The Burn Journals (17 page)

Craig's on the phone. He says, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What's up?”

“Nothing. What's up with you?”

“Nothing. Just this graduation thing.”

“Yeah. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Watching TV.”

“Oh. Okay. I'll let you go, then.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

We both hang up.

Dr. Doug Foust is here to see me, just like he said he would be. That's one thing about psychologists—they're consistent. I sit in my bed and he pulls a chair up close.

He says, “So, how's it going here?”

“Okay.”

“Good. What have you been up to?” He's got this way about him that makes it seem like he doesn't really care what I say, but I feel like he's listening hard.

“Nothing, just school, OT, and PT.”

“How's that?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Any complaints?”

“No.”

He looks over at my guitar sitting up against the wall. “Do you play?”

“I tried to learn, but it's out of tune, like seriously out of tune.”

“Want me to tune it?”

“Sure, can you?”

“No problem.” He picks it up, turns the things at the top, and plucks a few strings. It sounds much better in his hands than it does in mine.

I say, “Do you know any Beatles tunes?” Dad bought me a Beatles tape last weekend.

“Yeah. I know the early stuff, but the later stuff is much harder. They got into a lot of difficult tunings and strange chords.”

“And strange drugs.”

He laughs. “Yeah. So, had any thoughts of suicide
lately?”

“Um . . . no.”

“No feelings of taking your own life?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?” Did he just ask me why not?

“What?”

“Why not? Why haven't you thought about killing yourself?”

“I don't know. I just haven't.”

“You could have, you've had plenty of opportunities.” I don't understand, does he want me to try and kill myself?

“Like what?”

“Lots of drugs in the hospital. Lots of windows.”

“Oh. I guess I just never thought about it.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Now he's starting to piss me off.

“Well, it's true.”

“Okay. Great.” He hands me back my guitar. “So, I'll see you Thursday?”

“Okay. Bye.” Maybe it's weird that I never think about suicide anymore, but I don't know. You only get to live for such a short time anyway. It doesn't make sense to kill yourself.

Mom and Dad are here for the weekend. They got me some presents. A Beatles tape and one of those Hypercolor shirts that changes color when your body temperature changes. It's purple when you're cool and pink when you're hot. I put it on over my Jobst garments, they sign me out, and we walk out into the parking lot.

It's so hot out here, my shirt has already turned completely pink. I can't believe how hot it is. It must be like a hundred and twenty degrees. I wish I could sweat, but I don't have very many pores because of the burns and the graft sites. I can feel the sweat making a traffic jam in my body, trying to find a place to get out, but it can only get out of my forehead and armpits.

We get in the car and turn on the air-conditioning full blast. My shirt starts to turn back to purple.

We pop in the tape and listen to the good Beatles songs.

There are places I remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone, and some remain.

Dad says, “Isn't it beautiful here, Brent?”

“What?”

“Beautiful here.”

“Yeah. It's hot, though.”

“Sure is.”

We drive into the main part of town, looking for something to do. It's so hot outside. I can feel it coming through the window even though it's closed. My itching is getting bad.

Dad stops the car in front of a shoe store. He says, “Want to go check out some shoes?”

“Not really.”

Mom says, “Jodi said you needed some new shoes to work out in.”

“Oh. Can you get them?”

Mom gets out of the car and goes into the shoe store. I wish they could air-condition this whole town. They could put it in a bubble and pump some cool air in, and then we could have a good time.

Mom comes back with a pair of sneakers that look okay. The heat comes in again when she opens the door and my shirt turns pink again. All this heat, all this humidity, is making me have a sick feeling, like kind of dizzy. It makes me want to go back to the hospital and take a bath in ice water.

Dad says, “So, what else do you want to do?”

“I don't know. What else is there?”

“A movie?”

“Okay.
New Jack City
?”

“No. We're not going to see that.”

“Why?”

“We're just not.”

“That sucks.”

Mom says, “How about
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
? Craig saw it and he said it was really good.”

