Bright Lights, Dark Nights (32 page)

“It wasn't black kids,” I said. “It had nothing to do with you. They beat
me
up. This is
my
life, one you don't know anything about. Some detective.” For an officer of the law, he didn't put any faces to it, he didn't apply any reasoning, and he didn't acknowledge that these things happened all the time here. He took it all as an affront to him alone—that I was the method of delivery for this personal message.
Hey, racist cop, leave our kind alone.

“I'm not a detective; I'm a cop, smart-ass,” Dad said. “I uphold the law, and there's gonna be some laws in this house. For one, you are done with that girl. She's bad news. How many times did I tell you? This isn't about high school crushes—”

“I get it, I know. We've gone over this already,” I interrupted. We were spinning our wheels and going nowhere. “It's not about me; it's about you—I get it. I could do this whole lecture myself now: ‘I have friends of every color. I'm the best cop, Walter, best there is. Everyone'll figure it out eventually.' News flash, you're not some ace detective; you're not even a good cop. They don't use you for anything. You're a slob and paranoid, and that stuff is in me now. That's your voice. I've heard it so much I have that paranoid voice running through my head. I'm scared of everyone and everything all the time. Why do I even listen to you? You lost your job, you lost Mom. I have to make an effort to think like a normal person. I'm embarrassed for you. I'm embarrassed for us both. I honestly don't believe a word you say anymore.”

“That's some performance, kid,” Dad said, clapping loudly and sarcastically. He was starting to sweat. “That how it's gonna be? You get a piece of tail and suddenly you're a big man?”

“Screw you,” I said.

“Go to bed,” Dad said, and pointed to my room.

“Go to hell,” I said, and went to my room anyway and slammed the door.

“I'll put a lock on that door if I have to,” I heard Dad yell from the other room. Then I heard his door slam, too.

My face was swollen and cut up. I didn't like to look at it. It hadn't really hurt until right then when nothing else was going on, and then it hurt like hell. I felt like the ending scene of a Rocky movie. I looked at my phone. No message from Naomi since our fight. She didn't check in with me. She was probably still mad. I checked Facebook in my room, and she did post something there.
If you can't fight me when I'm dating you, don't fight me when I break up with you.
Why would she post that there after all the trouble we've had on that site? I took a picture of my face with my cell phone and posted it to the East Bridge page Jason ran. Then I went to bed, lying on my back.

*   *   *

Sometime in the morning, I heard a loud thud. “Dad?” I got up and ran into the living room. Nothing there. “Dad?” I called again.

I looked in the kitchen, which was empty, but I saw Dad's arm in the doorway to his room. I wasn't ready for this. You didn't die from eating hamburgers or having an argument. A hundred horrible thoughts filled my head at once. Would he kill himself? Was he suicidal—was this way worse than I even knew? Was he on drugs? Was he right all along—did someone come after him? I hadn't heard any fight, though, or gunshot. I found him on his back on the floor of his room. His shirt was drenched with sweat, to the point where it puddled on the ground around him. His eyes were closed like he was asleep. He looked white as a ghost.

I didn't rush to ask if he was okay or try to do anything except grab the landline phone and dial 9-1-1 for an ambulance. That was something we'd gone over in school, and I'd paid attention to it, never knowing I'd need it, let alone so soon. But when your dad acts like mine does, it's something to know.

They let me ride in the ambulance since I didn't have a car or anything. It was supposed to be me being taken to the hospital, probably sitting in the passenger seat of Dad's cruiser, head against the window, quiet tension in the air. But my anger was swept away by a very real fear. My last conversation with my dad could have ended with “Go to hell.”

In the hospital, everyone ran off to help Dad, who was stretchered in, and I was left alone to sit and wait. There was a lot of waiting. I'd always been somewhat prepared for this. Whether it was his diabetes and his fear of doctors, or his job, which could put him here on any given day. It felt different sitting in that waiting area, though, to see if this was the time. And I didn't have any answers as to what happened next.

My godfather was my uncle Joe, and I'd already decided I had no interest in living there. Maybe I was old enough to be on my own, but I had no money. College was right around the corner, in theory. I wished I had more of a plan. I'd make it on my own, I guessed. I was old enough now. I could get by. I was going to have to at some point. Dad was up to his neck in his own problems. Mom had her own life now. And Naomi …

I took my phone back out and dug around to see what I'd missed. Even a string of angry texts from Naomi would be something to make me feel less alone. She had texted, but I couldn't read the tone. She asked where I was, asked if I wanted to talk. That was it, really. She didn't send any follow-ups, no worried texts, no angry ones. No one else had tried to contact me.

I debated who should know about Dad. I called Mom, but I only got her voice mail. This didn't seem right for voice mail. I tried calling Mellie and got the same. I could send a text message to her, at least.
Dad's in the hospital … Stop by?
She had probably expected it like I did, but she didn't live with Dad. She hadn't even seen him in years now. But she deserved to know.

I checked Facebook. The East Bridge page had been taken down, or was removed. I didn't know if anyone commented on my picture, or even saw it.

