After dinner she takes a bath and then we go play in her room a little bit. There’re toys and stuffed animals all over the place. I walk around, looking at the same photographs mounted on the same walls I’ve looked at a hundred times before. I stop at one where Spencer is holding a naked baby Lucy stretched out, no bigger than his forearm. I smile at the photograph. Spencer kinda took me in his arms like that, giving my stray, hungering dog self a place to rest—when no one else would take him in. Spencer had held on to me. I stare at the photograph, the image grainy, processed on cheap photo paper. I stare until Lucy pulls at my pant leg.
“Tell me another story.”
So we lie together on the small bed, overcrowded with stuffed animals and pillows. It is hot and the air hangs thick and still. I tell her a story about a frog and a caterpillar. When I finish I just wait, not sure what to do next.
“Nic?”
“Yes?”
“Will you sing to me and rub my back?”
“Sing?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Sing what?”
“Whatever you want.”
She yawns and turns away from me. She wears a thick yellow nightgown. I put my hand against it, rubbing her back and trying to think of what to sing. Surely I must know many songs, yet suddenly I can’t remember any. I try “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” then “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” And then it comes to me. Without really meaning to, I start singing an old John Lennon song, “Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy),” but I change the words, of course, to “Beautiful Girl.” I sing it over and over, at first absently, not really connected to what I’m doing.
“Close your eyes
Have no fear
The monster’s gone
He’s on the run and your daddy’s here.”
Something catches in my throat as I sing this last part. I can see myself, suddenly, a little boy, my dad singing that same song. It was right after my mom left. We were on some cheap futon in an apartment in San Francisco. I think of my dad, that smell of him—the sweetness, and sweat. Him rubbing my back with that calloused hand of his. Me curled up like I always was—my stomach all tight and fluttery.
“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful (girl)
Darling, Darling, Darling
Darling (Lucy).”
I press my hand against her back and sing—softly, almost whispering the words. And then there are the hot, salty tears streaming down.
“Are you crying?” asks Lucy.
“No. Shhhh, go to sleep.”
But I want to keep singing for some reason and I choke on the words.
“Before you cross the street, take my hand,
Life is what happens to you
While you’re busy making other plans…”
And that feeling is there, inside me—being small, with all the confusion and worry and longing—but also the peace and safety—being wrapped in a blanket with my dad rubbing my back like that, singing. And now I’m here, giving that feeling to Lucy. She is an angel—light and sweet and delicate and lovely. That is so there in her. But it’s also in Spencer, in my dad lying with me as a child on the futon. It’s even in me. Sure, I buried it. I buried it and buried it and turned away from everything light and sweet and delicate and lovely and became so scared and scarred and burdened and fucked up. But that goodness is there, inside—it must be.
“Every day, in every way,
It’s getting better and better…”
I let those words fall, wanting—wanting so bad to believe them.
DAY 230
I sleep on the leather sofa in the living room. Lucy is standing right in front of me looking out from under her bangs. She’s tugging at her yellow Powerpuff Girls nightgown with small, clumsy hands. She’s startled me and I jump some, which makes her giggle. The freckles splayed out over her nose and cheeks are more pronounced this morning somehow. She smiles, showing me her tiny, straight teeth.
“Good morning,” I say.
She curls up on herself, shyly.
“What’s the matter?” I continue. “Did you have good dreams?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Really? What about?”
She pauses for a moment before rolling her eyes up to the ceiling and twirling a lock of hair around her finger.
“I forget.”
“You forget? Lucy, I’m very disappointed in you. What do we have for breakfast?”
She skips over to the kitchen chanting, “Waffles, waffles, waffles.”
As I put some Eggos in the toaster, the phone rings shrilly and I answer.
It’s Michelle on the phone. She sounds like she’s been crying. Spencer has been admitted to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills. They had to do a spinal tap on him last night. He’s been diagnosed with meningitis. The doctors aren’t sure whether it’s viral or bacterial. I don’t know what the difference is anyway. Michelle spent the night on a cot in the hospital and is exhausted. They finally gave Spencer a morphine injection, so he’s fallen asleep. Michelle wants to come home and change clothes and shower. I agree to go sit with Spencer for the afternoon while Lucy’s at school. Michelle says she doesn’t know how to thank me enough.
“Please,” I say. “I’m just grateful to be able to do something for you guys for a change.”
“I love you, Nic. You’ll always be a part of our family.”
That makes the tears burn hot in my eyes. “I love you, too,” I say. “You know, I wouldn’t be alive right now if it wasn’t for you guys. You’re the only ones who’ve stood by me.”
“Well, we always will. Thank you, Nic. I’ll see you when you get to the hospital.”
We say good-bye.
I have to drop Lucy off at her preschool by nine, so I’m pretty busy getting everything ready—making lunch, trying to persuade Lucy to make up her mind about what clothes to wear. She’s having a minor fashion crisis—pulling out every piece of clothing in the drawer. It’s funny ’cause I remember hearing stories about my parents’ having to wait forever while I struggled to find just the right outfit. I watch as Lucy looks in the mirror, scrutinizing her tiny features. She pushes out her belly and rubs it with her hand, frowning.
