“I took a shower yesterday.”
“Well, you stink and you need another one.”
I can't tell if she's kidding or not. I think she's not kidding. She's already unwrapping my bandages and taking off my clothes.
“So how'd you sleep?”
“Not very well.”
“Why not?”
“People kept coming in.”
“Oh, poor baby, you're in the hospital. That's what people in the hospital do.” She's not a very sympathetic person.
The shower does feel pretty good. It's waking me up and I start singing a little tune I heard on the radio yesterday.
“‘Imagine there's no heaven. It's easy if you try. No hell below us, above us only sky.'”
“Don't say that.”
“What?”
“Don't say, ‘Imagine there's no heaven.' That's sacrilege.”
“No, it's not, it's just a song.”
“No, it's not. It's sacrilege. Keep it to yourself. How'd you like it if there was no heaven?”
“Fine with me.”
“Oh, fine with you, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“How'd you like it if you'd died and found out there was no heaven?”
I don't know what to say to that. I never thought about it.
She says, “Oh, never mind. Get out of there.”
I get into some shorts and a shirt, but I leave off my Jobst garments and bandages because I'm going to get a massage. Maybe it'll be a bunch of hot chicks rubbing me down.
Rose puts me in a wheelchair and takes me out to the elevator and down to the basement. She brings me into a little room with a massage table and leaves me there.
“Don't get into any trouble.”
“Okay, bye, Rose.” She's a strange person.
There's nothing in here to look at, just blank walls, some drawers, and a few chairs. I guess I'll just sit here and wait. The door opens behind me. “Hey, are you Brent? I'm Gina. I'm going to be your massage therapist.” She's young, like twenty, and she's cute and short with a little blond crew cut.
“Hi.”
“So, we've got to get you out of those clothes and onto this table. How do you want to do that?”
“Um. I can get undressed. But then can you help me onto the table?”
“Sure.” After I'm up on the table, she gives me a little towel to cover up with and she gets out a tongue depressor and uses it to dab the Eucerin cream, like cold cream cheese, all over my disgusting purple legs.
“Hey, Gina?”
“Yeah, Brent.”
“Do you have to wear those rubber gloves the whole time?”
“Um, I guess not. Why?”
“I just hate the feeling of them on my skin. Is there any way you can do it with just your hands? That's how they did it at my old hospital.”
“Well, I don't see any open spots on your legs, so I guess it'll be okay.” I like her already. She takes off the gloves and starts rubbing the cream into my feet and ankles. “Tell me if I push too hard. I'm just trying to get the cream into your scars to soften them up a little.”
It doesn't hurt, this rubdown thing, but it doesn't exactly feel very good either. I was hoping it would be a little more, I don't know, sexy.
“Brent.”
“Gina.”
“You like music?”
“Sure.”
“Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”
“No. Go ahead.” She's got a little boom box that she switches on and it's Extreme right in the middle of “More Than Words.”
“Hey, this is nice, I just lie here and listen to music while you give me a massage?”
“Yup. You're living the good life now, buddy.”
“I like your haircut.”
“Thanks, I just got it cut for a part in this play I'm doing.”
“Cool. What play?”
“Peter Pan.”
“Wow. Are you Peter?”
“Yup.”
“That's awesome.”
“Yeah, I get to fly around the stage and everything.”
“That sounds so cool. I'd love to try that.”
She's worked her way up to my thighs now, and when she works this one heavy scar on my left leg, her fingers move up and down the inside of my thigh. I hope I don't get an erection. Well, I'm definitely getting an erection, but I hope she doesn't see it. I wonder if she's thinking about that, about my dick, I mean. I wonder if she's thinking about how she'd like to reach up and play with my balls under the towel. Oh God, that would feel good.
Oh shit. I just glanced down and the towel is standing straight up between my legs. I hope she doesn't notice. How embarrassing. What did my friends used to say? Think about baseball and boners are gone? Okay, Wade Boggs is up to bat, and there are two out in the ninth inning, and the Red Sox are behind by a run. Oh and there's a guy on first base. Ellis Burks. That was cool when we met him at the baseball card convention. Was he Rookie of the Year? I can't remember. Okay, that's better, I think it's starting to go down now.
Gina asks me to roll over and does the back of my legs. When she rubs the really heavy bands on my shoulders and legs, they hurt. She has to rub the cream in to keep the scars from getting too rigid.
There's the one that stretches all the way from the inside of my ankle, up my whole leg, through my crotch, and all the way down the other leg. That makes it hard to spread my legs too far apart. Then there's the one that's over my shoulders, especially my right shoulder, that keeps me from raising my hand much farther than the top of my head. It feels like if Gina plucked the bands with her fingers, she could play a song. Hopefully, if we keep doing this, the bands will loosen up and I'll be able to move around better.
Gina's done and it's time to get dressed again. “So, Gina, do we get to do this every day?”
“Yup.”
“Good.” Looking at her again as she's wrapping up my legs, she really is a cutie.
Gina gets me all dressed and back in the wheelchair. I've got OT next, so we've got to go up to the fourth floor. She rolls me down the hall and into a big open room. There's all sorts of workout equipment, massage tables, a little girl lying on top of a huge red ball, a boy in a wheelchair who's tipped over onto his back, a big tall black guy with a metal ring around his head and posts connected down to his shoulders.
