One for the Murphys (8 page)

“I don’t care. Can we just get on with this already?” She looks upward. “God, I hate Ruben.”

“We agree on that, anyway.”

She sits on the bed with a bounce and opens her backpack.

“Look,” I say. “Why do we have to be at each others’ throats? We have to work together on this thing, and besides, I haven’t even done anything to you.”

“I have friends. I don’t need any more.”

I fold my arms. “I never said I wanted to be friends. Get over yourself.”

“Can we just start this, please?” she asks.

I stare at her T-shirt. It’s the one with the bright green letters that read
WICKED
.

“So what’s with the shirt? Is this a warning to people about your personality?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Are you some sort of witch or something? I’m through taking your garbage even if you do threaten to turn me into a toad.”

She laughs at me and wiggles her fingers. “I’ll use my special powers to turn you into a superficial bore. POOF! Hey, it worked!”

I hate her. “Look, Witchy Poo,” I say. “I don’t care about the grade. I’ll take a zero and not blink an eye. But remember, if I take the hit—if I
refuse
to work with you—you’ll take the hit too. You
seem like you actually care about your grades. And I don’t care what kind of freak you are.” I lean toward her. “You don’t scare me.”

She takes a deep breath and I’m happy that she knows I have her. She looks down at a page in her notebook. “I’m not a witch, you idiot. Have you been living under a rock?”

“Yeah, basically.”

She laughs in a way that makes me begin to feel foolish. “Haven’t you heard of
Wicked
? It’s a Broadway show. The Gershwin in New York, I might add.”

“I’m sure I care.”

“It’s the best show on Broadway ever. My God!” She looks at me like I have a catfish coming out of my nose. “You’ve never heard of Elphaba?”

“What’s an Elphaba?”

“Elphaba isn’t an
it
. She’s the Wicked Witch from
The Wizard of Oz
, and
Wicked
is the story of how she and Glinda, the Good Witch, were friends when they were younger. How they each became who they are. And Elphaba is just completely amazing.”

“Figures you’d like the wicked one.”

“But she’s
not
wicked. She’s
per
fect.”

“Sounds like a rash. Like, I have a severe case of Elphaba. Oozing, pus-laden, maggot-filled…”

“You… should be struck by lightning.”

“You… should have a flying house land on you.”

“You… obviously don’t understand.”

I laugh. “I mean, call me Captain Obvious here, but do you also think Alice in Wonderland is a real person?”

“Not the same,” she says, her face turning red.

“Actually, Witchy Poo, I think it is the same. Can you say
fiction
?” I lean toward her. “Say it with me, now.
Fic…tion
.”

We stare at each other, and she looks away first. That’s one for me.

“So anyway,” she begins, “who are we going to do for this wretched project? I’m thinking Stephen Sondheim or Stephen Schwartz.”

“Let’s make someone up that doesn’t exist and convince Ruben that he does. How about… Jim Nasium, who brought sports to the masses… of Antarctica?”

I can see she wants to laugh but won’t. “Stephen Sondheim and Stephen Schwartz are two Broadway musical
geniuses
. Stephen Schwartz wrote the music to
Wicked
, for God’s sake. It’s my dream to meet him.”

“I’d like to meet Madeleine L’Engle. I guess I’m just an idiot.”

“You said it, not me,” she says, amused.

“Well, actually, you did say it.”

She shrugs and again we stare. “Look,” I say. “Some Broadway genius is no different than Rainer’s pitch to do George Lucas and we all saw how thrilled Ruben was with that idea.”

“He didn’t say no. He just said that Rainer had to argue it well.” She grunts. “Of course, Rainer couldn’t argue his way into a free movie.”

“Okay. That’s another thing we agree on.”

“Don’t act like you’re my friend,” she says. “You have the imagination of a doorknob. Wear the right clothes, say the right things.” She looks like she smells something really gross. “You’re nothing. Just a little clone.”

She thinks this because of the clothes Mrs. Murphy got me? I stand straight. “And you? You’re obsessed with this Elephant Butt or whatever her name is!”

“Elphaba.”

I’m on my guard just in case she swings. “I think I prefer Elephant Butt.”

“The name Elphaba was created from the name L. Frank Baum, the—”

“Yeah, yeah. The author of
The Wizard of Oz
. You’re not the only one who knows anything.” I fold my arms. “Look. I couldn’t care less about this. Let’s just do Stephen what’s-his-face. You choose. I just want to get it over with so you can take a long walk off a short roof.”

