"Curtis, get the phone," Dad said finally.
Curtis got up extra slowly and shuffled over to the phone, wiping his eyes and sniffling, and just when he got there it stopped. But right away it started again.
Curtis finally picked up. "Um, hello?"
We listened through the beer ads and insurance ads and phone ads.
"Yeah ... No ... Okay." He hung up.
"Who was it?" Dad asked, kind of sharply.
"Mr. Jorgensen wanted to know if we knew anything. He wants to help."
The phone started ringing again. Curtis stared at it.
"Answer it," Mom said, automatically because she's said it so many times.
"I can't." It's true. How was Curtis of all people supposed to talk, in the most difficult possible situation I could think of?
The answering machine finally got it—another neighbor asking what we knew, how to help. Onscreen the TV was replaying Win's last play, a beautiful eighteen-yard pass. Before he was put in an ambulance like he was broken in fifteen pieces. Before our world stopped.
The phone rang again. We were still—it was like we were all underwater and we couldn't move, or breathe, or look at anything except the TV.
"D.J...." Mom groaned. She let go of my hand.
I got there finally, swimming across the room, past Curtis frozen in place. "Hello?"
"Hello," a man said, very serious. "I'm calling from the University of Washington—"
"I'm his sister." Numb as I was, I thought that would help. "We're watching now."
The man sighed. "Listen, he's in good hands. But..." He took another deep breath. "But he's going to need his folks out here."
"Oh. But Mom—my mom—she can't walk..."
Mom started to wail again, like a siren starting up.
The man must have heard it, because he said with extra strength, "How about Mr. Schwenk? There's a flight out of Minneapolis this afternoon we can get him on."
"My dad? A flight?" I gulped.
Mom burst into loud sobs.
Jimmy slipped the phone out of my hands. "I better talk to him," he murmured, shutting himself into the office.
"My baby! My baby, my baby, my baby boy..." Mom was sobbing so hard she was choking. Dad had his face in his hands.
Kathy ott knelt on the floor next to Mom, stroking her hair. She looked across the room at me: "D.J., you've got to go. You have to."
All I can say is, thank God for Jimmy and Kathy Ott. I don't know what we would have done without them. Jimmy came back into the living room with a bunch of information, insisting he drive Dad and me to the airport, and Kathy rushed around packing our bags and swearing she'd get the farm work taken care of somehow. Neighbors kept ringing and sure enough Kathy did find a couple farmers who were so pleased to help—just like we would have done if the tables were turned, which she reminded Dad when he started to argue—and those farmers came right over to learn everything they could about milking our cows, although they shouldn't have bothered because it wasn't like Dad could talk.
This whole time Dad was—well, I was going to say paralyzed but I'm never going to say that word again, not without meaning it. But it was like what had happened took his brain away. Kathy got toothbrushes and pajamas and extra shirts packed in two bags, stuff I never would have thought of like deodorant, and got us in Jimmy's Explorer. She was staying with Mom, who was so upset—she was as upset about not being able to go to him as she was about Win being hurt. Like his injury was her fault. She was almost hysterical. In fact I'd say she pretty much fit the bill of what hysterical means. Kathy said she'd call the doctor about her. I hoped Kathy would find time to take care of Curtis too. He was so quiet it scared me.
The drive to the airport took days, it felt like. Jimmy's cell phone kept ringing, Kathy calling with instructions or information, like where to pick up the tickets the university was paying for somehow, which was good. Dad kept shaking his head like he was having his own personal conversation, and every once in a while click his plate, the false teeth he got from playing football, which was the worst injury any Schwenk ever got until this day, that and my shoulder, which seemed so stupid and minor now. We even passed that rest stop where Brian and I made out that first time, and it looked so different now, trash blowing around the trash can, and dead leaves doing a sad little swirl whenever a truck passed. It looked seedy and rundown and not like a good make-out spot at all.