“You want me to pick something out for you?” I ask.
“No! I can do it myself!”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.”
I walk out of the room and go drink some coffee.
It’s strange, but not being able to exercise these last couple days, I feel really crazy in my head. It’s like my thoughts race so fast and I have this underlying anxiety and feeling of hopelessness. It is very acute and I’m not sure what to do but go ride my bike or run ten miles or something. It’s this obsessive-compulsive feeling that never goes away. Even being here with Lucy, I can’t help but be somewhat distracted. I just can’t control my spiraling thoughts.
Anyway, Lucy comes out about ten minutes later wearing the same thing she had on yesterday. I kiss her forehead. We watch TV together until it’s time to walk to school.
The neighborhood is all single-story homes with manicured lawns and wooden fences. We play that game where you try not to step on the cracks ’cause you don’t want to break your mother’s back. Lucy seems pretty calm about Spencer and Michelle being gone. She arches her back, holds her head up, and won’t let me hold her hand. I guess she’s being a big girl.
When I get to the hospital Michelle meets me in the waiting room. Her eyes are all swollen and ringed with red. She hugs me for a long, long time—pressing me tightly against her. For the first time I really comprehend just how serious Spencer’s sickness is. Michelle tells me not to worry, but spinal meningitis can be fatal. Spencer is pretty out of it from the pain and morphine and all—plus he has this rash all over his body. Michelle asks me if I can wait with Spencer until around five—then she’ll meet me with Lucy and some dinner. She wants me to spend the night at her house again if I don’t mind. I tell her it’s just fine.
&n
bsp; Spencer has a private room on the third floor. It’s nice enough, except for the sterile, sickening hospital smell that permeates everything. Walking in, my hands are shaking some. I really don’t know what I’d do if I lost Spencer. Nobody has ever accepted me as purely and selflessly as he has. I’m terrified really, but I try hard not to show it. Seeing him lying there, stuck full of tubes and surrounded by monitors, I can’t help but lower my eyes so I don’t have to meet his. Spencer is a big man, but he seems to have crumpled completely, as though he’s folded up on himself—shrunken, pale. The rash is a raised vibrant purple mixed with red splatters across his nearly transparent skin. He manages a smile as I walk in.
“Hey, brother,” he says softly. “There must be some sort of irony in all this. I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here.”
“Spencer, please, don’t worry. You’ve seen me in much worse shape than this. Besides, I’m sure you’ll be better in a couple days.”
He closes his eyes. “I hope so. Right now it feels like a fucking ice pick is being driven into the center of my forehead.”
“Shit, man, and you don’t even get to make it with Sharon Stone first, huh?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I guess it was a dumb joke anyway. I go over to the cot at the base of the bed where Michelle must have slept last night. I sit down and pull my backpack up. “You want me to read to you or anything?” I ask.
“I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to focus. They’re giving me morphine injections every four hours or so. In fact, they better come give me one pretty soon, ’cause this pain is unbearable.”
The curtains are open and the sun is lighting the room, though somewhat dimly. I think about morphine—or heroin, really. I see the needle going in, the excitement of pulling back the plunger and watching the blood dart up into the syringe—pushing it slowly so it disappears into your arm as if by magic. I think about the tingling numbness creeping up the back of your neck and the euphoric calm that pulses through everything. In a way, I guess, I’m looking at Spencer with a certain amount of envy. Being sick is like a Get Out of Jail Free card. I remember when I was working at that rehab in Malibu there was a middle-aged client, extremely wealthy, with a wife and kids. He would intentionally get into accidents, break limbs, or just claim crippling migraines so he could get hospital drugs—while never feeling like he was doing anything wrong.
I wonder how easy it would be to get my hands on a bottle of Dilaudid or something. I could go shoot up in the bathroom. With Spencer being in the state he’s in, he probably wouldn’t even notice. But then I think about Lucy and how I would be high, possibly nodding out, while she would just want to play with me, be comforted, be made to feel safe while her daddy is in the hospital. And Michelle, who gave me a job, trusted me with her child, with her home, with the dog. I just can’t let them down—not now, not ever. My life has become so full, and for the first time ever, I want to take responsibility for myself and the effect I have on others.
So just then this male nurse comes in wearing green scrubs, a mask, and one of those protective hat things. He has a metal tray that he wheels in behind him. I still can’t help watching with a touch of longing in my eyes.
“Nic,” says Spencer.
I stand up. “Yeah?”
“They’re giving me my shot now. If you feel uncomfortable, you can step outside, okay?”
“Uh…” I have to think for a minute. Part of me wants to see the needle go in so I can just, you know, remember. But I also just feel sort of sick about it all. When it comes down to it, I just don’t even want to get high anymore. Shooting drugs was all about not having to face my life—not having to live in reality. But I don’t want to escape anymore. I don’t want to experience life through a veil of false emotions. I guess I just want to be authentic for a change. So I go out and pace the halls for a minute.