“Fine,” she says. “We’ll do Stephen Schwartz. I already have tons of info on him.”

“I’m sure you do.” I laugh at her. “Elephant Butt.”

We divvy up our responsibilities and agree to work separately. She leaves with the door slamming behind her, while I wonder if she is always like this. I am reminded how the flying monkeys in
The Wizard of Oz
always freaked me out no matter how many times my mother said I was being a baby.

Anyway, no monkeys. No Toni. I can finally relax.

O
n Saturday morning, Daniel screams downstairs. Not a regular scream. Something that you feel in your guts when you hear it. “Mom! Come quick! There’s something wrong with Michael Eric!
Mom
!”

I hear Mrs. Murphy say, “Oh my God,” like someone’s punched her hard in the stomach. I’m in the kitchen in a breath. Michael Eric is lying on the tile, curling his arms and arching his back. His head is pulled to the side. He shakes. Hard.

“Oh my God! Michael! Michael Eric! My honey!” Mrs. Murphy drops to her knees and holds his head. “He’s having a seizure. Why is he having a seizure?”

She looks up at me, but I cannot pull my eyes from him. “Carley,” she says, yanking me from my trance. “Nine-one-one
now
!”

I run to the phone and dial.

“Mommy, what’s wrong with Michael Eric?” Daniel wails.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” Adam sucks his thumb, which I’ve never seen him do.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

I have learned to stay calm in the middle of chaos. “A little boy is having a seizure.”

I answer question after question when I want to scream for them to just come.

I watch Mrs. Murphy cradling Michael Eric, rocking back and forth. Her forehead touches his. He has stopped shaking but he lies limp. Mrs. Murphy strokes his sweaty blond hair. She’s pleading, “No, no, no…”

I tap my foot and count. Somehow I am able to count, listen, and pray all at the same time. After millions of questions, I finally hang up.

“Carley,” Mrs. Murphy says through her crying. “Call Jack. Call him at the station and tell him to meet us at the hospital.”

I dial the number, but another firefighter answers. “I need to speak with Jack Murphy. It’s an emergency.”

The man leaves the phone, and it isn’t long before a panicked Mr. Murphy is on the line. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mr. Murphy. It’s Carley. Michael Eric is sick. Mrs. Murphy says he’s having a seizure. We called an ambulance.”

“Oh my God!” His voice cuts me in half.

Mrs. Murphy’s forehead touches Michael Eric’s again. “Oh my God. Please… no.” She sobs as they rock back and forth.

Daniel kneels, rubbing Michael Eric’s leg. Adam stares, terrified, at his mother. Mrs. Murphy looks up at me. Her voice sounds urgent. “Tell Jack to meet us at St. Francis Hospital.”

I put the phone to my ear and begin to speak. He interrupts. “I heard, Carley. I’m on my way.”

When the EMTs arrive, they take Michael Eric’s blood pressure, temperature, and check his eyes with a light. They listen to his heartbeat. Finally, they put him on a stretcher and wheel him out the door.

I follow the stretcher and Mrs. Murphy. A lot of the neighbors stand on their porches.

She turns around. “Carley, honey, I know you’re upset. And I know you want to come, but the boys probably shouldn’t be at the hospital. Would you mind staying with them? Here?”

I force myself to nod as I look past her while they load Michael Eric into the ambulance. A little bump under a white sheet on a huge stretcher.

She pats the side of my arm. “Thank you. I promise I’ll call as soon as we can.” She kisses each of the boys. “Don’t worry. Be good. Love you.” She pats the top of my arm. She turns to go.

“Wait!” I yell. “I have to get something!”

“Carley, I really have to…”

“Please!” I yell, already running upstairs. “Please! One second!”

I jump back down the stairs and hand Mr. Longneck to Mrs. Murphy. “Please give this to Michael Eric. He should have it.”

Her smile is so sad. “I will.” She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before running to the ambulance. Her kiss has left some of her tears on my face; I reach up and touch them with my fingertips, and I stop shaking a little.

I
watch Adam suck his thumb and wonder if he understands. I think of what Mrs. Murphy would do. I kneel. “Adam?”

He stares into my eyes but doesn’t move.

