How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets (11 page)

He looks up as he plays and there’s Dean, standing there watching him. Evan stops.

“Sorry, ” he says, and puts his guitar down.“I got a little carried away.”

Dean shrugs and leaves the bedroom. Evan follows him.

“Did you have fun tonight?”

“It was okay, ” Dean says, sitting on the pull-out couch and taking off his socks.

“I figured we’d go to the Center tomorrow. Mica said she wants to come, too. We can go on rides. The Science Center. EMP.”

Dean doesn’t respond. He pulls off his pants and climbs under the covers.

“It’s what dads and sons do together, I’ve heard. And I thought, you know, me being a father and you being a son . . .”

“And Mica being a dad’s girlfriend, ” Dean says.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“You want her to be.”

“Well—” He couldn’t very well deny that, could he? “You want me to tell her not to come?”

“No.” Dean pauses a moment, then says, “You don’t have to take me anywhere, you know. I could go back to that arcade tomorrow so you and Mica could go have a date or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s you and me tomorrow, bub. She asked if she could come, but I can tell her no. I’ll call her now—”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Evan turns out the light and makes a move toward his bedroom.

“Hey, Evan?” Dean asks.

“Yeah?”

He stops and looks at the shape of Dean, a dark mound on a pathetic foam mattress, the lights of Wallingford sparkling in the distance. No shades on the windows. And it gets light early. It’s clear: he’s a rotten father.

“How long did it take you to learn to play like that?”

Evan thinks about it a minute.

“I started when I was a little younger than you, I guess.”

“But how long did it take until you could play that song you were just playing?”

“That? That took a while, I guess. You have to learn chords first, then you learn finger work.
Then
you learn Zeppelin. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

The mound rolls over and snuggles in. Evan watches it for a moment.

“Goodnight, kid, ” he says.

“Frum-frumpf, ” the mound says back. And Evan goes into his room and closes the door.

A
DO-IT-YOURSELF banner had been laced together with multicolored letters: WELCOME HOME EVAN! Quite a bit of his extended family was there, as were a few friends. There was cake and food. Some kind of “punch” mixed by his Uncle Bob, which meant it was way too alcoholic for the ladies, but they slugged it down anyway and smiled doing it. There were presents. There were the standard Swedish meatballs of which his mother was so proud (“All from scratch, ” she would say to anyone she saw eating one). There was even a thimbleful of caviar dwarfed by disproportionately large piles of egg, onion and Melba toast—a foreshadowing of the financial freedom Evan’s father would achieve a few years later, when he would indulge himself by eating massive amounts of caviar out of a six-ounce tin. Everything was there that was usually there for major family celebrations, which were commonly held in honor of a graduation or an engagement or a significant anniversary, or, in this case, a homecoming. Everything was there but Evan’s father.

“He got beeped this morning, ” Louise whispered to those who were meant to hear.“A donor heart flew in an hour ago. He
has
to take it. He’s the only one who knows the history. He’ll be out all night. I hope Evan understands.”

Evan didn’t understand, really. But, frankly, he didn’t care, either. It was almost better this way.

The house looked different than it had weeks earlier. It was whiter. Oddly, it felt more sterile than the hospital room in which Evan had stayed for the month since the accident. Things had shifted slightly in his time away from home. A painting in the living room had moved, replaced by something new and more colorful. New photographs had replaced old in some of his mother’s fabled silver picture frames which she kept on the entry hall table. (She’d been talking about updating those photos for a year.) The umbrella stand that used to be by the front door was gone. Where did it go?

“Glad to get home and get some of that good home cooking, eh, Evan?”

It was Uncle Bob and his red, puckered face. He’d sampled too much of his own punch, obviously. He should carry a spit cup like a sommelier.

“That hospital food is crap, isn’t it? Like army food. I don’t know how anyone can eat that crap.”

Bob leaned in and breathed heavily on Evan’s neck.

“Lemme have a peek, son. I want to see . . .”

Evan, who felt strangely detached from the scene, obliged, and pulled off the knitted cotton skullcap he was wearing, thus exposing his partially shaved head, a third of which was covered with a thin layer of fuzzy hair that did little to mask a gruesome red welt that started at the back of his neck, looped over the crown of his head, and dove toward his ear, stopping just above his hairline.

