Still, if you’ve got to bring yourself within inches of your life just to cry for help, something’s wrong somewhere. Either you weren’t yelling loud enough to begin with, or the people around you are deaf, dumb, and blind. Which makes me think it isn’t just a cry for help—it’s more a cry to be taken seriously. A cry that says “I’m hurting so badly, the world must, for once, come to a grinding halt for me.”
The question is, what do you do next? The world stops, and looks at you lying there with your wounds bandaged, or your stomach pumped, and says, “Okay, you have my attention.” Most people don’t know what to do with that moment if they get it. Which makes it definitely not worth the cost of getting there. Especially if that failed attempt accidentally succeeds.
143. Fail
Hal’s pencil-sharpening happened on Saturday. Dr. Poirot comes to see me first thing Monday morning. He would have come sooner but he was away at a conference taking care of business while Hal was taking care of his own business.
I am alone in my room when Poirot arrives. Hal’s bed is stripped, his belongings removed by the pastels. The emptiness on Hal’s side of the room is like a living void. During the night I could hear it breathing.
“I’m very sorry about what happened. Very sorry,” Poirot says. His bright Hawaiian shirt mocks the somberness of the day. I’m lying flat on my back, and I do my best not to look at him, or acknowledge him in any way.
“I know you developed a friendship with Harold. It must be particularly painful.”
I still don’t say a word.
“A thing like this . . . it should never have happened.”
In spite of myself, I have to respond to such an accusation. “So you’re blaming me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t you just?”
Poirot sighs, pulls up a chair, and sits down. “You’ll be getting a new roommate today.”
“I don’t want one.”
“Can’t be helped. Bed space here is limited. Another boy is coming in, and it’s the only bed available.”
I still won’t look at him. “It was YOUR job to take care of Hal. To keep him safe from everything—including himself!”
“I know. We failed. I’m sorry.” Poirot looks over to the void on the other side of the room. “Had I been here at the time—”
“What? Would you have flown in and stopped him?”
“I would like to think that I might have sensed the level of Harold’s despair. But maybe not. Maybe it would have happened anyway.”
Now I finally look at Poirot. “Did he die?”
Poirot keeps a practiced poker face. “His wounds are extensive. He’s receiving the best possible care.”
“Would you tell me if he died?”
“Yes. If I felt you could handle it.”
“And if you felt I couldn’t handle it?”
Poirot hesitates, and for the life of me, I can’t tell whether or not he’s covering up a lie. “You’ll just have to trust me,” he says.
But I don’t. And I don’t tell him that Hal stopped taking his meds. Hal swore me to secrecy. Whether he’s dead or alive, I won’t betray that trust. Of course, if I had squealed on him, I know he might have been too medicated to do what he did. I guess that moves the finger of blame even more in my direction. It makes me more determined to push it away.
“You should have saved him,” I tell Poirot. “You’re right; you failed.”
Poirot takes it like a slap, but turns the other cheek. “Busy day, busy day. There are other patients I need to see.” He gets up to go. “I promise to check in on you later, all right?”
But I don’t answer him and resolve never to speak to him again. From this moment on, Poirot is dead to me.
144. Other Places
“Caden, we’ve been thinking,” says my mom the following day. She glances at my dad to make sure he’s on the same page. “With what’s happened here, maybe you’d rather be elsewhere.”
“I can go home?”
My dad reaches out to grab my upper arm with firm reassurance. “Not yet,” he says. “Soon, though. But in the meantime, there are other places.”
It takes a moment for me to understand what he’s suggesting. “Another hospital?”
“Where this sort of thing doesn’t happen,” my mom adds.
That makes me cough out a single guffaw. Because “this sort of thing” can happen anywhere. Even if Hal was given his own personal bodyguard, it wouldn’t have protected him from himself. I know there are other “facilities” like this one. The other kids tell stories about hospitals they’ve been in. They all sound worse than this. As much as I hate to admit it, my parents chose this place because it was the best one around. So maybe it is.
“No, I’ll stay,” I tell them.
“Are you sure, Caden?” My father tries to read me with eyes that make me look away.
“Yeah, I like it here.”
That surprises both of them. It surprises me. “You do?”
“Yes,” I say. “No,” I say. “But yes.”
“Well, why don’t you think about it?” my mom says, maybe disappointed by my decision—but I don’t want to think about it any more than I want to think about Hal. This place is a hell that I’m familiar with. What is it they say? The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.
“No, I’m sure,” I tell them.
They accept my decision, but there’s a kind of longing in them that remains unsatisfied.
“Well, we just wanted to give you the option,” my dad says. They go on to talk about Mackenzie, and how she misses me, and how they might bring her to visit again, but they seem to be getting further away. And suddenly I realize something terrible about my parents. They are not poisoners. They are not the enemy . . .
. . . but they are helpless.
They want to do something—anything—to help me. Anything to change my situation. But they are as powerless as I am. The two of them are in a lifeboat, together, but so alone. Miles from shore, yet miles from me. The boat leaks, and they must bail in tandem to keep themselves afloat. It must be exhausting.
