The Sweet Dead Life

  “Cause we’re minors. Cause if I want to get you out of here, she has to sign the release papers.”

  Oh. Okay. What wasn’t okay: my brother sounded like a responsible human being. Mom’s catatonic depression had clearly taken its toll on him. My heart flopped in my chest. Maybe I was dying. Casey was just doing his best for my last hurrah.

  “I told her you’re doing all right,” Casey continued. “She seemed out of it again.”

  This didn’t surprise me. Still, there was that bombshell before I passed out and she called Casey at work. Now she probably didn’t even remember what she’d said about Dad. Maybe she’d made it all up, that stuff about keeping things secret. I guess we’d know soon enough.

  “How is your mother?” Renfroe asked. He tapped at my IV bag, then scribbled something on a clipboard.

  “Same,” Casey said. He gave my hand a squeeze.

  Not even Dr. Renfroe knew how much Mom had deteriorated. If he had, he might be sending over more than just free vitamin samples. Maybe something like Child Protective Services. Definitely not what we needed.

  The ugly striped curtain parted again. Another guy in green scrubs, with a stethoscope around his neck joined us. He was quickly followed by a twenty-something woman in navy cargo pants with a tucked-in short-sleeved blue collared shirt, and what looked like a utility belt.

  “Hey Amber,” Casey said to the woman, as if he knew her.

  Amber. I repeated the name to myself. Granted, my head was still pounding like a construction site. But I didn’t know her. Who was Amber? And why was she smiling at my brother like she a) knew him and b) found him likeable?

  “I’m Amber Velasco,” she said, as if that explained everything. She tightened the elastic on her thick brown ponytail and smoothed her already smooth bangs. Her dark blue eyes roved over me. “I’m one of the EMTs who pulled you from the wreck. You had us scared there, Jenna.” She shot a look at Casey.

  He nodded.

  My head gave another throb. Something about the way this Amber chick and Casey made eye contact reminded me of the kind of glances he and Lanie Phelps used to share. But at least Lanie was age-appropriate.

  “Are you cold?” Amber started to the tuck the beige hospital blanket closer to me. I swatted her away. My head fogged again.

  Better stick to what was important. “Do any of you know where my boots are?”

  Casey pointed to the corner of the room. My Ariats were sitting neatly by a gray padded chair that had seen better days. I could see a few blood specks, but they appeared otherwise unscathed. I was sure the leather cleaner would fix them right up. If I ever ran into Jesus again, he would be as relieved as I was.

  “This is Ed,” Dr. Renfroe piped up. He gestured to the other guy in scrubs. He was chunky, like Bryce, and wore brown clogs and a sour expression. Maybe he was aware of how tacky his footwear looked. “He’s going to need to ask you a few questions while I check on some other patients. Be sure to answer all of them carefully, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” I mumbled, suddenly uncomfortable with all of the attention I was getting.

  “I just don’t want to take any gambles with a former employee’s daughter,” Dr. Renfroe said with a smile.

  “Not the gambling kind, eh?” I said, simultaneously attempting to humor him and avert my eyes from all that chest hair.

  Renfroe kept smiling, but his eyes grew serious. “Not in the least,” he said.

  “Well, hopefully we’ll get you out of here quick,” Ed chimed in. “After the questions, we’ll run a few more tests.”

  His name tag indicated that his full title was Ed Lyons, RN. And according to Registered Nurse Ed “Clogs” Lyons, I had already had some blood work and the results were on their way. Soon he would escort me for X-rays, an EKG, and possibly a CT scan. There had been discussion of an MRI, but the consensus was that they needed to wait for the results of the Xray first. (I assumed this meant that they had figured out that the Samuels family was not insured. When you have no money, due diligence becomes statement due, regardless of your personal stand on our national health care system.)

  Dr. Renfroe patted me on the shoulder, handed the clipboard to Ed, then made for the other side of the curtain—taking his anti-gambling stance, lousy jokes, and frightening chest hair with him.

