bed, and the detectives take two plastic chairs. The tall woman says her name is Detective Richter and the guy's name is Detective Johnson. “Hi,” I say. “My name is Not-a-Detective Casey.”

Mom sighs. “Richard, please take this seriously.”

Detective Richter smiles. “Okay, Richard. We just have a few questions for you. Could you tell us what happened the night of November third?”

I close my eyes for a minute. A whole slew of green lightships are passing through my vision on the left.
The night of November 3
, I want to say,
was the best, brightest and most glorious night of my life.
But I can't talk about any of that, can't, like, sully it with words. So I just say, “I don't remember.”

She raises one dark eyebrow. “You don't remember what?”

That's a trick question, if I ever heard one. Clever detective. “I don't remember anything. I mean, sure, I remember that afternoon and having some really delicious Jell-O for supper, but after that, nada. Zip.”

“You don't remember taking a shower?” She taps her pen on her notebook.

I try to open my eyes real wide. “I took a shower? Really? Let me think.” I press my fingers to my forehead: thinking, thinking. “Nope. Sorry.”

My mom interrupts. “Richie, don't you remember talking to me? Telling me that you and Grandma were going to make root beer floats? Come on, honey. Try.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, Mom. It's all gone. I just remember waking up in my room and you were there, in that mask. That's it.” My eye gets a little twitchy, and that makes the green lights bounce.

Detective Johnson speaks up next. He's got this smarmy grin on his face and he's all chummy, like we're best of buddies. “Hey, man. You don't remember being
with
Sylvia that night? Nothing about that?”

For a minute I want to punch the guy, just for that sleazy
with.
My hands actually ball up. I look him right in the eye and say, “Hey,
man.
If I did remember something like that, do you think I'd be asshole enough to talk about it?”

Detective Richter glares at the guy and then at me. “Richard, are you telling us that you remember absolutely nothing about being attacked in the hallway and beaten up?”

It all streams back in for a minute. The heat and smell of the dragon. His red eyes. How much I deserved it. “Nothing,” I say. “Head trauma can do that, I understand.” I lean forward in my chair and I say, word by slow word, “I do not remember one thing about any attack. And I never will.”

Detective Richter stands up. There's a small, sad kind of smile on her face. “Okay. I understand. Got it. Fine. But there were witnesses, you know. A nurse, security people. A whole bunch of people who saw a grown man, a large, healthy adult, beating up a kid. A sick kid. Don't you think that's a terrible thing to do? Don't you think that man—that adult—should be called to account for that action? Made to take responsibility?”

I straighten myself up in the chair. “I think that if we were all made to take responsibility for all the stupid things we've done, Detective, there would be a whole lot of people heading directly to hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Form a line. Choose partners, hold hands.” I hold her gaze until her blue eyes drop. I keep myself upright until both detectives have left my room. But when my mom puts her hand on my shoulder, I collapse. I just sort of fold, wrapping my arms around my aching ribs.

She puts her arms around me and holds on. She leans her head on mine and says, “You know what, sweetie? Sylvie's dad wanted to charge you with rape. Statutory rape! You sure you don't want to press charges? You sure you won't remember?”

For some reason that makes me start to laugh. Rape! I remember Sylvie's rose petals and her nakedness. I sit back up. “Yeah, that's me. Wild man Casey. A threat to every female in hospice. Mrs. Elkins, here I come! Coma Lady, watch out! Shit, they better lock me up right now. Put me in a cell and throw away the key.”

She stands up. “Don't be so smart. Luckily, you're only seventeen. If you'd been eighteen, he might have been able to do it. I mean, only one week later and you'd have been eighteen. It's not a joke, Richard.”

We both stay quiet after that. Maybe we're both thinking, one more week. That's a long, long time here. And, you know, I lost one whole day by being knocked out. Come to think of it, I do resent that. That's one thing I can be honestly and truly pissed about. I mean, broken eardrum, screwy vision, who cares? But a whole day, gone? Poof? That is a real tragedy.

***

I sleep away the afternoon. Sometime around four
P.M
., there's this little knock on the side of my door. I open my eyes. Mom's sound asleep in a chair that she's pulled into the corner of the room, completely covered by a white blanket, head and all, snoring. I can't quite see who's in the doorway, things are so blurry. But once I hear her voice, I know it's Kelly-Marie. “Hi, Richie,” she whispers. “Can I come in?”