Boy, did I miss Brian. I know that makes me sound awful, like all I could think about was kissing. But I didn't miss making out, I just missed Brian. Who I knew, no matter how big my People mistake had been, would be as nice as he could be. And helpful at the hospital, asking good questions and being so grown-up like he is sometimes, dealing with whatever it was we'd find in Seattle.
What we'd find in Seattle ...That thought, it was like some terrible bloody cut that you're too scared to even look at—instead you just keep forcing your eyes to look somewhere else. In the same way, I'd been forcing my brain to look away, to think away, ever since that moment Win got hurt, because I sure didn't want to think about what was actually wrong with him. Now, though, sitting in Jimmy Ott's back seat in all that silence, I screwed up all my courage and looked at that bloody cut straight on.
And you know what? Just like it usually happens with real bloody cuts, it turned out to be not so bad. Win had hurt his spine, that was for sure. Or at least they thought he'd hurt his spine seeing as they stuffed all that padding around him before loading him in the ambulance. But all that carefulness doesn't mean a thing, really. A couple years ago some kid in a Prophetstown game said he couldn't feel his legs, and they landed a helicopter right on the field to take him to Eau Claire, and he was playing again like two weeks later. Maybe this was just like that, the coaches and trainers being extra careful.
In fact—I'd just learned this in A&P—a bunch of injuries aren't as bad as you think, not with the drugs they have now, the surgery, and physical therapy. People hear "spine injury" and flip out, but often the person just walks with a cane, or their fingers are a little numb or something. or nothing's wrong, even. Now I was kicking myself that I hadn't thought to bring my notes. But I still remembered a lot, and everything I remembered made me feel a little less worried, a little less tight and sick inside, about Win. Maybe this wouldn't be so awful. Maybe when we showed up, Win would have one of those whiplash collars on and just be bummed he'd missed the game. Maybe that wouldn't happen, but maybe it would.
Then Bill called from Pennsylvania where they'd just played and said he was going to fly out to Seattle tomorrow, on the very first plane he could.
The relief I felt at hearing this—you can't even imagine. Because Bill is Win's closest relative, and a real legal grown-up. He'd have a great time busting Win in his whiplash collar, making fun of Win being so serious. He'd be enthusiastic and positive, not like me or Dad. Dad can't stand hospitals; he passes out around needles all the time. And Dad had never even been on a plane, not that I could remember. Mom and us four kids flew to Florida every couple years to visit Mom's father and his second wife, Charmel, who Mom doesn't get along with so well. But Dad stayed in Red Bend and took care of the farm and said it was a heck of a lot easier than being stuck in that little condo with all that family tension. The few times we went on a real family vacation with all six of us, which is pretty much never because that means hiring a farmer to do our milking, we'd drive to Lake Superior or something and then sit in a circle watching Dad worry about his cows. Which wasn't so much fun. There was no way that Dad—who's so good at milking and cooking, and so good at thinking up harebrained ideas—there was no way he'd be able to handle this, not without me and Bill there beside him.
We finally made it to that enormous Minneapolis airport with just minutes to spare. I'd been here before, those times we went to Florida, but I was still glad Jimmy walked us in because it's pretty confusing.
Dad's hands were shaking, I could see.
"The cows will be okay," I said.
"Curtis isn't you, sport," he said, his voice shaking too. Right as we'd pulled away from the house, he'd told Curtis to watch the farmers, make sure they were doing everything correctly. That's a big responsibility to give to a kid who doesn't talk. "And I—I feel for your mother."
"Kathy's with her," Jimmy chipped in. "She's a real pro at this." our words didn't seem to help, though. Dad still looked sick.
This is too much for him. I didn't say anything as we walked, but I couldn't keep that thought out of my brain. And you know, it was the strangest thing, but I didn't think less of him for it. I've been through patches where I really hated Dad, but we've been getting along better recently. Maybe I can just get inside his head a bit more, I don't know. Like his needle thing—that's not his fault, that's just who he is, like being left-handed or something. And thinking Curtis couldn't manage the farm—that was just plain obvious. And wanting to be with Mom ... Win was going to have doctors all around him, and nurses, the whole University of Washington probably, not to mention me and Bill. Mom didn't have anyone except Kathy Ott. Right now she needed Dad as much as Win did. Maybe more.
