Bright Lights, Dark Nights (33 page)

“It doesn't feel that way,” I said. “Sometimes.”

“Well, I'm glad you told me. I'd have been pissed if you hadn't.” Mel held my hand. “He's my dad, too.”

*   *   *

Dinner did nothing to combat the stereotypes of hospital food. Mel had a meat product served with a gelatinous vegetable serving, and, not trusting that combination, I went with the Styrofoam-textured grilled cheese, which I could only take a few bites from.

The TV was still on in the waiting room. Made sense—it was a hospital, it was not like they shut the doors for the night at 10 p.m. or anything. The TV was showing a marathon of the game show
Wipeout
, more scenes full of bodily injuries. Well-played, hospital. We watched some of that, and then Mel fell asleep. My swollen face hurt twice as bad when I was lying there doing nothing. Advil was no help. Trying to sleep in a waiting room was even worse. And, of course, not far away there was my dad, lying in a coma. That was a surreal thought. I decided to walk around the hospital aimlessly.

Nothing seemed to be off-limits, so I kept walking, and thinking.

I thought about Dad. Like, how could you be told you had a disease and willfully do nothing to fight it? Maybe you didn't like doctors, but when you were ill, you went anyway. You went to your doctor, you took your medication, you changed your diet, you exercised. You might hate all those things, but were they really worse than dying? The idea that he just sat there and let his body rot away, and was so passive about it all … And what was I doing?

You're sticking your head in the sand like an ostrich
, Naomi would say. Maybe we'd play the question game again.
Why are you so mad at your dad?

Because, he's being stupid
, I'd say.
He thinks he can shut his eyes and somehow he'll wake up and the diabetes will be gone, and he'll be back to working full-time. Maybe he's back with your mom—I don't know—and everything will be great again. But what if he shuts his eyes and they don't open at all?

Naomi would put her head on my shoulder, her arm around my waist.
Things don't fix themselves when they're broken.

No, they don't
, I'd say.
They just stay broken. He's being so stupid.

Are you being stupid?
Naomi would ask me, stepping away.
Are you going to let us stay broken?

There was a large window at the end of the hallway, next to a staircase. The ground below was orange from the streetlight, the buildings and trees across the street were black, and the sky was a dark blue with a tiny piercing of moon. I followed the exit signs, one in the hall, one down the stairs, and out a set of doors until I was under the moon.

There were no exit signs to follow outside, so I kept walking forward until the hospital was long behind me.

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

The hospital was just blocks from the High Hill section of the city, heavily populated but empty at this time of night. Or morning.

I felt like the ghost of Sam Spade, or any of the detectives Dad and I had watched. Haunting the city, shadows twisting around each building, darkness battling artificial light. I hadn't slept in a long time.

I was somewhere between person and animal. Between the detectives and the crooks they chased. I wanted to find this criminal. If I could just catch this kid doing what Dad said he'd done, it would make everything right again. Everything I believed would be confirmed, and the world would be right and I could trust and feel safe again.

Naomi hovered in the front of my mind, taking up most of the real estate there. Maybe that chapter of my life was already over. Maybe a relationship with someone like Naomi wasn't something I was capable of handling, or was ready for. She wanted someone to fight for her, not get nearly killed over her.

I knew that Naomi had nothing to do with what had happened, but at the same time she was so connected to it all. To me, at midnight out in the streets, looking for dangerous people, love equaled a bruised and split-open face. Love was a concussion with a promise for more.

Down the hill, the storefronts on Main Street were all lit up for Christmas, even when the lights inside the buildings were off. I wondered if I'd be alone at Christmastime.

I heard a noise on the other side of the building I was passing. I heard voices. I stopped moving, tiptoed along the wall, and listened. I heard someone laughing. A dog bark. The last time I followed voices on a dark night things had ended poorly, but that didn't stop me. I followed the wall and peeked around the corner, but there was nothing but streetlights and the hill off in the distance. I followed that wall, along the street front, still hearing the voices, and peered around that corner. But it was just an alley. I could still hear the voices, but I looked up, I looked down the street, I ran down the alley. Nothing. Not even a bedroom light was on.

I wasn't a ghost haunting the city; I was a damaged human being haunted by ghosts. Was Calvin Temple even real?

I knew at some point the thief would strike again, and I wanted to see it with my own eyes. I wanted proof. I wanted to know what all this was for. I knew the Basement pretty well, and that was where the majority of the crime had happened. I stood a chance of seeing it, if it happened while I was out there. If anything happened at all.

I was my dad, out on the street, looking for that kid to be doing that thing. I wanted Calvin Temple to be the criminal and I wanted Dad to be the supercop, the ace detective. I was walking in my dad's shoes and thinking how he would think and hoping he was right, but I was chasing a phantom. There was nothing there. I didn't like the feeling. I didn't like being Dad.

That Halloween party I went to with Naomi, watching Lester talking to her, convinced he was bothering her, that he was up to no good. I was being my dad, the same person I kept saying was wrong. I had him pegged, flagged. He was hitting on my girl. And what did I focus on? The laughing. She was laughing so hard with him.

I turned around to walk back to the hospital. I took out my phone, and I listened to the voice mail Mom had left me.

“I'm just thinking about you, how much you've changed. All in good ways, better than I could have hoped for.”
I had felt different, but the feeling had been short-lived.
“I'm so glad you came over, and I hope we can do it again. And I'm glad you brought your friend over. She's really a sweetie.”
She was …
“I feel like a huge weight is off my shoulders. Do you feel that? I was really sick and really worried for a long time, and I want you to know how much better you made me feel. Anyway, I should get to bed.”
So should I.
“I love you. Talk to you later.”

*   *   *

I opened the Internet on my phone when I got back to the hospital, sitting at an empty table near the windowed wall. The Facebook page was still down. I couldn't find the phantom burglar. All evidence of this whole ordeal went down with the Facebook page, face bruises aside, and everything seemed to be back to normal. Everything was okay, except for my messed-up face and my anger.