Dive (12 page)

She looks like she belongs in the woods, like some kind of olive animal. The green of her eyes matches the leaves of the maple trees.

“I can tell you one thing.” She looks directly at me with those eyes as she wraps her arms around a big old maple. Anxiety replaces my breath. What is wrong with me?

Maybe I’m not ready. “Please,” I say. What do I mean?

“I think about you all the time.”

In addition to my face, the rest of me is now surrounded by flames. Why does this girl make me feel like this? I can’t believe words can actually come out of my mouth at this moment, but I manage to tell the stream-so-bright Jane I’ll take her to the pond, one of my favorite spots.

It’s strange to think Shakespeare must’ve meant her when he wrote that line, since he’s been dead for about four hundred years, but that’s what passes through my mind. Something is happening to me. At least I’ll cool off at the pond.

Bigger Than Both My Hands

My father’s flesh is the color of fire trucks, but the flames must be coming from inside his body, because he is out of his mind. As we walk into room 524N, my dad is bolt upright on the bed. His pajama shirt is nowhere in sight, and his back is as stiff as a ladder. It looks like the blankets and sheets, scattered in twisted clumps on the floor, have been thrown from the bed. The air in the room is like electricity and sends a charge surging down my spine, so I feel I’m plugged in through my feet.

Before his head has even turned to us, he’s talking. We might be across the street, his voice is so loud. Like a siren. Can his voice be on fire too?

“So glad you could make it. Everyone yes, and the snow is deep. It’s almost time but I didn’t tell. Yes, yes, the curtain is up, my grandmother is there, the baseballs and everyone. It’s here, but not with the shoes, sit down. And you . . .” And how his voice changes as he points to me and my siblings in the doorway, like his chest is full of mud . . . “you, you . . .”—his big red hand is pointing and he’s yelling, “Go to Schwab’s. Go to
Schwab’s.”

My mother, who has been standing before the sink in the corner of the room, whirls when she hears him. “Daniel, Daniel!” She’s at the bed. “It’s the kids. Daniel, stop!” and reaches for his face with her hands.

The water is still running in the big stainless steel sink. “Help me,” she calls to us. “Hand me washcloths—make them cold.” I hear her kiss my father. Only then can I move. I see my brother’s mouth hanging open and I grab Baby Teeth’s hand and we are at the sink. Did we walk? There is a buzzing in my ears. I can’t tell if it comes from inside me or somewhere else. As if I’m watching myself, I lean over the sink and grab some damp white washcloths lying in a heap, and let the cold water soak them.

Baby Teeth is at my side, her hands hanging on to the back pocket of my jeans. And my brother is there. Without a word, we become an assembly line as I hand each chilled cloth to Baby Teeth, who hands it to Edward, who gives it to my mother, who presses some piece of my father’s bony red chest with it.

“Where are they?” my brother says. “Where are the nurses?”

And my mother doesn’t even turn around as she answers, “A bad drug they gave him. It’s a fever—it’ll break. Hurry.”

“When my grandmother comes, everyone must rise,” my father says. He’s all curled up on the bed. I glance over, but I’m too afraid to even look at his face. My dad’s head is cradled in my mother’s arms. I look back at the rushing water.

Nobody says anything. The air smells like it’s on fire. The cold water soon freezes my hands so bad I can’t feel the washcloths anymore. My fingers are red and numb and I begin to drop the wet cloths before they get to Baby Teeth’s hands. I can’t keep a grip, and fury and frustration surface, like mist blurring my eyes. A puddle starts on the floor and my feet begin slipping. Baby Teeth slips. Edward tosses the blanket into the puddle and at least we don’t fall down. My father starts to sigh. “I’m so tired, just so tired all the time.” It’s his regular voice.

“I know, honey. Don’t worry, I know,” my mother says.

“What’s this?” he asks, and we all turn from our places to look at him, but in his eyes is something I’ve never seen. Those aren’t my father’s eyes. They’re so red, it looks like they’re full of blood. “Who’s here?” he calls, like he’s some kid lost somewhere, and the lonely sound of it fills my throat with a swelling lump. What does he see?

My mother is patting his hair, caressing his gaunt face, and he falls forward with a choking, stuttering groan that becomes so light and simple it finally stops. Nobody moves.