“Brent, this is Jodi. Jodi, this is Brent. Have a good time, Brent. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Gina.”
“Hi, Brent, how ya doin'?” She's got a big toothy smile.
“Fine, how are you?”
“I'm great. Are you ready to do some work?” There's something about her that reminds me of a children's television host.
“Sure.”
“Great! Let's get you into one of the back rooms and see where you're at.”
She rolls me by a bunch of other people in wheelchairs. I wonder if they can tell that I'm not one of them, that I don't belong in this wheelchair, that I'm just lazy.
Jodi takes me into a room and closes the door behind us. It's much, much quieter in here, and one whole wall is just mirrors, like an interrogation room on one of those cop shows. I wonder if there's anybody behind those mirrors watching me. Probably. There's probably a whole team of psychologists and psychiatrists behind those mirrors with big notebooks and cameras trying to figure out what's going on inside my head. I'm not going to say anything while I'm in here.
“Brent, I'm going to check your range of motion and then we're going to go outside and test your strength.”
I don't say anything. I bet they're getting frustrated back there. I bet they're wondering if I know that they're there. Yes, I know you're there. You shouldn't put me in a room with mirrors on the walls and expect me not to know you're back there watching me. I'm not stupid.
Jodi's stretching me, checking my passive motion, and I'm staring right at the mirror. You're all trying to figure out what went wrong inside my head. Fucking idiots. You'll never crack the code that's inside m
y head. You'll never get into my castle. You'll never even get past the gate.
“Brent, what are you thinking about?”
“What?”
“What are you thinking about? You were making some strange faces there for a second.”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Really? Okay, we're all done in here. Let's go out into the main room. So, what are some of your goals while you're here?”
“Um, what do you mean?”
“Well, what can't you do now that you want to be able to do when you leave?”
I can think of one thing, but I'm not sure I should tell her. Should I tell her? Okay, shit. “Well, one thing is, I've got this chance to meet Magic Johnson in a couple of months, and it might turn out that he wants to play some basketball. So, I'd like to be able to play basketball. You know, like jump and stuff.”
“Oh yeah? That's a great goal. We can definitely work toward that. I'd also like to work on getting some better range of motion in your arms, especially your right side.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. And we'll also work on strengthening. How's that sound?”
“Good.”
“Great.”
God, I can't wait to get back to my room and watch TV.
Lunch is okay. Turkey sandwich and a carton of milk. I'm watching The Price Is Right. Isn't it funny how nobody can spin the wheel just hard enough to get exactly a dollar? It must be hard to judge how hard to pull on that thing. Jesus, somebody else is knocking at my door. Who is this guy? He must be a psychologist. He's got a beard and corduroys and one of those sports jackets with the patches on his elbows, the only thing he's missing is a pipe. He looks like Donald Sutherland. As if Donald Sutherland were playing Freud in a TV movie of the week.
“Brent, hi, I'm Doug Foust. How's it going?”
“Fine.” Was he watching me through the mirror?
“Good. I just came by to introduce myself. I'm a psychologist.”
“No kidding.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.”
He laughs. “Well, yes, I'm a psychologist and I'll be working with you here.”
“Okay.” What am I supposed to call him? Doug? Dr. Foust?
He pulls up a chair to the edge of my bed and sits backward in it, like the Fonz would. “So, how's it going so far?”
“I'm tired.”
“Oh yeah? They working you hard?”
“Yeah.”
“That's what they get paid for.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don't want to talk about anything serious today.”
“Okay.”
“But we've got regular appointments on Tuesdays and Thursdays to talk.”
“Great.” Can he hear the sarcasm?
“I just wanted to find out which would be more comfortable for you, to meet here in your room or downstairs in my office.”
“I don't know. My room, I guess.”
“Okay. So I'll meet you here, Tuesdays and Thursdays at two.”
“Okay.”
“Great. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.” I'm not sure why, but I kind of like this guy.
After Dr. Foust leaves, Rose takes me upstairs to the school. It's on the fourth floor, but it's not really a school at all. It's just a little room with a bunch of computers and some kids in wheelchairs. One girl has her face pressed right up against the screen even though the letters are as big as her head. She must be blind or something.
The teacher comes over to introduce himself. “Hi, Brent, I'm Tom Sicoli. I'm the teacher at duPont. Welcome to our humble classroom.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a seat here at this table next to Elaine. Elaine, this is Brent. Brent, this is Elaine.”
“Hi.”
“Hello.” Wow, she's beautiful. She's about my age, maybe a little older, with dark hair and big beautiful eyes. The most amazing thing is that she doesn't seem to have anything wrong with her. She's not in a wheelchair. She doesn't have any artificial limbs that I can see. The only thing I can see is a small scar right in the middle of her forehead about as big as a quarter. I sit down next to her.
I say, “So what are you in for?”
“What?” She looks at me as if I'm speaking Latin.
“What are you in for?”
“What?”
“Why are you here?”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Where am I?” What's wrong with this girl?