  RN Clogs handed me a cup. “We’ll need a urine sample, too.” He offered a bed pan, and then agreed that I could hobble to the bathroom dragging my IV pole and pee in the cup in the handicapped stall.

  “I’ll help you,” said Amber the EMT. She flashed me a smile and held out two tanned, muscular arms.

  “Hell no,” I heard myself snap. Seriously: Did she really think I was going to let her come into the bathroom and watch me pee? I was not unthankful that she had helped save us, but she was acting like she knew me. She did not know me.

  “Be nice,” my brother said. He was for some reason staring at the ceiling tiles, so I wasn’t exactly sure if he was directing the comment to me.

  I squinted at Casey some more as Ed hauled me out of bed. My hands were grimy, my teeth were gritty, and unlike my brother I knew that if I sniffed my armpits right now, my nose would hit stink. So how was it that Casey was standing there all new-and-improved when I was sure he had been dead? Had this Amber chick given him a makeover in the ambulance? Maybe that’s what came with EMT duties these days. Spruce up the stoner whenever possible. Aha. That’s probably why he looked so peaceful. He’d masked the odor somehow, but there was only one thing that made my brother peaceful these days. Weed. Maybe EMT Amber was also a dealer. Maybe that’s how they knew each other.

  “You sure you don’t need help?” Nurse Ed asked, clogging his way into my train of thought. He did not seem bothered that I was going into a public restroom in my bare feet. I decided to ignore him. I wanted my boots back.

  BY THE TIME I returned bearing my cup of green-tinged urine, my blood work had come back from the lab. Ed informed me that my electrolytes weren’t so hot, but my blood sugar and liver enzymes were normal. He slapped an ice pack on my bruised shoulder and commented that he had never seen anything like my pee before and that I might have to see a specialist.

  “She already has,” Amber told him.

  Casey looked startled. Me, too. He caught me staring at him.

  “Amber hung out with me in the waiting room,” he said.

  Before I could question him about this bizarre explanation that explained absolutely nothing, RN Ed began interrogating me about my diet. Having now been up close and personal with my pee, he seemed convinced that I was consuming algae or seaweed.

  “Are you sure you don’t eat sushi?” he kept repeating. He shifted from one ugly clog to the other as he scribbled on my chart. “Or maybe oysters? Have you had Gulf oysters lately? Personally, I haven’t touched them since Hurricane Ike. God only knows what’s in the water. And the ones from around Louisiana and Alabama are just as bad. All those lab animals that went loose after Katrina hit New Orleans? Same thing.”

  I decided that the clogs were making Ed cranky. Just because the Crocs kiosk in the mall was still in business did not mean that one had to shop there. I chose not to share this observation with Ed. Anyone who thought that Gulf oysters could make your pee look like St. Patrick’s Day beer was probably not interested in my fashion tips.

  At some point, Casey and Amber excused themselves to go wait for Mom in the ER lobby. My eyes narrowed. I was torn. I didn’t see why he needed Amber Velasco, EMT, to help him wait, but if it gave me a break from watching her ogle my brother like 1) he was cute or 2) he was about to discover the cure for cancer or 3) both, I was all for it. If she was a weed dealer, I couldn’t imagine she’d be pleased with him. He wasn’t exactly rolling in money. I knew this for a fact because he always bummed pot from Dave. Long story short: Amber Velasco gave me the willies.

  Ed and I carried on without them. He was just finishing his checklist and clogging toward the curtain when Mom shuffled in. Casey held her by the elbow.
Tears stained her cheeks. She was still dressed in her baggy sweats and the pink Tee, and had shoved her feet into an old pair of flip-flops. She looked like, well, a homeless woman.

  Amber trotted behind them, her EMT pants still perfectly creased.

  “Jenna,” Mom said in a papery thin voice. She patted my hand. Her fingertips were dry, and the skin around her thumbnail was red and raw like she’d been picking at it. I was glad Dr. Renfroe had left. I didn’t want him to see her like this.

  “I’m fine,” I said. My head gave a throb and for a second I thought I might puke again, but I forced a smile. “Nurse Ed here’s taking great care of me.”