“Mother of God, ” Bob rasped, shocked at the brutality of the scar. Not that the scar was brutal by itself. No. It was just a scar. But it stood for something greater, something that was both brutal and offensive to anyone who stands by the Whole Skull Theory: the theory that holds, that a skull, to be truly effective, should always remain intact. For it was not simply a scar, it was a map, and by reading it, one was easily able to understand exactly what had happened. The flesh had been cut, the scalp peeled back. Drills or saws or both had cracked open the brittle bone casing. The brain had been exposed to the world, touched and fingered and fondled by people wearing rubber gloves. And then it had all been slapped back together hastily, as if the doctors had heard footsteps and were about to be caught doing something they ought not be doing, so they quickly shoved it all back in, sewed it up and hoped that no one would notice.

“Mother of God.”

“Bob? Evan?” Evan’s mother approached. “What are you two?—”

She stopped, appalled.

“Evan! What on earth? What are you?—Bob?”

“Oh, I—”

“Evan, come here.”

Uncle Bob shuffled off toward the punch bowl, leaving Evan with a consoling grasp of the upper arm as he passed and grunting his refrain for the evening, “Mother of God.”

“Put your hat back on, ” Louise whispered as she led him into the living room. “Don’t take it off again. It upsets people.” Evan knew that the person it upset most was her.

The living room was full of people talking and laughing. Evan was given an honorary seat on the couch, and he soon realized that little would be asked of him. Foods would be offered to him. Conversation would be directed toward him, carried on in his behalf. Drinks, forced laughter, strained good cheer. All he really wanted was to suck on a glass of crushed ice—never a dearth of ice chips in a hospital—but he didn’t ask for it. His head hurt. All he really wanted was for all the people to go away. But he didn’t ask for that, either. A plate of cake was set in his lap. People talked and grinned. He tried to grin back. He didn’t bother trying to talk. . . .

He stood up quickly. He heard a soft bump and looked down. He’d forgotten about the cake. It lay, face down, on the carpet. But he didn’t care. He felt nauseous. He rushed to the bathroom off the hallway, flung himself inside and vomited into the toilet.

Oh, god. The vomit kept coming until there was nothing but hacking dry heaves. His body felt awful, sick and drained, like it wasn’t even a body anymore. It didn’t measure up to minimum standards. They should send it back and he’ll wait for the next available body. He slumped against the wall, half-wedged next to the toilet bowl. He noticed his mother standing at the closed bathroom door, lips pursed, holding a glass of water.

“It’s the medication, ” she said quietly. “That’s what made you sick. They said it might happen for a while, until you adjust.”

He started to say something, but when he opened his mouth, more heaving came. Bile came. The smell of vomit wafted up from the toilet and made him sicker. He reached to flush, but couldn’t find the handle. His mother leaned in and flushed for him.

“It’s the medication, ” she repeated.“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She led him up to his room and helped him climb into bed. The sheets were cold and good. The room was dark.

“When’s Dad going to be home?” he asked.

“I don’t know, ” she said. She stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light in the hallway, one hand on the doorknob, the other on the jamb.

“He’ll be home when he’s finished with the operation. He’s saving someone’s life. You understand, don’t you, honey?”

Evan didn’t answer because he felt sick again and he thought that if he opened his mouth, vomit would fly out, and he didn’t want any more vomit flying out of his mouth.

“I’ll get back to the party, ” Louise said. “I’ll tell them you still feel tired and you need your rest, okay? If you need to throw up again, I put your wastebasket next to your bed, just lean over. I’ll check in in a little bit. I love you, honey.”

“I love you, ” he said in reply, but he kept his lips closed because he was afraid of the vomit, so it didn’t sound like “I love you.” It sounded something like “I frumpf fru.”

She left and he closed his eyes. He had a pounding headache. He felt so sick he didn’t know someone could feel that sick and still be alive. Maybe he was dead. It was quite possible he was already dead.

He half-woke at some point. Later on? What time? He saw a figure standing at the end of his bed. Was he dead now? Someone had come for him. Could he give his body back now?

The figure stood there for what seemed like a long time. It was his father, a dark, silent figure. Evan tried to say something to him, tried to acknowledge him. He struggled hard against his sleep. But he was too tired, too many floors down, he couldn’t make it to the surface. He wanted to see his father’s face, he wanted to talk to him, but the fight was too great. He couldn’t overcome it.

He gave up.

He opened his eyes again, later still, and his father was gone.

T
HEY MEET, AS planned, on the rim of the musical fountain.