“At duPont.”
“Where is that?”
“Here.”
“Where?” God, I feel like I'm in an Abbott and Costello routine.
“Why are you here at the hospital?”
“I'm in a hospital?”
“Yes, you didn't know that?”
“No. Oh, wait, yes, I did.”
“So, why are you here?”
“To get better?”
“Okay. What are you getting better from?” This girl is really frustrating.
“I was in a car accident and I hit my head.” Boy, did you ever.
“How are you two getting along?” It's Tom.
I say, “Fine.”
She says, “What?”
“So, Brent,” says Tom, “we're going to go through a couple of tests to see where to place you in relation to your grade.”
“Okay.”
“You were in eighth grade, correct?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I'll get the proper tests and be back in a moment.” Elaine looks at me again and smiles.
Tom comes back with a bunch of forms and sits down next to me. He explains that he's going to say some words and I have to write them down. I guess it's a kind of spelling test. I'm okay at spelling, but it's not my best subject. Spelling and handwriting, those have always been my weak areas. Everything else I've always been pretty good at, at least until last year.
My parents worked something out with the school system so that I only have to finish two subjects to be able to pass eighth grade. Science and English. That's it. Even though those were the classes I was having so much trouble with before, I don't think it should be that hard.
When we finish with the tests, Tom gives me a copy of Tom Sawyer and says my homework is to read the first ten pages by tomorrow.
“Ten pages?”
“Yes.”
“I can't read ten pages in one night.”
“Try.”
“Okay.” I'm not going to tell him I already read it when I was in fourth grade. Ha ha, joke's on him.
When I get back to my room, there's a pile of mail on my bed. That's cool—it's only my second day and already I'm getting mail. There's a letter from my mom, which means she must have sent it before we even left to come up here. That's just like her. Something from the McCannells, our family friends. And a big manila envelope from Carolyn, a girl from Kilmer. I wonder how she got this address? My mom must have given it to her.
I open the envelope and pull out the Joyce Kilmer Intermediate School yearbook for 1991. Cool. Pictures of all my friends. Here's a bunch of girls all dressed in fluffy, flower-print dresses and smiling really big with makeup on, the caption says, Julie, Jenny G., Jenny S., Jenny S., Allison, and Angie in a limo after the dance. The eighth-grade dance. I totally missed it.
Here's another picture, another bunch of friends at a fancy restaurant all dressed up in suits and ties under a huge oil painting of naked people and lions. The caption says, Evan, Ryan, Kate, and Kevin at Clyde's after the dance. Everyone looks so much older than I remember. They look like high school kids.
I bet they all went out and got laid after the dance. They probably got drunk and had a big orgy in a fancy hotel room. That's what they probably did. And I missed it. I missed everything.
Here's everyone's school pictures. There's Patrick. Kimberly. Kevin. Brian and Greg. There's Stephen. There's me. Right next to each other, just like we should be. Robie and Runyon, one of the g
reat comedy teams in the history of Kilmer Intermediate. He looks a little funny. Not that I look that great, all dressed up in my black button-down shirt, buttoned right to the top. My hair is just a little too long, and my smile isn't right. It's like I raised my eyebrows a little too soon and made myself look surprised. Idiot.
But look at all that skin, look at all that smooth tan skin all down my neck. How it just folds smoothly over my chin and down my throat, just one color all the way around. No big purple spots or anything.
Turn the page. Awards for Best Looking: Ryan and Moira. Yeah, that's about right. Most Athletic: Patrick and Deanna. Deanna's not athletic. Most Academic: Leah and that kid from GT English. Fucking dork. Best All-Around: Moira and Ryan again. Best Sense of Humor: Megan and Stephen. Most Likely to Be Remembered: Maya, because she's so smart and sassy and doesn't take anything off anyone, and me.
Me. Most Likely to Be Remembered: me. Most Likely to Be Remembered for All the Wrong Reasons: me. God.
I close the book and put it in the bottom drawer.
Today Jodi is showing me the rest of the hospital. They really do have a bowling alley. Also, there's a huge gym with a basketball court. I think it actually could be pretty cool here, you know, if I got to do whatever I wanted and didn't have to work on my strength and stupid range of motion all the time.
I live in the spinal injury section of the hospital, me and all the kids in wheelchairs. Some of them can push the wheelchairs by themselves, others have those motorized wheelchairs, and a few can walk with a cane. There's a black guy, who's at least six feet, who can walk without a cane or anything, but he's the guy that has the big black metal ring around his forehead and the posts that go down to his shoulders. That big metal ring is actually screwed into his skull. I saw the screws going right into his skull. It's so gross.
Rose, the nurse, told me that he was a gangbanger from Philadelphia and that he broke his neck falling out of a car during a drive-by.
The other section of the hospital is the head injury section. That's where people like Elaine who were smashed in the head go to get better. So, between the cripples on the one side and the idiots on the other, I feel like I'm the only normal person in this place.
They say I can't have dinner in my room anymore. I have to go down to the cafeteria with everybody else. It's just like junior high school down here. Everybody that can walk gets a tray and stands in line waiting for the meat loaf. The food smells bad. Especially the corn.