House Arrest (7 page)

WEEK 14

It's been fourteen weeks.
He says it like I don't know.
Fourteen weeks, Timothy.
How are you holding up?
I look over at him.
His face more scruff than beard.
His dark eyes, staring.
His hair blowing in the breeze.
Too young to be Dad's age.
Too old to be cool.
I shrug.
Aren't we past shrugging?
He doesn't smile
but his face isn't hard, either.
Not like it used to be.
We're sitting outside
in the hospital courtyard.
It's sunny today,
almost warm.
You want some lunch?
I have an extra half.
He pulls a sandwich from his bag.
It's cut into thirds.
An
extra hal
f
? Really?
James, I think you are worse at math than me.

Still in ICU.
Still watching machines breathe for Levi.
It was just a cold.
Just a cold.

She seems really nice.
Her hand pushes the hair from Levi's forehead
and she makes sure
Baby Signing Adventure
plays in the background
even though he's pretty out of it.
This morning, though,
when Mom was down the hall in the shower,
this nurse,
this nice lady with tired eyes
and painted eyebrows,
she said,
Supposably, the doctor will be here soon.
Supposably
is not a word.
Can you keep a baby alive
if you are kind
and you have tired eyes
but you don't know that
supposably
isn't a real word?
José would call me a jerk
for being picky and weird
but I'm just saying . . .
How do you know?
If someone can keep a baby alive?
How do you ever know?

José's mom was not having it.
You listen to me, Annie.
That boy is just a boy.
He needs rest. Food.
He needs to be a boy.
I'm taking him with me.
The judge, the court, they can take it up with me.
Her mouth was in a tight line
but then it softened.
Just for tonight, Annie.
Just for tonight.
The last part she said like she was soothing
a hurt animal.
Her face crinkled into a quiet smile.
I stayed peeking behind the hospital room's
bathroom door.
José's mom put her hand on Mom's shoulder.
She leaned down and whispered:
You need a break,
Mami
.
Her hand squeezed.
How about I take you
both
tomorrow night?
Mom laid her cheek on José's mom's hand.
Mom closed her eyes.
Swallowed hard.
Not crying.
Almost crying.
A machine alarmed and the nurse came in.
I put my bag over my shoulder.
Walked out of the bathroom.
José's mom put her other hand on my shoulder.
We all looked at Levi as the nurse checked the alarm.
Let's go,
mijo
.
She steered me to the door.
I stopped to look at Mom.
Should I leave her?
It's against the rules of house arrest.
And what about Levi? What if something happens?
Levi is in safe hands
, José's mom whispered.
She turned to Mom and smiled her soft smile again.
Don't worry,
Mami
.
Timothy is in safe hands, too.

You know how when you shake a snow globe
everything swirls around?
José's house is like that.
On the outside it looks like a plain, regular house.
On the inside everything is moving, swirling,
talking, laughing.
Theresa flies through the room,
soccer cleats over her shoulder
yelling about being late to practice.
Sofia drops a glass and it shatters on the tile,
she swears and starts to clean up the mess
never taking off her headphones
never not dancing.
Alé is upstairs
oomPAH oomPAH oomPAH
playing the tuba
and making the whole thing seem like a TV show.
Isa swings her backpack to the floor,
thud.
Her hair falls around her face
a black curtain.
And when she smiles it's like the curtain opens.
And the light shines bright
so bright
it kind of hurts my eyes.
It may be very possible
the only thing in this crazy snow globe
that's not moving right now
is me.

Isa is at the table with us,
four books open
one in her lap
her glasses on her head, holding her hair back.
She looks up.
What are you writing, Timothy?
Nothing.
My face is suddenly five hundred degrees.
She smiles,
then frowns.
Have you seen my glasses?
Her hands pass over the table,
she looks on the floor.
On your head,
gordita
, José says with a snort.
Now Isa's face turns red.
I punch José in the arm.
Just a playful punch.
But Isa gathers up her books and goes upstairs.
She walks in rhythm to Alé's
oomPAH oomPAH music
but not on purpose.
I think.

WEEK 15

It's kind of soothing after a while,
the beep beep beeping.
The machines measuring Levi's life.
A nonstop rhythm.
Even when he's not moving
and has all those wires on him
and all that medicine pumping into him,
we hear beep beep beeping.
Heartbeats turned into heartbeeps.
So we always know
he's still alive.

José's mom and James and Mom are talking
in the hallway.
James looks pale.
He really hates hospitals.
I almost feel bad for him.
Almost.
I am
doing homework
while they talk
which of course means
listening to everything they say
I hear
grades
responsibility
I know
good kid
judge's approval
and other stuff.
José's mom wants me to start sleeping at their house.
Not permanent,
but while Levi is in the hospital.
Also, she wants me there for dinners.
I want to do it.
But I don't want to do it.
What will Mom do without me?
Who will remind her to eat?

I am in José's family's giant van.
Heading to see Mrs. B.
It is just as crazy as the house.
Soccer bag, dance bag, music stand, books.
Yelling, talking, laughing, shoving.
Every corner of the van
has something or someone stuffed into it.
José's mom is singing loud and proud
to some song with a thumping beat.
Everyone is acting like her voice is a weapon
killing them, ears first.
She is laughing and singing,
the van driving through a storm.
I just hold on tight,
fingers gripping my seat belt.
It's like the world is swallowing me
one laugh at a time.
Isa cracks José on the head with a book.
Can I laugh while Levi is so sick?
Can I be happy with Mom so scared?
The rain streaks across the windows.
We are almost there,
mijo
.
José's mom runs her fingers through her hair
while the van is stopped at a red light.
She turns back to smile at me.
Almost there.

Be creative.
The teachers at school say that all the time.
Having trouble solving a problem?
Be creative.
Having trouble writing an essay?
Be creative.
Having trouble keeping your brother alive?
Be creative.
Well, they don't say that last one.
It's true, though, you know.
I bet if the doctors were more creative
Levi would get better.
All the way
better.
Mom says they're doing their best.
She says we're on Levi time, just like always.
But you know what?
That doesn't mean we can't be creative.
Having trouble listening to your mom?
Be creative.

Subglottic stenosis.
Bronchiectasis.
Failure to Thrive.
I copied those words down from Levi's chart.
I don't know how to say most of them,
or even what they mean.
Well, I can kind of guess at the last one,
but it doesn't seem like a sickness.
It seems like a judgment.
I'm going to look them up,
because I don't believe,
not for one second,
that Levi has to live like this every day.
There has to be something we can do.
Someone we can call.

I need a computer.
There's only one at José's house
and someone is always on it.
The one at my house hasn't had the Internet
in months and months.
School has a ton.
But I have no free time to use them.
What do you think, Mrs. B?
Can I use your computer?
I know the plants won't mind.
Will you?