I am Ben Fischer.
• • •
When I open my eyes, Miss Michelle is sitting by my bed. She looks like she’s sleeping, like she’s been sleeping in that chair for days, but when I move she blinks and smiles at me. She doesn’t look like Death anymore. She’s just a woman, human. Though she looks like she’s been through hell.
“I’m Ben,” I say. My throat is hoarse and dry, and I start coughing.
Miss Michelle brings me a cup of ice chips, and they are the most brilliant thing I’ve ever eaten. She doesn’t say anything for a while. Just sits there and watches me like she’s afraid if she looks away for even one second, I’ll disappear.
“You gave us quite a scare,” she finally says.
“Yeah.”
“You should be dead.”
“That’s what I used to think.”
“Oh?” Miss Michelle asks.
“Not anymore, though.”
Miss Michelle seems to weigh my words for truth, trying to make sure that I’m not going to take another header off the top of a parking garage. I know there’s nothing I can say to assure her that I’m not. I’ll have to earn her trust by living.
“I’m sorry I was late,” she says.
I put the ice chips down. Shrug. “I’m not.”
Jo comes through the door right then, yelling at me like I didn’t almost just die, and Emma and Steven are right behind her carrying a box of doughnuts and a stack of DVDs. They smother me with attention, and I barely notice when Miss Michelle slips out the door.
I drift off to sleep in the middle of Emma’s favorite movie, Better Off Dead. Jo thought it was inappropriate, but it made me laugh.
• • •
Over the next couple of days, I get stronger. Doctors come and go. I have a ton of visitors. Arnold and Aimee. Father Mike. My ER nurses pop in every day. Even Trevor drops by to tell me what a moron I am.
“It’s a very special day, asshole,” he says. “But if you ever do anything like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”
He draws a T. rex on my cast and tells me he’ll visit as often as he can, though I don’t expect I’ll see him again.
Miss Michelle tells me that my parents left guardianship of me to my aunt and uncle in Colorado. I haven’t seen them in years, but they’re on their way to get me. I’m not sure what to think of that.
The one person who hasn’t visited is Rusty. I’m too afraid to ask about him. Afraid that he’s gone, that he never wants to see me again. I wouldn’t blame him. Really. But I can’t stop hoping.
• • •
The day before I’m supposed to leave, Aunt Jess and Uncle Tommy are fussing over me, telling me stories about my parents that I’ve never heard, talking about them like they’re still alive. Uncle Tommy says he’s going to teach me to ski, and Aunt Jess signs my cast with, O Death! where is thy sting? She’s kind of weird, but I like it. They tell me how they came to retrieve the bodies of my parents and Cady and stayed in a crappy hotel for two weeks while the police searched for me. They tell me they never stopped believing I’d find my way home. I’m not sure where home is anymore, but I’d like to find out.
I’d just about given up on seeing Rusty when he walks through the door. Instead of a hospital gown, he’s wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He still looks thin and a little pale, but, my God, he’s so beautiful. You can forget a lot of things over the course of your life, but not a smile like Rusty’s.
“Hey,” he says.
Aunt Jess glances at me and I nod. She hustles Uncle Tommy from the room, leaving me alone with Rusty.
“You look like shit,” Rusty says.
“You should see the other guy.” My voice catches awkwardly. The last time I saw him, he was in the bed and I was standing. “Rusty—”
“I can’t do this.” He turns to leave.
“Please don’t go.”
Rusty stops and turns around. He can’t look me in the eyes. I think he’s going to leave again, but instead he sits on the floor beside my bed, pulling his knees to his chest.
“I thought you’d died.”
“I’m pretty sure I did.”
“Yeah.” Rusty glances up at me. “Drew—” Having a broken arm and leg makes moving pretty difficult, but I do my best to look down at him. I need to see his face.
“Ben,” I say. “Ben Fischer.” The name still feels wrong in my mouth, but I’m getting used to it again. It’s like an old pair of jeans that way.
Rusty takes a deep breath. He’s working up to something, that much I can tell, but he’s not ready to say whatever it is.
“I’m moving to Colorado,” I say. “Some place called Silverthorne. And I finished Patient F.”
“Maybe you’ll let me read it sometime.” Rusty gets up and stands over my bed. He’s shaking, trembling. “I hate you.” There are tears in the corners of his eyes. There are scars all over his body, and not the ones from the fire. These scars belong to me.
“I know.”
Rusty grips the bed rail so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that!” Rusty screams. “I fucking hate you!”
Rusty chokes up and starts to sob. I link my fingers through his and pull him into the bed beside me. He curls next to me and lays his head on my chest. Every movement hurts, but it’s so worth it.
When Rusty is done crying, I brush his hair out of his eyes and kiss his forehead. “What are the chances we can get some waffles?”