What can you say about hospitals? No matter how upscale they are, the air is always saturated with disinfectant and an underlying stench of chemicals. Most of the patients’ doors are closed, but a few of them are open. The beds are mostly occupied by elderly men and women with brown splotchy age marks all over. They’re hooked up to tubes and wires and things, like Spencer. They appear to be sleeping—or lost. It’s hard for me to look at them. It’s as though all the emptiness inside of all of us—regret about our past and fear about our future—has been physically manifested in these withering bodies. I shudder when I imagine getting old. Up until a few months ago, I didn’t even have hope of surviving past my twenties. Now that I want to live again, all this sickness and decay makes me feel humble and even slightly humiliated. How could I have so willingly thrown my life away when all these people are fighting desperately, every day, to save theirs?
I feel a twisting inside my belly that must be guilt, or regret, or I don’t know what. An elderly woman with almost no hair left on her head is sitting up on her bed. She’s looking off into the distance—staring at something only she can see. A steady moan escapes her lips. She is all alone. For some reason I think of my grandfather, who died destitute and shivering under a Salvation Army blanket in a VA hospital. My mom hasn’t told me much about him except that he was a miserable drunk and would pass out on the couch, screaming profanities in his sleep while my mother tried to block out his yelling with a pillow. I think about Spencer and the chance he’s given me at a new life—allowing me to have a shred of hope again.
When I return to Spencer’s room, he is smiling and a little overly glad to see me. Some soap opera is on TV and he talks about how amazing the colors are. I laugh and try not to let on how high he’s acting. Still, he tells me that he’s sorry I have to see him like this.
“It feels good,” he says. “But would I give it all up for this high? Would I give up Lucy? Michelle? My career? Our bike rides together? The friends I have?”
I take his hand in mine, as awkward as that feels at first.
“No,” he continues. “The life I’ve built for myself sober is better than any high a drug could ever give me. I’m going to tell you something right now, okay?”
I nod.
“Being sober isn’t just about not using. Being sober is about the joy a life of clarity and living by spiritual principles can bring. There is nothing greater than that. Forget drugs. Forget needles. Forget everything. We are living to experience the undiluted amazement of life on life’s terms. And Nic, if I don’t make it through this, I want you to know that I have tasted it. I have seen what real life has to offer and it is not cruel and oppressive—it is ecstatic. It is ecstatic far beyond a drug like Ecstasy, or this fucking morphine. It is possible to know peace. It is possible to watch all your dreams come to fruition. Nic, I promise you that.”
“Spencer, please,” I say. “I know you’re gonna make it through this. But you don’t need to tell me all this. I watch you. I watch you every day and I see the life that you’ve created for yourself. Don’t think for a moment that I question your sincerity. I mean, I practically live with you. I’ve seen what this twelve-step program has done for you. My greatest hope and desire is to build a life for myself the way you have. You see what is important. You’ve helped me see what is important. You are a good man. I only wish I could become as good a man as you.”
There are tears in both of our eyes and I fidget with my backpack nervously.
“Do you want me to read to you?” I ask.
“Yes, please. What do you want to read?”
“I have Emmet Fox’s book with me—can you focus enough to listen?”
“I’ll try.”
I pull out Emmet Fox’s Sermon on the Mount. I’ve read it so many times the pages are worn and yellow, curling around the edges. Spencer has taught me to live by it—I mean, as best I can. Actually, as embarrassing as this is, I know very little about Emmet Fox, the man. Basically all I know about him is that he was some sort of Bible scholar from England.
I sit back on the synthetic hospital pillow against the white ste
rile wall and begin to read.
Fox’s interpretation of Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount is fairly liberal. He believes, as far as I can tell, that the kingdom of heaven is inside each one of us. He also believes that our thoughts create our realities. If one is thinking only about God and constantly praising him/her/it, then they shall know nothing but peace, love, and freedom. Sickness, depression, whatever—those are all manifestations of our own negative thinking.
Apparently there are all these different laws that govern our world—physical laws, mathematical laws, chemical laws. Well, Fox says there are also spiritual laws that are just as real and unchanging as anything some scientist can prove in a test tube. On a spiritual plane, if you are open, giving, and kind, you will be rewarded these things tenfold. They may not come back to you in the same manner they were given. Often it is an internal gift that you receive. For instance, if you find a wallet on the street with five hundred dollars in it, you can keep the money and spend it on a couple pairs of shoes or something. So then you’ll have those shoes. However, if you return the wallet with all the money inside, you’ll be filled to overflowing with feelings of goodness and love. Basically you just replace one thought with another and, you know, it seems to work. It really does kind of change things.
So I read from The Sermon on the Mount to Spencer. The chapter is about Jesus’s whole “blessed are the meek” thing. Meek, in this sense, being described as constantly giving God the credit for all the good things in your life. I don’t know. InJ. D. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey, the Franny section is all about her trying to learn what it means in the Bible when they say that one should be in a state of constant prayer. What she does is end up repeating this specific prayer over and over in order to transcend human suffering and selfishness and nonconnection with God—assuming all the time that there is some sort of God there, or at least, a higher self.