Kevin: It was supposed to be black-and-white, you know, like a cow pattern? But that was already taken for some other disease.
Kyle: Sorry you’ve gotta be in the hospital, dude.
Rachel: Sucks.
Kevin: Yeah, definitely the big suckage.
They nod in unison.
Kevin: Speaking of suckage, ask Kyle what he’s doing this summer.
Kyle: Shut up, Kevin.
Rachel: Summer School City, man. Shithenge didn’t cut it after all.
Kyle: I said, shut up.
Kevin: I told you I woulda hooked you up with a paper off the Internet, dude. I know sites the teaching bots never even think of checking. Oh! We brought you the new Director’s Cut of Star Fighter, episodes one through four—
Kyle: The only ones worth watching—
Rachel:—Sorry the plastic’s off, but we tested ’em out last night. Figured you wouldn’t mind. Dude, the print is so clear, you can see everything. Like when Star Fighter is battling it out with Dark—
Kevin:—Matter? The glow of his ultimate peace weapon doesn’t even look computer-generated. Awesome.
Rachel and Kyle: Yeah. Awesome.
They leave the boxed set on the end of my bed, where it balances on my toes.
Rachel: So. Dude. Seriously. Before you croak, you think you could put in a word for me with that nurse?
DAY ELEVEN
The door opens and a tiny bird of an old lady shuffles in, using her IV pole like a cane.
“Um, I think you’re in the wrong—” I start.
She puts her finger to her lips, silencing me. “They won’t look for me here.”
“Who?”
Her eyes widen. “Them! I’m going to get out of here. I’m running away.”
Her hair is a long tangle of wiry gray down the front of her hospital gown, and I wonder if she’s an Alzheimer’s patient or something and if I should call for the nurse. I feel around for the call button but it’s just out of reach. She doubles over, coughing, and I recognize that cough from across the hall.
She settles into the chair beside my bed and puts her bony hand on my arm. “This is not how I’m supposed to die.”
“So how are you supposed to die?”
Her eyes take on a faraway sheen. “In a house by the sea in an upstairs bedroom. It’s late spring, and the open window lets in the smell of lily of the valley. And there’s a garden outside. It’s decorated with paper lanterns, and the children, the children chase after fireflies while their parents laugh and talk as if they have all the time in the world. In a house by the sea, it will end, and I will slip from this life as if it were no more than a sweater grown too large and threadbare with years, something no longer needed. That is how it should be. Not here. Never here.” She fixes me with her gaze. “I don’t think you should die before you’re ready. Until you’ve wrung out every last bit of living you can.”
This lady is, like, ninety, if she’s a day. I’d say she’s pretty well wrung it. I want to yell at her for having had that long. “Well, I guess there’s not much we can do about that,” I say bitterly.
“Bullshit! That’s what they say so you’ll give up without a fight.” She leans in so close I can smell the old-person odor on her—musty and old-fashioned, like a room no one goes into much anymore. “I’ve seen them outside, burning on the lawn. Tall as houses and so bright, so bright.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. “You’ve seen those freaky fire giants?”
She nods, her eyes wide and fearful.
“What are they?” I whisper.
“They are chaos. Destruction. The end of hope. Oh, these are frightening times. I have to get away!”
An orderly appears in the doorway. “Mrs. Morae, come on, now. You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“I’ll go where I like!” she snaps.
“Now, Mrs. M, don’t be like that.” The orderly comes closer, looming like a shadow, and for a second, in that shadow, I see the outline of something terrible, and then it changes. It’s just a dark blur against the blandness of the wall.
The old lady’s lungs rebel. Long, coughing spasms rattle her frail frame.
“See? Gotta get you well. Back to bed, Mrs. M,” the orderly says, taking her arm.
“It’s okay,” I tell the orderly. “She can stay. Really!”
“Tell them they’ve got it wrong,” she hisses between coughs as he leads her gently away. “A house by the sea. Tell them!”