• • •
It takes some smooth talking, but I convince Emma to wheel me outside so that Rusty and I can have a picnic on the lawn. It’s the first time I’ve been out of the hospital since my family died. The world is so big and so fucking scary, but Rusty pushes my wheelchair, and I know that things are going to be okay. I’m not moving on, but I’m moving forward.
Emma couldn’t find waffles, but that’s okay—I didn’t have a checkerboard anyway. Rusty reads to me for a while and, after, we eat and watch the sun set. We’re different people now. There are no lies between us. We get to know each other in the negative spaces, where words have no meaning.
“Am I ever going to see you again?” Rusty asks.
“Colorado isn’t that far away.”
Rusty nods and takes my hand. “I’ve got rehab and other stuff. I have to see a shrink.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
The silence of the night sets with the sun, and I never want more than this.
Rusty squeezes my hand as if he’s afraid to ever let go. “I wish I could see the future.”
“It wouldn’t help.”
“But I want to know that everything is going to be all right.”
I smile at Rusty—my best toothy grin—and say, “You just have to have faith.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Rusty sighs. “I love you too, you know.”
Instead of answering him, I pull Rusty to me and kiss him softly on the lips. It’s still the best part of everything. So I kiss him again and again and again. . . .
The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley has been my baby for about five years, and there were plenty of times I thought I’d never get to see it published. But here we are! I couldn’t have done it without the help and support of some amazing people.
I’d like to first thank Amy Boggs, my kick-ass agent, who loved Drew as much as I did, and believed in his story when I thought no one ever would. Michael Strother, my tireless, brilliant, and thoughtful editor, who immediately understood what I was trying to accomplish, and has been a champion, protector, and mentor throughout this process. That Patient F lives and breathes on the page is a testament to the awe-inspiring talent of Christine Larsen. She took my words and made them real.
I’d also like to thank my book designer Regina Flath, my copyeditor Lara Stelmaszyk, the entire Simon Pulse marketing and publicity departments, and everyone at Simon & Schuster for sticking with me through this book. What you all do is magic.
A special thanks goes to the men and women of the Palm Beach County Fire Department, the exceptional nurses at the Jupiter Medical Center and West Palm Hospital, and the instructors at Palm Beach State College’s EMT and Firefighter programs. You are all heroes to me.
Throughout this long journey the following people helped me, sometimes without even knowing it. I’d like to thank Suzie Townsend for her invaluable advice about giving Patient F the comic he deserved. Andrew Smith, whose books gave me the courage to follow through with this story when I was ready to give up writing completely. Mike Winchell for repeatedly encouraging me to write my story—here it is! Pamela Deron for throwing an early draft of this book at me and telling me she hated me, and for never letting me quit. Jennifer Diemer, whose editing magic and bottomless kindness made this book a hundred times stronger. Matthew Rush for being a constant source of encouragement, and for his friendship. Margie Gelbwasser for reading every single version of this book, for being my cheerleader through the rough patches, and for always being up for Skyping when I needed an ear. And a special thanks to Rachel Melcher for everything.
As always, I am grateful to my family for supporting me, encouraging me, and forcing strangers to buy my books (welcome to the family, Sy!), and to Matt, who lets me disappear when the muse calls, but never lets me stray too far. You’re my happy ending.
Finally, I’d like to thank you for reading. I wrote Drew and Rusty’s story, but you give them life.
Shaun David Hutchinson is the author of The Deathday Letter and fml. He lives with his partner and dog in South Florida, where he enjoys running, reading, and yelling at the TV whenever there are plot holes. Visit him online at shaundavidhutchinson.com.
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The Deathday Letter
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition January 2015
Copyright © 2015 by Shaun David Hutchinson
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Designed by Regina Flath
Cover illustration and lettering copyright © 2015 by Christine Larsen
Cover image is used for illustrative purposed only; any person depicted in the image is a model.
Jacket designed by Regina Flath
Jacket illustration and lettering
copyright © 2015 by Christine Larsen
Author photo copyright © 2015 by Chris Piedra
Cover image is used for illustrative purposes only; any person depicted in the image is a model.
The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond Pro.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hutchinson, Shaun David.
The five stages of Andrew Brawley / Shaun David Hutchinson ; illustrations by Christine Larsen. pages cm
Summary: Convinced he should have died in the accident that killed his parents and sister, sixteen-year-old Drew lives in a hospital, hiding from employees and his past, until Rusty, set on fire for being gay, turns his life around. Includes excerpts from the superhero comic Drew creates.
[1. Hospitals—Fiction. 2. Grief—Fiction. 3. Gays—Fiction. 4. Orphans—Fiction. 5. Comic books, strips, etc.—Fiction. 6. Runaways—Fiction.] I. Larsen, Christine (Illustrator), illustrator. II. Title.
PZ7.H96183Fiv 2015 [Fic]—dc23 2014022200
ISBN 978-1-4814-0310-8
ISBN 978-1-4814-0312-2 (eBook)
Shaun David Hutchinson, The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley
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