“No thanks.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

“I don't know. Go back to the hospital?”

“Okay. We can do that.”

At least back inside the hospital it's cool, that's one good thing.

They're moving me. I've only been here for a week and they're moving me in with a roommate down the hall. This fucking sucks. I was in Children's for like four months and had my own room, and now I have to fucking share a room with another person. They're putting me in with Latroy, that big black guy with the ring halo on his head.

We're both lying in our beds after dinner watching our TVs. I'm watching
Quantum Leap,
and he's watching I don't know what.

Mary, the chubby nurse, comes into the room. She's Latroy's primary nurse. “Hey, guys.”

I say, “Hey, Mary.”

Latroy doesn't say anything.

She says, “Hey, Latroy, time to take your shower, buddy.”

He doesn't say anything.

“Hey, buddy, time to take your shower.”

He's still not saying anything.

“Hello in there.”

“I don't want to.” Oh, this could be interesting.

“Well, you don't have a choice.”

“Well, I don't want to.”

“Sorry, buddy, you're taking a shower.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not.” This is getting a little scary.

“Latroy, get your ass up and into that shower.”

“Forget it.”

“What did you say?” Maybe I should leave.

“Forget it.”

“Get up.”

“No.”

“Get up!”

“No!”

“Get your ass up!” Mary's only about an inch away from his face now.

“Fuck you.”

“Move your ass or I'll move it for you.”

“Fuck you.” Jesus.

Mary grabs the steel rods that connect his halo to his shoulders, pulls hard, and drags him by his head out the door and into the bathroom. I guess he's in the shower now. He didn't even try to fight back, even though he's about a foot taller than she is. God, I thought she was going to pull the screws right out of his forehead.

At night, they make me wear these splints to stretch the bands in my shoulders. They're called airplane splints because they make my arms stick out like the wings of an airplane. And also a mouthpiece that fits between my lips and stretches them lengthwise because the scars on my face pull my mouth down a little and they're trying to stretch it back to normal. They also made me a clear plastic mask molded especially for my face that's designed to flatten out the scars on my cheeks. I don't wear that at night, though, only in the day. I feel like a cyborg. “He's more machine than man now.” That's how I feel. No joke. Just like a frigging cyborg that doesn't have a mind of his own.

Every night, in the middle of the night, that freaky nurse, Laurie, comes in and gives me pills with her creepy extra long fake nails. I get a shiver up my whole body when I see those things. I try to take my pills without opening my eyes.

I'm in a car. I'm driving a station wagon and I'm going up to the top of a waterfall because I've got to get rid of these bodies. I killed them. I killed these people and now I've got to get rid of these bodies that are in the way back. I don't remember it. I don't remember why I did it, but I know I did it. I killed them. I killed them. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I wish I could take it back. I wish I hadn't killed them, but I did, and I wish I didn't, but I did. They're so dead, so pale, and I have to throw them over the waterfall and they'll fall over and no one will ever see them again.

“Wake up. Wake up, Brent.”

What? What? What do you mean?

“Wake up, Brent, it's just a bad dream.” No, it's not. It's not a bad dream. I can feel it. It's all over me. I can feel it.

“Brent, it's okay, you're just having a bad dream.” I open my eyes, it's Celeste, and she's rubbing my stomach. Maybe I should ask her if she'll help me get rid of the bodies. No, don't ask her. She won't understand. No one will understand.

“It's okay, honey, you were just dreaming.” But I wasn't, I wasn't dreaming. It was real. I killed people and I was getting rid of the bodies on top of a waterfall, and I feel, I really feel like I killed someone. I feel so awful.

“You were just dreaming.” I don't know. I guess I was dreaming. Something about some bodies and a cliff. Throwing a body over a cliff or something.

“It's okay, honey. You were just dreaming.”

“Was I dreaming?”

“Yes, you were just dreaming. It's okay. It's okay.” Is she right? Maybe she is right, but I still have this guilty feeling all over me, like oil on one of those birds in Alaska. I feel so terrible, so sorry.