I fall asleep, but my dreams are full of bad things—fires engulfing the world. A black hole opening above us, pulling everything in without a trace, as if we never even existed. Diseased cattle falling in the fields like gassed soldiers in some long-ago war. The angel in the tarnished armor banging her hands against a window while flecks of snow coat her lashes and hair. I wake up with my heart pounding, unsure of where I am or what’s happened, whether I dreamed the conversation with the old lady.
A house by the sea. I’d like to be there now. And I wish there were a button I could press that would get me out of here, that could make this all go away.
DAY THIRTEEN
Glory’s been off for two days. Today she’s back in her pink scrubs that look good against the dark of her skin. I’m not feeling so great. Sometimes I think I see the punker angel sitting in the corner of the room, reading a comic book with the ill-fated coyote on the cover, an anvil racing for his head. But when I mentioned it to Mom, her eyes got teary, and I haven’t said a word about strange angel sightings since.
“Time for your meds,” Glory announces in her no-fanfare way.
I wash them down even though they’re getting hard to swallow. My body seems like it’s failing me by degrees.
“Okay,” Glory says, once my vital signs have been recorded for posterity. “You need anything else?”
“No,” I say, watching her push the cart toward the door. “Yes.”
Glory stops, looks at me. There’s no “What is it, sweetheart?” or “Oh, my poor brave bunny.” Nope. She just stands, waiting. And I can tell she’s even a little annoyed. Kind of makes me like her. We speak the same language.
“Am I going to get better?”
Glory’s ramrod body softens for a minute. “You got to ask your doctor that, Cameron.” I like the way she says my name, like it has three syllables instead of two.
“It’s just … nobody tells me anything, you know?”
Glory glances toward the hallway, where she has charts to file and patients to check. “That’s cause nobody knows not’ing about how it all works out or why. Why God takes the good or the young or why we suffer. I don’t know why he took my little girl with the cancer when she was only five.” She takes a deep breath, like the pain is still fresh. “I don’t know and I guess I never will.”
All the air has left my lungs. I feel like I should say something, but somehow I don’t think Glory’s the I-want-your-sympathy type.
“Just push the button if you need something,” she says, a little softer this time.
DAY FIFTEEN
Chet King’s come for a visit. Even though CJ isn’t really contagious, he’s decked out in full protective gear—white paper gown, mask, and gloves—like a giant medical paranoia snowman or some eccentric pop star addicted to bizarre fashion choices. He raises one hand, and it reminds me of those good luck pandas you see in Chinese restaurants.
“Hey there, champ,” he says at last. “Jenna asked me to stop by. Not that I didn’t want to come, you know …” His voice is muffled behind the mask. “Hey! Did you hear? The coaches are letting us dedicate this week’s all-star game to you. Everybody’s praying for you, bro.”
I up the volume a bit on the TV. Wouldn’t want to miss a scintillating second of my soaps. Chet clears his throat. “So, uh, how are you doing?” “Good, except for that pesky dying thing.” “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about today.” Chet sounds so serious I actually hit the Mute button. “You know, Cameron, no one
ever really dies. Not if they’ve accepted Jesus Christ as their lord and savior.”
Chet drops to his knees by my bedside and, with a prayer for protection from my noncontagious disease, takes my hand in his massive gloved one, which is, holy shit, like some kind of freaking paw. How come I don’t have manly hands like that? If there is reincarnation on tap somewhere, I’m putting in for big hands.
“Lord, I pray that you will lift the fear from Cameron’s mind and forgive him his sins. In the name of your son, our savior, Jesus Christ, Amen. Cam,” Chet says in a low church voice. “You have anything you wanna add?”
“No, I think you covered all the bases.”
“Don’t you want to confess your sins and ask Jesus to forgive you?”
I don’t know why this is the thing that pushes me over the edge. I wish I could rip out every tube and wire and punch Chet King for real this time instead of by accident.
“Shouldn’t Jesus ask my forgiveness? I mean, seeing as he’s taking me out of the game at sixteen without even letting me get laid first.”
Chet shakes his head. “Cameron, I know that anger’s just a front.”