Just then Jimmy found the ticket lady we were supposed to meet, the one who was going to hustle us past all those people who didn't have family medical emergencies and weren't late.
"Okay then, I just need to see some ID," she said.
Dad started going through his wallet, his hands shaking worse than ever.
"Wait," I said.
Everyone looked at me.
"Dad ... Bill and I can do this."
"What?" said Dad, blinking at these words.
"You go back home. They need you there."
"No—my son—" Dad started to cry.
Jimmy Ott put his arm around him in that way men do. In Wisconsin anyway.
"My cousin got in a motorcycle accident," the ticket lady chipped in, "and the first couple days don't matter, really. He won't remember much anyway."
I looked Dad in the eyes. "Win's going to be okay. You know him. He's going to be fine." I knew this in my bones. I knew it like I'd known it my entire sixteen years of life.
"Maybe I could fly out in a couple days..." Dad whispered. "Get things organized first."
Jimmy turned to the ticket lady. "Can we do that?"
The ticket lady started working away at her computer.
"Let me do this, Dad," I said, feeling so strong and capable. "You take care of Mom. Let me and Bill handle this."
"Oh, sport." Dad's voice cracked. "Okay," he whispered.
"I'm proud of you, D.J.," Jimmy said, getting teary-eyed himself.
Dad hugged me so hard that I thought I might snap in two. It felt good, though, that hug. "I'm so proud of you, sport," he whispered.
The lady handed over my tickets. "There you go now. Now just follow me..."
"Thanks for all your help," Jimmy said. "By the way, how's your cousin doing there?"
"Oh," she said brightly, like this was the best news she'd ever had, "he's off his ventilator for half an hour at a time now."
That was pretty much all I could think about in the mad rush to the plane. At least the flight attendant lady who took me to my seat didn't mention any relatives of hers who happened to be double amputees and thrilled to bits about it.
A ventilator? Why did she have to bring that up? Thank God I wasn't flying with Dad, because that word knocked him out. It was going to be a long ride home for him and Jimmy.
I hoped Dad wouldn't say "ventilator" to Mom anytime soon, because that wasn't Win's injury at all—which I shouted to him as the ticket lady trotted me away, that Win could breathe so he shouldn't worry. I knew this for a fact because I'd seen little puffs of steam coming out of his face mask when the TV showed the medical people taking care of him. Whatever it was that was broken, or what they thought was broken, wasn't so high up his neck that it interfered with his breathing. The highest spine bones, the vertebrae, they have the nerves for breathing, then lower ones control shoulders and arms, then hands and fingers, and right on down your body. Now I wished even more I'd brought my A&P notes, and that I'd paid even more attention in class, but who ever thinks that what they're learning might actually, you know, matter? Not me. I never once thought, sitting there in Mr. Larson's front row, that a week later I'd be flying on a plane all by myself to a real honest-to-God injury.
Actually, now that I had time to think about it—and I had more than enough time to think, seeing as the flight took forever and the plane was completely quiet, which I'd never experienced before traveling with three brothers and a mom shushing us every second—this whole thing was kind of cool. Here I'd been whining for weeks about wanting to get out of Red Bend, get away from that stupid high school, and all of a sudden I was. Not that I wanted Win to be hurt—oh God, no—but not many sixteen-year-olds get to fly across the country by themselves. And then maybe once Bill showed up and the two of us were sure Win was okay and the doctors were doing all the things they could, then I could call Brian and apologize about People, and he'd talk to me because that's what a good guy he is, and I could tell him the story of Curtis ignoring the turkey guys' phone call, which might make him laugh even, now that we'd both had a chance to calm down.