  “Has your daughter consumed Gulf oysters lately?” Ed asked. He frowned at the clipboard, waiting for Mom to enlighten him.

  Instead, she started shaking. “I have to go home,” she hissed. Her voice quavered. Her glassy eyes bulged, staring at a spot above my pillow, at nothing. Suddenly, she was somewhere else. “I have to go home. You take care of your sister, Casey. I can’t be here. I’m sorry.”

  She whirled and shuffled back through the curtain.

  Casey followed.

  Thanks, Mom! Love you, too!

  I closed my eyes. I hadn’t cried in front of Renfroe—who at least I sort of knew—and I was absolutely not going to cry in front of Oyster Ed, who I didn’t want to know at all. He wore clogs. He asked stupid questions. He did not merit a cry.

  Somehow the papers got signed and permission to do whatever it was they were doing to me, confirmed. Our lack of health insurance was also once again documented. I must have dozed for a few minutes, because suddenly Casey was beside me again.

  “Taxi waited for her,” Casey said.

  I wondered if maybe it was that guy Wayne. He could show Mom his prosthesis and cheer her up.

  “He gave us an emergency discount,” Casey added. “Real nice of him.”

  Huh, I thought. Probably not Wayne then.

  The curtain rustled and Amber returned. I decided that her dark blue eyes were creepy. Yes. That settled it. She was a drug dealer with creepy eyes. She’d sold my brother marijuana to keep him calm. Or given him a freebie. It was the only explanation.

  A LITTLE AFTER one in the morning, Dr. Renfroe reappeared to join Amber, Casey, and me in the too-small hospital room. He expressed his surprise that I did not have a concussion and pulled out my IV.

  “Sorry I missed your mother,” he said. “Ed tells me she was here.”

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Amber said, pointing at something on my chart. “Jenna’s vitals still aren’t what they should be. I think Ed should have ordered some more blood tests.”

  So now she wanted to poke more holes in me. And so, it seemed, did Dr. Chest Hair Renfroe. He actually agreed with her.

  Three vials later, I was finally released.

  “He’ll call you tomorrow with the results,” Amber told us as Casey helped me shove my feet back into my Ariats. “In the meantime, get some rest, okay?” She handed Casey a sack. “Two turkey sandwiches, two bottles of water, and two individual packs of Chili Cheese Fritos,” she said and smiled. “You should eat. You both must be starving.”

  I knew I should probably thank her for the food. It was nice. On the other hand, why was she hanging around us, encouraging Dr. Renfroe to do more work on my behalf? True, I was probably still dying from not-Exploding-Head-Syndrome, but I wondered if this was part of the standard EMT gig. It didn’t seem likely. I imagined she probably had other people to drag from drifting, crappy Priuses.

  Casey said it for me. “Thanks, Amber. We should go.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’ll do better next time.”

  I frowned. Better at what? Not crashing our car? Paying her back for the weed?

  Amber looked mildly amused.

  “C’mon,” Casey put his arm around me and helped me walk out to the parking lot. The outside world seemed a lot brighter than I expected it to at one-thirty in the morning. My legs were suddenly very tired again, and we stopped a couple of times for me to catch my breath. My brother stroked his hand over my hair. He still smelled very good. That strange look was back on his face.

  “Jenna,” he said. “I—”

  “You’re gonna be looking a long time,” called a voice from behind us.

  What do you know? Amber Velasco, starting to verge on stalker, strode up to us. “Your car isn’t here, remember?”

  We did remember … Now. Casey’s face flushed a little in the harsh fluorescent glow. Maybe he was embarrassed that he’d totally zoned out about the wrecked Prius. I honestly had no idea what was going through his head, other than scoring more weed or possibly uploading pictures of this chick, something that I definitely did not want to think about.

  “Your house is only a couple of miles out of my way,” Amber added gently. “It’s no trouble.” I was too exhausted to ask how she knew or how it was that the red Camaro parked a few feet from us was hers. I just let the two of them fold me into the front seat and then closed my eyes for the ride.