“Hey, strangers, ” Mica says with a smile. She’s wearing a celadon baby tee and faded jeans.“Where do we begin?”

They begin by watching young children run toward the center of the fountain to touch the base—which is studded with a hundred or so giant water cannons—and then gleefully retreat before being soaked by one of the jets, all while Stravinsky blasts throughout the plaza.

“Aren’t kids cool?” she asks, an effectively rhetorical question since neither Dean nor Evan are sure how to answer.“But you like roller coasters, ” she adds, sensing their loss.

“Roller coasters, ” Dean echoes, and that’s where they go.

They spend the better part of the afternoon spinning their brains out on the brain-spinning rides, just as Evan had planned. Teetering on the brink of nausea, they take a break and go into the Center House, where the food court offers a surprising diversity of foods, such that even Evan can find himself something to eat. It’s the perfect day. And it isn’t over.

“I have a surprise, ” Mica says.“Come on.”

Off they go. Outside to a grassy bank that overlooks an outdoor stage. On the stage, a band.

“They haven’t started yet, ”Mica says.

“Who?” Evan asks.

“Airto. Surprise!”

Airto Moreira, the famous percussionist, is giving a free concert in the park. Evan, Mica, and Dean lay back on the lawn and stare into space as Airto tinkles his chimes and plays his maracas, the ethereal music floating off into the afternoon sky.

When the concert is over, they switch into high gear and it’s a track meet. They rush over to the Science Center where they watch the random ball-dropping machine line up its balls in a perfect parabola. (Evan remembers spending hours as a child standing in front of this same massive Plexiglas window, watching the balls fall, just as his son is doing now, discovering that randomness actually has a shape.) They rush to the roller coaster for another go, then to the top of the Space Needle, then a quick round-trip on the monorail, then back to the food court for dinner because they’re so hungry and the day is almost already used up.

Evan is exhausted from all the rushing.

“How about a movie?” Mica asks.

“Great!” Dean yells. And off they rush.

They hop a cab to the Cinerama—Mica tells the driver to make it snappy—and barge into the middle of the latest James Bond movie. Mica buys Dean the largest size popcorn and soda and smaller ones for her to share with Evan. The giant theater is almost full, so they sit in the fifth row, leaning back against the seats and peering up Pierce Brosnan’s nose.

After the movie, they cab it back to the Center to get their cars. It’s ten o’clock. Evan and Dean are wasted. You have to be in good shape to keep up with Mica. She looks perky and up.

“I work out a lot, ” she explains.“Kickboxing. Plus, I’m used to working late.”

“I bet she could kick your ass, ” Dean tells Evan.

“I’m sure, ” Evan agrees.

“No,
I’m
sure.”

Dean climbs into Evan’s car, slips on his seat belt and falls asleep with his head propped against the window. Evan turns to Mica, her face sallow in the sodium vapor lights of the parking lot.

“What’s next?” he asks.

As if it’s a question he deserves an answer to.

But he doesn’t deserve an answer. Who is he to deserve an answer? Nobody. In front of him is a somebody. Mica. A girl. No make-up, casual clothes, her hair a mess. But eyes full of life, full of vigor. She’s ready to go, she is. She looks up at Evan with her eyes that seem to reach out toward him. She’s a girl worth keeping. A girl worth holding on to. A girl worth taking home to meet Mom.

“Dunno, ” Mica shrugs.“You tell me.”

Evan doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know why. It’s a mistake. He wants to gush out at her, to cover her with kisses, to hold her tight. But he says nothing.

“Do we still need to set a good example?” she asks.

“You know, kids these days . . . they grow up so fast.”

“Yeah.”

Evan leans toward her and kisses her cheek.

“Did you just give me a peck?” Mica asks.

“I guess so.”

“
You
gave
me
a peck?”

“Is that bad?”

“Yes.”

He tries again. This time it’s a full-fledged kiss.

“That’s better, ” Mica says. She fans herself with her hand. “I’m going home. I need a shower very badly.”

“See you later?” Evan asks tentatively.

“Do you really want to?”

“Yeah. I really do.”

“Okay, then, ” she says.

She walks off into the thick yellow air to search for her car. At one point she turns around, looks at Evan, and yells, “Go home.”Then she disappears. Soon after, he hears the whoop of her car alarm; and then, satisfied that she is safe, he drives Dean home and puts him to bed.