I wave her into the room and put my finger over my lips. “Hey,” I say. “We have to be quiet. My mom's asleep.”

She's standing there, staring at my face, her hands over her mouth. “Whoa. What happened to you?”

And I have to admit, I'm staring at her, too. Her eyes are a mess of black makeup, and her head is completely bald. Totally shaved. And there's some kind of drawing on it. Not a real tattoo—just, like, a marker drawing or something, all in black. I mean, I'm a thing of beauty compared to her. “Shhh,” I say. “Come up here.” I curl up my legs and point to the end of the bed.

She climbs up and leans against the bottom rail, sitting with her legs folded, Indian-style. She's wearing ordinary jeans today, but on top, a really low-cut, really bright green sweater. She looks like a busty bald leprechaun.

I shouldn't be so interested in all that cleavage. I mean, I'm in love with Sylvie, right? Really, I am. But there it is, bursting all over the end of my bed, and it's spectacular. Who could not look? No guy that I know of. Not a one.

“What happened?” she whispers.

I think about how much of a hero I could be if I told her I got beat up. And how. And by who. And why. Especially why. What a cool story I could tell: sex and violence, the perfect combo. I think about how, after hearing such a thrilling tale, she might crawl up here and comfort me, wrapping her arms around my wounded face and holding it tenderly to her bosom. Her full, soft, blossoming bosom. If only.

No. I think of Sylvie's tiny breasts in the palms of my hands. Like little birds, nested there. I think about the no-memory story I told the detectives. Once you make up a story, I believe, you have to stick to it. No backing off. I sigh. “Nothing exciting. I fell in the shower or something, someone told me. Don't remember a thing. It's no big deal. What did you do to your head?”

She giggles and runs a hand over her skull. “I shaved. I guess, when I saw your girlfriend—what's her name, Sylvia?—and she looked so, like, classy and all, I thought, whoa, maybe that look will work for me. What do you think?”

I think that for a healthy girl to shave her head to look like a sick girl is one of the stupidest things I've ever heard. So wrong on so many levels. I start to agree with Sylvie's assessment of Kelly-Marie: this girl is not exactly bright. But I don't want to be unkind—don't want to mess up my karma at this stage, right? So I kind of smile at her and I say, “It's cute. What's the drawing?”

She lowers her head so that I can see the top. I can't tell what's there—it's all blurry to me. She giggles again. “It's, like, wings. See? Like, bat wings?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bat wings. On her head. Again, you've got to wonder about the IQ inside that head. “Very cool.”

She leans forward, and that is worth any half-truth I might tell. “I brought you something,” she says. She reaches back into her pockets—and that creates a whole nother wondrous sight, I have to say—and brings out a whole fistful of Tootsie Pops.

And that's all we're doing, I swear, when Mom emerges from her cocoon and stares at us. We're just sitting on my bed, both of us sucking on lollipops. Sucking our little hearts out. And if I have just a bit of a hard-on, watching Kelly-Marie's lips working and her breasts jiggling, what the hell? No harm done.

Mom takes one long look at the two of us and then she says, “Hey, kids. I'm going to take a little walk.” And she makes a graceful exit. It's sweet of her to go.

Kelly-Marie finishes her pop, a purple one that turns her lips blue. She wipes her hand across her mouth. “So,” she says, “where's your girlfriend today?”

I don't know what to say. But then I think I can use her—no one else tells me anything other than “stable” when I ask about Sylvie, and I know that I sure as hell can't roll myself over there and take a look. So I say, “She's in room 302. Why don't you walk over and see if she wants to join us? Invite her over for a lollipop.”

Her mouth goes a bit sulky, but she climbs off the bed. “Okay,” she says. “Where's room 302?”

Can't count on this girl to figure out the numbering scheme, can we? “Other side of the hall, going back toward the elevator. Last one on your left. It's pink. Can't miss it.”

She goes and I wait. Few minutes later, she comes back, and she's kind of dumbstruck. Like, really, even I can see that her face is all solemn. She doesn't get back on the bed. She just stands there.