Jodi is taking me down to the bowling alley in the basement. This'll be fun. It's just like the White House in here, with the gym and the bowling alley. The only thing we need is the movie theater and a bunch of jellybeans.

I still feel bad after that dream. Even after I woke up this morning. Even after I took a shower and got my rubdown. I feel like I want to run as fast as I can, like I want to run right out of my skin.

It's just a little bowling alley, three lanes with a ball return and a bunch of balls. Not like in the real world.

“So, Brent, let's start you out with a ten-pound ball.”

“Okay.” Ten pounds is a lot heavier than it sounds, I can hardly lift it with two hands, let alone one. “So, what should I do?”

“Just roll it toward the pins.”

“With both hands?”

“If you want.” I stand at the line and look down the lane to the pins. God, they're far away.

“Is this regulation?”

“Yup.”

“I'm not sure I can get it that far.”

“Try.”

“Okay.” I put the ball down on the lane and push it forward with both hands. It's hard to bend down that far because the skin around my shoulders is so tight. The ball just rolls right into the gutter and slowly down the lane. It's going to take about five minutes to get all the way to the pins. “That sucked.”

“Good first try. Go again.”

I go back to the rack and pick up another ball. This time an eight-pounder. At least now I can hold it with one hand, barely, but my fingers are too big to put in the holes. This time when I roll it, the ball goes a little farther but goes in the gutter about halfway down the lane.

“Better. Go again.”

“What should I do different?”

“Give it a little more oomph.”

“Okay.” I find another eight-pounder, this one with bigger holes, and head back to the line. I'm sure I can get at least one pin this time. At least one. I bend over and roll the ball with my right hand. My right elbow doesn't straighten all the way, so the ball drops down on the floor and bounces a couple of times on its way down the lane. It's going down the middle, though. Right down the middle. Now it's moving left. Come on, baby, come on. Get one. Get one. “Yes! I got one!”

“Good one.” Jodi gives me a high five on my way back to the ball return. “Way to go, kid.” I make a fist and pump it one time in the air, just like Jordan when he won the NBA finals. I'm the man.

Dad is coming up on Friday. Mom and Craig will be here on Saturday. It was his birthday the other day, the twenty-sixth of June. He turned eighteen. I wonder if they had a big party with all of our family friends. I wonder if anyone asked about me.

I wonder if we'll ever be friends, my brother and I. Ever since we were little kids, we always fought, but now I kind of wish I could talk to him. Or even, I don't know, just hang out and be friends. I know that sounds stupid, but I think about that sometimes.

I wonder what would've happened if I'd told him what I was going to do. Would he have stopped me? Or just said, That sucks, and kept shooting baskets? No, I think he would've tried to stop me, but to be honest, it was too late. I would've found some way to do it.

Dad's here. I'm happy to see him. He takes me across the street to the Ronald McDonald House, where he's staying. It's pretty nice. It kind of feels like a bed-and-breakfast because it's real quiet and there's a lot of old furniture, but there's also fun stuff like in a real hotel, like a TV and a VCR and a Ping-Pong table.

Dad says, “Want to play Ping-Pong?”

“Okay.”

I used to be good at this. I wonder how I'll do now. My friend Jake and I used to play in his basement a lot. We'd crank up
Appetite for Destruction
or the new Poison album and hit the ball around. He was a lot better than I was, though.

Dad gets the ball and hits me a nice soft lob. He's taking it easy on me. I can't quite get my arm high enough to smash it, so I hit him back another high lob.

He says, “Good, Brenner.” I give him a look. What does he think, I'm a fucking baby?

He hits another soft lob, right at me, and this time I smash it. Fuck. Right into the net.

I serve and he volleys to my forehand. Big mistake. I swing and hit it hard right at him. It hits the table and then bounces off his beer belly. I'm loosening up a little.

He says, “Whoa, Brenner. Take it easy, budder.”

“My point. Serve.”