A nurse appears in the doorway. From the comer of the room I can see that she’s frowning. She tugs at the collar of a peach-colored sweater that she wears over her uniform and walks briskly to the empty side of the bed, where my mother is not standing. “Let’s get him back to bed now, all right?” she says. She and my mother grip him by each scrawny bicep, and he leans back like maybe there’s not a bone in his shrunken body. The nurse is careful not to knock the tube in his arm.

“I’m taking your temperature now,” the nurse calls to my dad, even though she’s beside him. He’s staring at the ceiling, and she slips a thermometer into his mouth. The thermometer is attached by an elastic cord to a plastic box fixed to the belt at her waist. My dad’s chest is heaving, and he spits into the air.

The burning fire of the air is smoldering now. As if through a cloud, I see the pink flesh of my dad’s chest and neck, the blue in the pulsing veins, and the most pale skin on the underside of his arms, so that his flesh looks transparent. Almost like the wax paper we used to press on top of leaves in art class. Tape smudges and purple bruises from the syringes cover his forearms. His arms open and rise into the air, palms up, and he reminds me of somebody else. It’s the Cadillac driver, Mr. Utley—the way his arms went up at the vet’s—like he was surrendering.

“It’s a hundred and three,” the nurse says as she removes the thermometer from my dad’s crumpled lips and glances from the blue plastic square to my mother. “That’s better than it was an hour ago. The doctor’s making rounds—he’ll be here soon.” Her voice is gentle, her eyes soft.

My mother nods. She’s breathing hard, as if she has been running, and the nurse looks at us. “Great job, everyone.” Baby Teeth sputters.

The nurse quietly finds my dad’s pajama shirt in a heap of sheets at the bottom of the bed and hands it to my mother. “The antidote should make a difference soon,” she says. My mother holds the shirt as the nurse fiddles with the IV beside the bed, nods to us, and asks, “Do you want me to help with the bed?”

My mother shakes her head. “I’ll do it, thank you.” Her words sound pushed out, forced off a gangplank.

Before the nurse leaves, she says, “I’m sorry no one came sooner. It’s difficult when the shift changes.”

My brother is standing beside my mother, and Baby Teeth has not moved. Her hand is in her mouth. “What anecdote?” my brother says. My hands find Baby Teeth’s shoulders and we walk over, close to the foot of the bed.

My dad’s eyes are closed now. He opens them. “Hey,” he says when he sees us. Those are his eyes, but they’re still red. “Hi, guys.”

“Daddy!” Baby Teeth calls, and springs to his side.

“Have I been asleep all day, huh?” He looks at my mother. Her face is drained. She tries to smile, her hands fumbling with the bed sheets. Edward finds another blanket in the closet. This one is green.

“Getting chilly again, oohh . . . where’s my pillow?” he says, and looks blankly around him. My mother says, “We’re just straightening up.” And they manage to get his pajama top back on. It’s the blue plaid, the same one he left the house in. When was that? A long time ago.

| | | | | |

When they are scared, box turtles tuck their heads between their upper and lower shells, then bend the shell closed over the remaining gap. But someone observing them wouldn’t know they were scared. The turtles simply appear shut, as if they never had any legs or heads to start with. Considering that hiding is the only defense they have, their performance is a good trick.

When I was ten years old, I found a box turtle by the fence in our backyard. I used to climb the fence, stomping the wide white plank at the top so my banging heels echoed in the woods. I would feel so powerful, so connected to the world. When I picked the turtle up that day, its legs jutted out and grabbed at the air. I was surprised at how strong it was. It actually pulled me forward, and I almost dropped it. The shell was bigger than both my hands. I was running before I knew it and didn’t stop until the turtle lay inside an empty cage in the basement. Before boxes, I collected cages.

After an hour, all the turtle had done was stay closed. I knocked on its speckled, mud-colored back, but it wouldn’t answer. I turned it upside down, and since its feet were also pulled in, the million wrinkles covering its legs were gone. I tried to pry the shell open with my hands, but it wouldn’t budge.

I left it alone and went upstairs. I found Lucky in the yard and played the I’ll-throw-the-stick-where-did-it-go-it’s-in-your-mouth game because he loved it. When I returned, the turtle had flipped over onto its back, and something inside me dropped. Earlier, I had run my hand over the turtle’s orange belly and felt how soft it was. Upside down would be a dangerous position if the turtle was outside in the wild. So was it surrendering?

