House Arrest (6 page)

WEEK 12

What's the story with your face?
You have to work on your social skills, James.
What's the story with my face?
It's filled with sharks and trolls and snot and fire.
And now my neck and my knees and my elbows hurt.
But at least I don't have a trach, right?
I can't really complain about
the story my face is telling.
It's just a cold.
I'm fine.

You'd think maybe I have the black plague
the way Mrs. B sucked in her breath
when she saw me this morning.
I'm fine.
It's just a cold.
She shook her head.
Her hair swished.
I don't think I've ever seen her hair down before.
You almost look like a movie star, Mrs. B.
Except with more lines around your eyes.
No offense.
She handed me a card.
People's Clinic.
Go get checked out, Timothy.
Your mom can even take you after work.
This place is open nice and late.
I shrugged.
I didn't say:
No nurse tonight.
No one to watch Levi.
No way we can bring him with us.
Maybe I should have.
It doesn't matter, though.
I'm fine.
It's just a cold.

I hate wearing a mask.
It's already hard to breathe
and the mask makes it worse.
I've been trying to stay upstairs.
Keeping my germs in their own galaxy far, far away.
But sometimes Mom or Marisol still need my help.
On her way out the door
Marisol called up to me.
I staggered downstairs.
The zombie formerly known as Timothy.
She pressed a box in my hand.
Pills.
For the flu.
They're from last year, but still good.
Take them, Timothy. Get better, sport.
I hate it when she calls me
sport
.
But I took the pills.
Even though it's just a cold.

The sharks and trolls are battling inside me.
Marisol's pills might actually be working.
Maybe.
I sat with Levi today.
Wearing my mask.
Sanitizing my hands.
The first day in a long time
we could kind of hang out.
I used my short fingers
to sign
brother
over and over
and to fold his shorter fingers
to sign
brother
over and over.
Brother
I patted my chest
then showed him the sign.
Levi fussed and cried.
Brother
I patted his chest
then showed him the sign again.
Levi fussed and cried.
Brothers
I folded my fingers
and folded his fingers.
He pushed away my hands.
He cried.
He needed suctioning.
He felt warm.
He refused his milk.
Oh, little brother.
Was I hiding from you for too long?
Or are you getting sick?

please don't have him be getting sick
please don't have him be getting sick
please don't have him be getting sick
please don't have him be getting sick
please don't have him be getting sick

WEEK 13

Did you make it yourself ?
I couldn't help but take a step back.
The thought of James in a kitchen,
the thought of James giving a grouchy look to carrots
because they weren't cutting themselves into the right shapes.
I bought it.
You should eat it.
Chicken soup is like medicine.
There are studies.
I said,
OK
.
And took it.
And felt relief for those carrots.

Sometimes I shake
like a little earthquake that is only inside of me.
It happens when I talk about That Day.
It happens when I talk about Levi.
It happens when I think about Dad.
It happens when I think about any day
that's not today.
Sometimes it happens when I
do
think about today.
But yesterday, I did not shake.
Mrs. B sat me on that squishy couch
and she put a pillow on my head.
I was like,
What?
but she smiled and said,
Trust me
so I squinted my eyes
because you never trust an adult
when they say
trust me.
But I didn't move.
Next, she put a weird heavy pillow on my arm.
And another one on my other arm.
The last thing she did,
and this was the craziest thing of all,
she put a bowling ball in my lap.
A real bowling ball.
And she stared at me all serious-like
with pillows on my arms
and on my head
and a bowling ball in my lap
and she said,
What do you think?
I couldn't even answer
because for the first time since Levi was born
I could talk about things without shaking.
How do pillows and a bowling ball make you feel calm?
Beats me.
But they did.
It was so nice, I could have stayed that way all day
and all night
just stuck there on that couch
anchored
still
safe
looking like a complete dummy
but not shaking.
And almost even relaxed.
I hope I didn't get any germs on anything.

I got germs on something.
Even with all the washing
and the hand sanitizer
and wearing a mask
like a doctor
whenever I come near Levi,
I still got germs on something.
Marisol just went home.
She had a line between her eyes.
The worried line.
She'll be back in the morning.
We just have to get to the morning.
He'll be fine
, she said.
The worried line did not go away.

Four stoplights, plus
one stop sign, plus
one parking place (superhard to find).
That's all it takes
to get to the hospital.
But it feels like
four thousand years, plus
one eternity, plus
one frozen car door (superhard to open).
That's all it takes
to get to the hospital.
Forever or ten minutes?
Sometimes they're the same, aren't they?

Running. We were running.
Mom was ahead of me
slap slap slap slap
her feet bare, the hallway empty
except for Levi
on the speeding gurney
just like a TV show.
A nurse was riding with him
holding the ambu bag over his trach
squeezing squeezing squeezing,
and a different nurse said, in a rushed voice:
You have to stay out here.
We'll find you when he's stabilized.
Then they were through the doors
at the end of the hall,
the sign shouted INTENSIVE CARE in all caps
but that was the only shouting.
Mom's elbows were on her knees,
her back moving up and down up and down
but she wasn't breathing hard from running.
She was crying.
Crying so hard.
Like I've never seen.
And I just stood there
holding the go-bag like an idiot.
The place was empty
neither one of us could move.
All of our energy
had been sucked away
through the doors at the end of the hall.
So we sat
right there on the floor
and Mom cried into my shoulder
and she made noises I've never heard before
like an animal in a trap, maybe,
and we waited to hear something
anything
but we didn't hear anything for a long time
only those shouting words on the doors
INTENSIVE CARE INTENSIVE CARE
and we were the only two people in the world
sitting in that hallway.
Still. Right there on the floor.
With the walls crashing down around us
even as they glowed under the barely buzzing
bright lights.

Mom is finally asleep.
The nice nurse threatened to clonk her on the head
and knock her out.
Instead, Mom took a pill.
She's asleep in the chair,
her head on the rail of Levi's bed.
She doesn't want me to call anyone.
She never wants to ask for help.
But I could call José's mom.
She could bring clothes.
Mom's shoes.
And maybe snacks.
Don't you think it's OK
to cry uncle sometimes?
To ask for help?
Otherwise you're just crying.
And how does that help anyone?
I'm going to call José's mom.
I'm going to do it.
We need help.
I don't care what Mom says.

I don't know what to do.
I'm lost.
I'm lost.
He's so sick.