“No, it’s not. I’m actually very pissed off.”
“It’s just a front for all the hurt in your soul. I can see it. So can God.”
The TV is an enticing carnival barker of color and form. I want to scream, If God can see my hurt then why the hell doesn’t he take it away? If God really exists, why would he allow all the terrible, unfair things to happen? I mean, what kind of sadistic creep is he?
“You think I don’t know what it’s like to lie in a bed feeling sorry for yourself, wondering why something terrible is happening to you?” Chet says. “I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to walk. Football was my life, and I’ll never play the game ever again. But it’s okay with me now, Cameron. And you know why it’s okay?”
“Because you’ve realized it’s a retarded sport?”
Those gloved hands of Chet’s ball into fists at his side for a second before going limp. “Because I’ve accepted Jesus Christ into my heart and my life. And I know that what happened to me happened for a reason. God has a bigger plan for me, and I have to trust in that.”
The question’s out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think it. “What if it’s not God’s will, Chet?”
“But it is. I know that.”
“No, Chet, what if it’s just a shitty thing that happened? What if it’s just bad luck, some random thing like a butterfly flapped his wings in South America and you broke your neck? What if there is no divine plan at all and we are totally on our own?” I don’t know what kind of answer I want or if there even is an answer. “You ever think about that, Chet?”
“No. No, I don’t,” he says with assurance. “And I feel sorry for you if that’s how you feel.”
Yeah, I think, closing my eyes to the Chet Kings of the world. I feel sorry for me, too.
DAY SOMETHING
The coughing across the hall has stopped.
SOMETIME LATER
Hey, Cameron. Pssst. Wake up.
No. No wakey. Sleep. Tired.
Caaaammerrrronnnn! Come on. We’ve got to talk. We’ve got lots to do, okay?
She’s taking shape in my mind. A small, pixieish face with that wide, full mouth. The hair’s short, spiky. Pink. And yep, those wings are spread out. They’ve been spray-painted with stencils of the Buddha Cow.
Watch this, she says.
She flips a switch on her breastplate, and the Buddha Cows on her wings float up, over and over, like a crazy digital billboard.
Cool, huh?
Who are you? I ask.
Why don’t you find out?
How?
She puts her hands to her mouth like she’s going to shout. Instead she whispers. Wake up.
SOMETIME AFTER THAT
Can’t sleep. Every time I start to drift off, I think about the old lady, Mrs. M, and what she said. If she said it. Maybe I dreamed it.
My head hurts. Lungs hurt. Arms. Legs. Everything.
Turn on the TV to pass the time. Same old shit on YA! TV. Some show called “The Inside, Outside, and Backside of Music.” Parker Day’s the host. He’s tricked out in his “serious outfit”: black pants, black turtleneck, black-rimmed glasses, even though the fucker for sure has perfect eyesight. They’ve even photographed him on some gloomy, windswept heath to give it that tragic oomph.
“Unless you’ve been in a time warp, you know the story of the Copenhagen Interpretation,” Parker says as they go to voice-over. “From an Inuit fishing village to international music stardom, the Copenhagen Interpretation was living the dream as musicians and messengers of world peace. The release of their debut, Small World, launched them into the spotlight. It was quickly followed by their masterpiece, Words for Snow. Many claimed the vibrations produced by their music brought on a feeling of well-being, even euphoria, and their concerts promoted harmony. As lead singer Thule said, ‘What’s so hard about being kind?’ Traveling with their ever-present interpreter”—there’s a still of some guy in a Hawaiian shirt at a microphone—“the CI toured the world, and the world would never be the same again.”
A quick-cut montage of images set to a Copenhagen Interpretation sound track zips across the screen: a blurred shot of the four band members covered head to toe in heavy coats and hoods, like Antarctic explorers; another blurry image of them in the same outfits playing some festival; another indistinct photo of them in the snow.