“Do you know what just happened? Do you know where Michael Eric has gone?”

Without removing his thumb from his mouth, he says, “Heaven.”

“No. No, Adam,” I tell him. “Michael Eric has gone to the hospital, and the doctors are going to take good care of him. You’ll see. He’ll be home before you know it.”

Daniel’s voice stabs. “How do
you
know? You don’t know that he’ll be fine. You don’t know
anything
!”

I want to smack him. Why does he always scream at me? I am ready to let him have it, but then I remember Adam. And the way he sucks his thumb. Michael Eric has to be fine. He
has
to be.

I make macaroni and cheese for dinner, but none of us eat. After a little TV, I get Adam ready for bed. I pull the covers up under his chin and ask, “Do you want me to read you a story?”

He nods, staring at Michael Eric’s empty bed. I look too. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

I go into the bathroom, where Daniel is brushing his teeth. Since I know he hates me, I figure I should be careful how I word this. “You know, I know that you’re worried and upset, but since you’re such a big guy, I am wondering if you can do something.”

He talks with a mouthful of toothpaste. “Don’t call me ‘big guy’ like I’m five. I don’t need a babysitter, least of all you!”

Pegged me there. “It isn’t for me. It’s for Adam.”

After a long pause, he looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. “What?”

“I think he’ll be scared tonight. Maybe you can sleep in Michael Eric’s bed so he has someone with him.”

He spits into the sink. “Okay.”

“Thanks, Daniel.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” he answers, rinsing his toothbrush.

“Yeah, I know,” I mumble. Then I head back to tell Adam that his brother will sleep with him, and it’s the first time that night I see him smile. We read six books, I kiss Adam on the forehead, and I say good night to Daniel.

I go down to clean the kitchen, because I know Mrs. Murphy would do that. I can’t help turning around, though, to look at the phone, willing it to ring.

When I am done cleaning, I head upstairs to the fireman
room and just stand. I read the sign—the sign that greets me every time I walk in here.

BE SOMEONE’S HERO.

I walk over to the bed and I kneel down. Except for asking God to help me pass tests or keep my mother happy, I think this is the first day I’ve ever really prayed. “Dear God, I know that I don’t pray much, and I know that sometimes you probably wonder why you made me at all, but you did your best work with Michael Eric.” I look at the ceiling. “You really did. Please. Please bring him home. Amen.”

I head into the room where the boys sleep and I lie on the rug next to Adam’s bed. As I try to get comfortable on the floor, I realize that I’ve learned something I didn’t know.

I love Michael Eric.

In fact, I think I love them all.

The phone rings before I’m able to fall asleep.

“Carley?” Mrs. Murphy asks.

“Yeah.” I take a breath. “Michael Eric. Is he okay?”

“Yes, Carley. He’s going to be fine. It was a febrile seizure caused by a fever. It has no lasting effects. Just a one-time thing. Thank God.”

My muscles relax. Finally. “Oh my God. That’s a relief.”

She exhales. “That doesn’t begin to cover it. How are the boys?”

“They’re fine. They’re sleeping.” I turn and glance toward the boys’ room. Daniel stands there, looking like he’s going to lose it.

I pull the phone away from my ear. “Daniel, everything is okay. Here.” I hold out the phone, and he comes quickly.

“Mom? Is Michael Eric okay?”

Silence.

“Will you tell him I say hi?”

I hear her laugh.

“When are you coming home?” He looks up at me while he listens to her. “Okay. Here she is.” He hands me the phone.

“Hey, Carley! Can’t talk long, but thank you so much for watching Adam. We should be out of here tomorrow about noon. Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Since tomorrow is Easter, could you please put the Easter baskets out in front of the family room fireplace before the boys wake up? The stuff is on the top shelf of my closet in two shopping bags.”

“No problem.”

“Just do your best to figure out what is for whom. I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“Thanks so much, Carley.”

“Okay…” I almost say Mom.

After Daniel goes back to bed, I find the bags. I pull out Matchboxes and figure I’ll split those between Adam and Michael Eric. Next, I pull out Celtics trading cards for Daniel. I also find a Converse key chain. I’m confused by that one. Would Daniel want that? Next is a set of different flavors of lip gloss. Huh?

I lean my head into the bag. There are four baskets. Four. She has a basket for me? I can’t believe that she would do that.