We landed, and waiting outside security was a guy who was clearly a football coach, and it wasn't just the Washington jacket—it was the way he stood and everything. He came right up to me and shook my hand, said his name was Charlie Wright and that he recognized me right away, which I guess was one good thing about People. He didn't say too much as we walked through the airport, just that it didn't look like Win needed surgery, and how glad he was that I could come out on such short notice and how he understood about Dad. Which I guess he'd learned while I was on the plane.
We drove right to the hospital, which was even bigger and shinier and scary-looking than I had imagined, and I was awfully glad Charlie Wright was with me. He walked in kind of holding my arm, which I really appreciated, and took me up to a floor with nurses everywhere and blinking lights, worried folks standing in little groups outside each patient's room. There was one room so full of people and machinery I could barely see the bed, and Charlie stopped one of the nurses, and she looked at me and said I could go in.
"Complete idiot." That's a pretty graphic description. "Total moron" is another one. There are some curse words too, for a person who is absolutely stupid and worthless. But I can't think of anything strong enough to explain how I felt at that moment, how completely disgusted I was with myself for thinking that maybe Win would be wearing a whiplash collar and chatting it up, or that it was pretty cool for a sixteen-year-old girl to fly here all alone and get away from all those jawing people in Red Bend, or that maybe because of Win's injury I'd be able to hang out with Bill, and maybe even reconnect with Brian.
Because, I now knew, all that thinking was dead wrong. Because now I could see a person lying in the bed with tubes coming out of his mouth and nose and arms, wires hooked up everywhere and a big plastic collar strapped hard around his neck, his closed eyes like bruises, and his skin looking almost green in that hospital light. That was my brother.
16. The Most Difficult Situation I Can Think Of
WIN'S HANDS WERE DIRTY. Isn't that weird? His fingers still had grass stains on them, and bits of dirt under his nails the way you get when you play football. When he'd played football.
I reached out without even really thinking. His fingers were warm even though Win didn't look alive at all. If they'd been stone cold, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised.
"You can touch him," a nurse said, though I already was. I'd forgotten other people were in the room, I was so busy thinking that it wasn't Win in the hospital bed all surrounded by tubes and wires and blinking lights. It was someone else. Not that they'd switched bodies or anything, though I'd have believed that in a heartbeat if there was a chance in heck it were true. But that it was someone else altogether.
"It's not as bad as it looks," the nurse continued, althou
gh I sure didn't see how that could be the case. She pointed to that hard plastic cuff around his neck, so tight his chin looked jammed in. "That's called a cervical collar—"
"To keep his neck from moving. Until the bones can knit," I said.
You know how when you touch something hot, your hand jerks back right away? That's because it's a reflex. Because if your brain had to take the time to process it, you might end up pretty burned.
That same thing was happening right now. My reflexes were taking over, if you want to think of it that way, and shutting down all those emotion parts of my brain so I could survive. Not that I wanted this to happen. I wanted to burst into tears and demand they fix Win right away and make him back the way he was. But I couldn't. Until Bill arrived, I was the Responsible One.
Even so, when Charlie Wright put his arm around my shoulders, it was all I could do not to lose it. We stood there for a while, him respecting my silence in a way I really appreciated, and then a nurse said that Win's doctor was available if I wanted to talk.
"Sure," I said reflexively, my brain barely even registering.
Dr. Rosenberger was very tall and thin, with gray hair like doctors always have. He brought me into a little private room made for talks like this, and brought Charlie too, when I said it was okay, and said how difficult this must be and he'd explain as best he could.
"Did you give him the steroids yet?" I asked.
"Steroids!" asked Charlie Wright. "What are you talking about? The NCAA would never allow—"
Dr. Rosenberger blinked, and examined me. "Have you been online?"
"No, I ... we were just studying this. In school."
The doctor turned to Charlie Wright. "Not 'steroids.' A cortisone drug that reduces swelling in the spinal cord." He faced me again. "We administered it twenty-three minutes after the incident. That's as good as it could possibly be. Do you know what C6 means? C5?"
I nodded. "Cervical vertebrae. Does this mean he can still move his shoulders?"