There wasn't a ton of activity online without it. Maybe everyone had moved on. There wasn't much going on in the hospital, either. There was a receptionist fielding a few calls. Every now and again a doctor or a nurse walked by. They must have really hid the high drama, the buses full of injured bloody people, sobbing and screaming. That must all take place in the back somewhere. The X Games were on a TV, image after image of bicycles crashing, skateboarders dragged along concrete. I wondered if that was a dark joke by the hospital people and applauded them if it was.

I continued my game of Worst-Case Scenario. Worst-case scenario, my dad died that day. I'd go live with Mom and Seth and try to stay out of the house as much as I could. I'd still go to the same school, and I'd spend a lot of time there. I'd spend a lot of time with Naomi. Worst-case scenario, Naomi wouldn't talk to me anymore. She had to be mad at me. I wouldn't even listen to her when she tried talking to me. Worst-case scenario, she started dating someone else. Someone confident and cool, someone in control of his life, someone strong. Worst-case scenario, she was done with me forever. And Jason was done with me forever. Worst-case scenario, I went back to school, and everyone laughed at my red swollen face and held a parade for Lester and his friends.

This was a bad game.

A nurse in a white lab coat walked by, a short Indian woman with large, expressive eyes, and just as she was about to pass me, she turned to look at me, and from the look on her face, she saw mine. I must have looked like a beaten-down homeless ragamuffin who snuck in for shelter, nestled into some corner with my head down avoiding human interaction. At the very least, it was an easy assumption that I came here for me and not my dad.

“Oh my goodness,” she said.

“You should see my dad,” I said, only just after realizing the implication of domestic violence.

“Is someone helping you?” she asked. “Come here.” I got off the couch, and we walked down the hall to a small office. The nurse told me to hold an ice pack to my cheek for a few minutes.

“I figured it'd heal on its own,” I said. “Never got a black eye before.”

“Well, that's some black eye. It covers half your face,” she said, opening a cabinet and reaching for something. “It'll heal, but a little help and guidance won't hurt it, either. So, was it a fight or a trip down the stairs?”

“Fight, I guess,” I said. She wet a towel with warm water and gently rubbed it over the wounded area. It felt nice.

“I wish I could convince you the drama passes,” she said. “There's nothing worth breaking bones over. You take any Advil?” I shook my head. “You want an eye patch?” she asked. She dropped three Advils into my hand and filled a small paper cup with water. “Pirate look might scare off the other kids.”

“No, thanks,” I said. “But thanks for the Advil, and checking it out.”

I walked back to the visitor area and sat on the couch. Mellie had texted that she was on her way. Mel's college was about an hour away from the hospital. At least I wouldn't be alone for too much longer.

“Walter?” I heard. It was a doctor, making his way over. He looked young, like a TV doctor. Made me think of Dad getting annoyed with all the young guys who'd been hired on the police force. He'd probably hate this kid taking care of him. The doctor didn't have the biggest smile, so I imagined his news would be less than great. “I just wanted to fill you in, if you've got a minute.”

I nodded. He stayed standing, I remained sitting.

“So your dad is in a diabetic coma,” the doctor said. “With diabetes, when the blood sugar gets to a low-enough point, the body and mind can lose consciousness. It could be set off by dehydration, exhaustion, shock. Stress.” He counted those off on his fingers. My dad was a prime candidate, in other words.

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked. It had to be on the top three questions doctors received. His face wasn't promising.

“I can't say,” the doctor said. “I can tell you that, personally, I think it looks good. We have him on IVs, he's getting the nutrients he needs, and you got him here early. But unfortunately I can't tell you for sure how long he'll be out, or in what kind of shape he'll be in when he wakes. The sooner he wakes, the better.”

He must have seen the tear roll out of my eye because he quickly added, “But again, personally, I think it looks good.”

After a couple episodes of the TV show
Jackass
in the lobby, the glass entrance doors slid open and Mellie walked in with a nervous strut. She eyed me and made a beeline over, and dove into me with a hug.

“Ow!” I said. Her shoulder rammed into my bruises like a bulldozer.

“Oh Jesus!” she said, seeing the browns and blues on my face. “I just glomped your face! I'm so sorry! What on earth happened to you?”

“I got hit,” I said. I guess I had to figure out an explanation for that, because I'd be getting it a lot at school. Or at least a funny line.
Walked into an oncoming truck. She came in like a wrecking ball.
I told Mellie about the blackout and the argument with Naomi, and the walk home. I told her about the past few days. I told her about Dad and how he'd passed out on the floor and all the sweat. We had time now, so I told her everything.

“I'm sure he'll be fine,” she said. “Everyone has diabetes now. This is probably routine for them here. They probably get, like, four of these a day.” Mel and I were slouched on opposite ends of the couch, taking up the whole thing. Mel's legs on top and mine sliding to the floor.

“Ha-ha,” I said. “It's not, like, a head cold.”

“I know,” Mel said. “Just trying to lighten the mood. Stay positive. They'll fix him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for coming anyway. I wasn't sure if I should bother you.”

“He is still my dad,” Mel said, looking at me from her end of the couch. “I'm still your sister and you're still my brother, even if we're in different states. We're still a family, no matter what happens. So none of us are ever alone.”