“And then, one day, at the height of their fame,” Parker’s voice continues as the screen fades to black, “they were simply … gone. In the middle of the Big Benefit Concert for Peace but Against Non-Peace and People Generally Being Not Nice, in the middle of what everyone agreed was a bitchin’ set, they simply vanished. Were they the victims of foul play? Had they grown weary of fame? Were they aliens visiting from a musically advanced planet? Or, as some suggest, had they eaten each other in a drug-induced, hate-fueled orgy of excess—the dark side of celebrity? When we come back, we’ll explore. …”
That’s all I can take of that. Flip to the news. A shellacked anchorman giving the daily grim. Teenaged soldiers carrying guns. Bombed marketplaces tattooed with blood. Crying villagers. Melting ice caps, confused polar bears. Kneeling guys in black hoods behind razor wire. A wildfire in another state. Guys watching it burn, the fire reflected in the mirrored lenses of their sunglasses. Jeez, someone needs to push the reset button on this planet.
The anchorman smiles and they cut to a cute story about a Captain Carnage championship going down.
NIGHT
I can’t breathe.
Shit. My lungs. Tight. Can’t take in. More. Than a gasp. Of air. Pain.
Dad. Getting up. Scared. “Cameron? Cameron!”
Can’t say his name. Can’t ask for. Help. No air. Dad’s eyes. So scared. Running out. Shouting.
Dad. Back. Glory, too, and. Some guy in green. Pulling a cart. Serious machine.
Glory. Snapping on. Gloves. Lightning quick. “Okay, baby, hold real still for me.”
She’s never. Shit. Never called me. Baby. Guy in green. Plastic tubing. More people running. Body seizing. Shaking. Can’t. Can’t stop.
“Gotta get him tubed,” Glory barks. “Give him that shot, now.”
Arms. Holding me. Down. Roll to side. Pain. My hip. Shot going in. Medicine. Hot like fire.
Breathe, Cameron.
Glory’s face. Determined. Grim. “Hold him good.” Fingers. Opening my mouth. Tube. Coming in. Oh fuck. Snaky plastic. Too much. Makes me choke. Want to. Scream. Gagging. Choking. My heart. Frantic general. Screaming. “The hell’s going on out there? Report, soldier, report!”
Stop. Can’t. Stop. Shaking. All over. Panic. Like a wave. Taking me. Under.
Glory. Near. “Easy, easy, it’s okay, baby, don’t fight it, just a minute and it’ll all be over.”
Scared. So scared. Make it stop. Must stay. Awake. Fight. The old lady said.
Focus.
Picture. On the wall. Angel.
Meds. Make my head. Heavy. Then light.
The picture. The angel. Focus. See.
Wings. Move. Flutter.
Like snow.
Falling.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In Which I Wake Up
White.
All I see is white.
Blink.
White.
Blink, blink.
White, white.
The white has little pockmarks, like the surface of the moon.
Blink again, and the spongy square tiles of the hospital ceiling come into focus. The hospital. I’m still here? What if I’m not? I’m afraid to look. Okay. Take this slowly. Slide eyes to the left. Window and a wall radiator. Eyes to the right. Visitor chairs. Mom and Dad. Sleeping.
Mom and Dad. Still here. All still here.
Thank you.
* * *
It’s night when I wake again. The first thing I notice is that there’s no tube in my throat anymore. It’s sore and dry, though. Like I’ve been eating gravel for two days straight.
“You awake?”
A new face appears above my head. I shriek, surprised by the sound of my own scratchy voice.
“Oh, sorry, dude. I thought you were awake.”
I close my eyes and silently will the hallucination to go away. When I open them again, his face is still next to mine.
“You okay, amigo?”
I try to talk but my throat is sore and dry. “Could you. Water. Please?”
“Oh. Sure. No problem, dude.”
In about three seconds, there’s a cup in my hand. I take a few sips and feel my throat balloon with each one. Better. “Thanks. Sorry if I scared you. It’s just … I thought I might have, um, died. Or something.”
“Yeah, no kidding. I was a little freaked out about it myself,” he says.
“You were here then?”
“Just wheeled in.”