  MOM WAS ASLEEP when we got home. I’d harbored a distant fantasy that with Casey’s freakish transformation, Mom might have morphed back to normal on the return taxi ride. That got squashed the moment I saw her huddled on her bed, the TV still on.

  Here was the truth: Dad was gone, no matter what Mom had rambled incoherently at me before today’s catastrophe (Correction: yesterday’s.) Mom was never going to be herself again. I might as well accept it. But the truth not only sucked, it also confused me all over again. Why the hell had Dad disappeared five years ago? He had a family. He had a job. He was a sports reporter for the Chronicle. He had even published a book on the history of Texas barbeque which you could still find in some stores: Texas Q: 60 Different Sauces, But Only One Truth.

  People like that—people with homes and vacation plans for Disney World—do not walk out of the house one morning and never come back. They do not leave a note on the kitchen table that cryptically says, “Y’all take care. I love you,” underneath which they place a certificate for a fajita dinner for four at Manny’s Real Tex Mex in the city. (Coincidentally, Dad had been working on a new book about Mexican food when he flew the coop.) By the time we realized that his departure was permanent, the gift certificate to Manny’s had expired.

  But that was the whole point. I could drive myself crazy over the past. Sixty different possibilities, but only one truth. He was gone. And in the here-and-now, we had no car and virtually no Mom.

  Casey and I sat at the kitchen table and ate our turkey sandwiches and chips. (I let him have both packs.) We drank our waters. Neither of us spoke. My brother kept eyeballing me like I was going to explode or something.

  “I never saw that pickup truck,” he said finally. “I just wanted to get you to the hospital, Jenna. I swear.” He chugged the rest of his water. I watched him swallow. He looked upset, worried—and something else I couldn’t name.

  “I know,” I said.

  My brother wadded up the sandwich sack and tossed it in the general direction of the kitchen counter. Obviously his guilt about almost squashing me while I was already dying of not-meningitis had not made him any less of a pig. Which in a way, was a relief. Everything felt so weird right now, too weird. But he was the same old Casey, even if he’d been fixed up at the hospital so well that Amber, highly annoying EMT, deserved a medal. Maybe that’s all it was with Casey and her. He was just grateful. I’d been so sick, I’d just forgotten that he wasn’t all that out of shape before the accident. I was sick, so I wanted him to be sick, too. I was “projecting,” something Mr. Collins had accused me of doing when he assigned my detention. This was fancy talk for saying that the only reason I’d called him an asshat was because my family was screwed up.

  I had informed him that I did not need to be psychoanalyzed. He had been impressed by my vocabulary.

  “You want me to sleep in your room?” Casey asked, helping me upstairs.

  I frowned at him. ?
??Um, no.”

  He laughed. I noticed that his chipped lower front tooth was no longer chipped.

  “Did you file your tooth?” I reached out to touch it and he backed away.

  Okay then. Casey retreated to his own room.

  I was already half asleep as my head sank into my pillow.

  IT WAS STILL dark outside when something woke me. I realized that I had to pee, so I started toward the bathroom when I noticed light shining from under Casey’s door. (Let me add here that sharing a bathroom with Casey has not been the highlight of my existence. This includes but is not limited to my distaste for the permanent yellow stain at the base of our mutual toilet because my brother is incapable of aiming into the bowl.) That’s when I heard noise coming from Casey’s room. Voices. Was he really up at four in the morning listening to Katy Perry again?

  I stood in the hallway, listening.

  No. Not Katy Perry, just the same floaty, droning drum-filled instrumental stuff that I’d heard after the accident, coming from the ambulance. And the voices: one was Casey’s of course. The other sounded like … Amber.

  Okay. Now it made sense. He’d figured out what music she liked, found pictures of her online and was putting on a little show for himself. Amber might be a drug dealer, but I had to admit she was good looking, maybe even the cheer type, like stupid Lanie Phelps. I bet Casey found some of her old high school photos. That had to be it. Yes, it was gross and disturbing. But it was logical.

  I pressed my ear to the door. The white glow seeped out onto my bare feet. My toenails sparkled.