I offered it lettuce and nuts. The nuts were no good— they were from a can. But the turtle still wouldn’t emerge. I brought it back, finally, to the place I had found it. I pretended to be a tree and stood very still next to it. I wanted to witness the initial poke of its head out into freedom. It didn’t budge. I felt like an idiot and left.

After dinner, I went outside again with Lucky, and the turtle was gone. It wouldn’t move while I was there, but it somehow knew when I was gone. It wanted nothing to do with me. Turtles are cold-blooded reptiles.

| | |

I mention turtles because of their shells. The events of the past several weeks have left pieces of me scattered everywhere. What I need is something to escape into. A protective shell. At least this day is over.

At the hospital, once my dad had his pajama top on, my mother told us that the fever and the fire-engine rash he was suffering were part of an allergic reaction to one of the drugs the hematologist had prescribed. At least it helped wake him up, we lamely joked. And even though my father could see it on his own skin, he didn’t really seem to believe what was happening. He said he was fine. We didn’t mention the Schwab’s thing.

In the parking lot before we went home, my mother told us that Schwab’s was a famous drugstore in L.A. where people went to be “discovered.” People who wanted to be movie stars. Well, none of us did. As far as I knew. My father had been delirious. As my mother buttoned his pajama shirt when the delirium was over, my dad said, “No more. I’m not the blood works guinea pig.”

“What do you mean? You won’t try any of the new drugs?” my mother asked. “The head of hematology wants to discuss it with you.”

“We can talk about it at home,” my dad said.

| | |

I lie in bed, watching a curve of the fading moon through the curtain. I think of turtles because they are so slow. My dad told me back then it was a box turtle—he didn’t even have to see it when I described it. It takes turtles forever to get anywhere, though it seems in an instant they are gone. Dying is like this, I’ve decided. My dad’s coming home tomorrow.

When the World Comes Back

It’s morning. I’m waiting for the keys of heaven. Maybe some bleeding hearts or Little Miss Muffets will bloom soon. Bunches of forget-me-nots are up already, I see. Those are the scattered mounds of blue sometimes planted around trees because they flower best that way, with a little shade in sight. Forget-me-not.

Such elaborate names for these lopsided stems that arise in the dirt, and such special care. I see people pruning and watering. But not everybody likes a Forever Pink dwarf hydrangea. I’ll say. Me, for one. Not my style, those pink ones that go limp so easily. A little hard rain and kerplunk. Well. How do I even know the names for flowers? Why am I even thinking this stuff? Because my dad told me.

I’m on the bus. I look out the window. The world and its cut lawns, its careful plantings. Eileen is nowhere to be seen, which is unusual. Is she sick or something? She’s always on the bus. But I’m actually so relieved when I discover her absence that I stumble over Loretta Getz’s purple-sneakered feet as I make my way down the aisle. I just don’t see them. Am I color-blind? Or are they even there as I pass? Maybe she means to trip me. I wonder why there is such mystery in the air now, and when, especially, it will stop.

But there’s Eileen in homeroom, and eureka, she’s ignoring me again. That stupid hat again. That foul rag, symbol of all unspoken. It turns away from my voice when I say, “Hey.” I stare at the back of it for a moment, wondering how fast it might ignite if a match accidentally landed on it. Well, I’ve had it. I say, “Nothing’s up, is it, Eileen? I’m just not really standing here, am I?” When I turn away, there’s Jane, handing me a note.

| | |

After the bell, Eileen stops me in the hall. She doesn’t look sick; she looks mad. Can lips quake? Hers are. We’re standing in A wing. Social studies. How appropriate, since my long-lost friend seems to have become a social reject.

“What’s with you?” she says.

“You’ve got that backward, don’t you think?” I say. You’re the one acting like an ax murderer.

“Cute. How come you haven’t called me?” Her hat quivers too.

“Maybe this is just a bad dream,” I say. “Last time I did, you had no comment, remember? No, wait—that’s not true. When I told you my father was really sick, you said, ‘Oh,’ like, ‘Oh, have a nice day,’ remember?”