The terrible truth of their helplessness is almost too much to bear. I wish I could take them on board, but even if they could reach us, the captain would never allow it.
Right now it sucks to be me—but until now, it never occurred to me that it also sucks to be them.
145. Soul of Our Mission
I have a new cabinmate who I don’t know, and who I don’t wish to know. He’s just another member of the faceless crew. Now I’m the old-timer—the one who knows the ropes—the way the navigator was when I arrived. As much as I don’t like being the newbie, I don’t like being the salty sea dog either.
The captain comes to visit a few nights after the navigator unraveled into the sea. He sits on the end of my bed and regards me with his seeing eye. I think his weight should buckle the flimsy cot, but it doesn’t. It’s as if he’s weightless. Insubstantial, like a ghost.
“I’ll tell you this, boy,” the captain says gently, “but I’ll deny it in the light of day.” He pauses to make sure he has my full attention. “You are the most important crewman on this vessel. You are the soul of our mission, and if you succeed—and I know you will—there will be much glory to be had. I foresee many voyages together, you and I. Until one day you’ll find yourself a captain.”
I cannot deny that it is an enticing vision the captain has put forth. To have a purpose is very desirable. And as for future voyages, I’ve grown accustomed to the nature of this ship and these waters. More time before the mast may not be out of the question.
“Only one member of this crew will make the dive,” the captain says, “and I’ve chosen you. You alone will achieve Challenger Deep and discover the riches it holds.”
My feelings on this are as deep and dark as the trench itself. “Without a proper vehicle, I’ll be crushed by the pressure, sir, and—”
He puts up his hand to silence me. “I kn
ow what you believe, but things are different here. You already know that; you’ve already seen. The dive is dangerous, I won’t deny that, but not in the way you think.”
Then he clasps me on the shoulder. “Have faith in yourself, Caden, for I have faith in you.”
That’s not the first time I’ve heard it. “The parrot had faith in me, too,” I tell him.
The mention of the bird makes him bristle. “Do you regret ridding us of that traitor?”
“No . . .”
“The parrot would have seen you never complete this journey.” He stands and begins to pace the small space. “The parrot would have put an end to our adventures forever and ever!” Then he points a crooked finger at me.
“Would you rather be a cripple in his world, or a star in mine?”
Then he storms out, not waiting for an answer—and a moment after he’s gone, there’s a twinge of memory. You’ve seen the captain before, the parrot had said. For the first time I realize he was right . . . but that twinge of memory escapes from me, and is sucked into the foul-smelling pitch that holds the ship together.
146. Psychonoxious
I can feel the presence of the Abyssal Serpent more and more with each passing day. It trails behind the ship—behind me. It matches our pace. It doesn’t attack like the crestmares, or the Nemesi. It just stalks. Which is even worse.
“It’ll never let you be, boy,” the captain tells me as we look aft into our wake. I cannot see the serpent, but I know it’s there, swimming just deep enough to hide from my eyes, but not from my soul.
“No doubt the serpent has plans for you,” the captain says. “Plans that involve digestive juices—but I think it likes to be hungry. It enjoys the pursuit as much as the devouring. That’s its weakness.”
When the captain retires for afternoon tea, or whatever a man like him does with his free time, I climb to the crow’s nest, to get as far away from the Abyssal Serpent as possible.
I have come to despise the crow’s nest almost as much as the captain does. I am never surprised by the odd sights I see up here. Today there are heads rolling about like tumbleweeds with the motion of the sea. One bumps into me as it rolls past. “Sorry,” the head says. “Couldn’t be helped.” I think I recognize the face, but its trajectory takes it underneath a chair, where it gets temporarily stuck, so I can’t be sure.
There is a new bartender today. No one sits at the bar, because there is a chill to her demeanor. She gives off waves of unapproachability like a force field. Still I approach, if only out of spite.
“Where’s Dolly?” I ask.
The new bartender points to one of the rolling heads. I recognize Dolly immediately. “Hello, Caden,” her head says as it tumbles in the aftermath of a sudden swell. “I’d wave if I could.”
“It’s unfortunate,” says the new bartender, “but the unraveling of the navigator made it clear that changes had to be made.”
And then another cranial casualty bounces past. One with short red hair. I hurry to catch it. Picking it up, I look into a pair of familiar eyes.
“Carlyle?”
“Sorry to tell you this, Caden, but I won’t be leading your group anymore.”
I’m speechless. Unable to swallow the news. “But . . . but . . .”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “There’ll be someone new this afternoon.”
“We don’t want someone new!”
There’s no one else in the hall. I stand between him and the exit. I knew people would get smacked down, and maybe fired for what happened to Hal, but why Carlyle?
“You had nothing to do with it!” I tell him. “You weren’t even there that day!” The chilly new charge nurse eyes me from the central nurses’ station, wondering if my raised voice is a problem.
“They felt my group was . . . psychonoxious. At least for Hal.”
“Do you believe that?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. The hospital’s gotta spank somebody, and I was an easy target. It’s just the way things work.”
He looks around a bit nervously, as if getting caught even talking to me would make it worse for him. “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “It’s not like I don’t have other things to do. I was volunteering here, remember?” He gets past me and heads for the door.
“But . . . but . . . who will mop the feral brains?”
He chuckles. “Plenty of that going on without me,” he says. “You take care, Caden.” Then he touches his security card to the reader. The inner door opens, admitting him into the little air lock designed to keep patients from escaping. Then, once the inner door closes, the outer door opens to the world beyond, and Carlyle’s gone.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to yell at. The bartender won’t have it, and although Angry Arms of Death is around, he and his skulls are just happy that they’re not rolling around with Dolly and the rest.
I leave the crow’s nest, and burst in on the captain to voice my complaint, telling him that Carlyle’s headless body just walked the plank—but the captain is unfazed.
“Swabbies come and go,” he says, with a head under each arm. “I’m going below to do some bowling. Care to join me?”
147. Genetic Life-form and Disk Operating System
“Well, good morning! I’m Gladys, your new facilitator for morning group.”
The room tone is as belligerent as a classroom in an alternative high school. And today there’s a substitute teacher.
“The first order of business is getting to know one another.”
Gladys doesn’t look like a Gladys. Although I really don’t know what a Gladys should look like, except for the ones in old black-and-white TV sitcoms. She’s in her midthirties, with permed blond hair and a slight deviation in her facial symmetry that’s worse when she smiles.
“Why don’t we start by giving our names.”
“We know our names,” someone says.
“Well, I’d like to know them, too.”
“You do,” says someone else. “I saw you reading our files before you came in.”
She gives us a mildly asymmetrical smile. “Yes, but it would be nice to attach names to faces.”
“That would probably hurt,” I offer. I get a courtesy chuckle from Skye and a couple of others—but a courtesy chuckle isn’t enough to keep the snark going. Just to get this over with, I say, “I’m Caden Bosch.”
It goes around clockwise from me. To my surprise, nobody gives names like “Dick Hertz,” or “Jen Italia.” I guess I threw a wet rag on the possibility by giving my actual name.
My new roommate has joined the group, along with a random new girl. A couple of people who I already can’t remember were discharged a few days ago. The faces change, but the production remains the same, like a Broadway show.
Very few people share today. I know I don’t want to share anything with Gladys. Ever. Then someone subtly begins calling her GLaDOS, which is the name of the evil computer in the classic Portal games—and if this session wasn’t a travesty before, now it definitely is. A bunch of us take turns making game references that fly under her radar—like the kid who asks if there’ll be cake when we’re done.
“No,” Gladys says, asymmetrically perplexed, “not that I know of.”
“So . . . ,” says the kid, “you’re telling me that the cake is a lie?”
Even the kids who have no idea what he’s talking about snicker, because it doesn’t matter if they don’t get it—the only thing that matters is that GLaDOS doesn’t get it.
I might feel sorry for her under normal circumstances, but I have no clear idea what normal circumstances are anymore, and anyway, I don’t want her to have my sympathy. I know Carlyle’s firing wasn’t her fault, but she’s the piñata in the room, and I don’t mind swinging a bat along with all the others.
148. Squirrelly
I lie on my bed and wait for the world to end.
It must end eventually, because I can’t imagine it going on like this. This procession of
gray days in a mental fog must eventually cease.
I have not heard from Callie. I don’t expect any communication from her here; we are not allowed phones or computer access, and I don’t expect she’ll write a letter. I went so far as to ask my parents to check my emails. I gave them all my passwords because privacy has little meaning anymore. I don’t care if they read my spam, which, at this point, is all I’ll be getting, in addition to something from Callie. But she hasn’t written. Or my parents tell me that she hasn’t. Would they tell me if she had? I trust their answer just as much as I trust anyone who tells me that Hal is still alive. If everyone has convinced themselves it’s okay to lie to me for my own good, how can I believe anything anyone says?
Are they lying when they tell me I’ve been here for six weeks? Probably not. It feels more like six months. The fog and the monotony make it next to impossible to measure the passing time. They don’t call it monotony, though. They call it routine. The routine is supposed to be comforting. We have a genetic predisposition for same old-same old that dates back to the earliest vertebrates. Safety in sameness.
Except when they choose to create change.
Like sticking me with a new roommate who I refuse to talk to. Or like firing the one person who made me see the slightest glimmer of hope.
I silently curse everyone for these things, knowing deep down I should be cursing myself, because none of it would have happened if I had broken my promise to Hal, and told on him.
“If you continue making progress,” one of the nurses told me earlier today, “I see no reason why you shouldn’t be going home in a couple of weeks.” Then she added, “But don’t quote me on that.” Noncommittal is rampant among the committed.
I don’t feel the progress the others see. I’m so encapsulated in the moment that I don’t remember what I was like when I arrived. And I think if this is better than that, is this what I can look forward to when I go home? Same old-same old?