How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets (30 page)

“You don’t want me to accept you?”

“I do, ” he says.“Yes, I do. But I don’t expect you to.”

She turns away.

“Will you forgive me?” he asks.

“Evan, I forgave you a long time ago. I forgave you before we even had that fight. I forgave you before you were born, before either of us had bodies, when we were still lost souls floating around the universe looking for what to do next, when I first met you out there, a hundred million years ago.”

Evan goes to her and embraces her. He lets himself feel her warmth, this strange woman in his arms. Her warmth flows over him.

“Do you forgive yourself?” she asks.

Is she asking about their fight? Or is she asking if he forgives himself for all the other things? For Dean. For running in front of the car. For not measuring up to his own standards. Maybe she wants to know if he forgives himself for being himself. If he forgives himself for existing.

“Do you?”Mica asks.

Does he? Maybe now he does. Maybe now.

He holds his wrist up in front of Mica.

“This is my Medic Alert bracelet, ” he says.“It says I have a seizure disorder. There’s a telephone number on it that you can call to find out what kind of medication I’m taking, how to contact my neurologist, and how to contact my next of kin. If I have a seizure and it lasts more than ten minutes, you
have
to call the ambulance, you have to insist that they take me to the hospital, and you have to insist that they call the number on the bracelet. If I have a seizure, I can’t swallow my tongue, that’s a myth. It’ll sound like I’m choking, but I’m not. Roll me over on my side and put something under my head so I don’t hurt myself. Don’t ever stick anything in my mouth or I’ll bite down. It’s a reflex. I almost took a woman’s finger off once. If you ever ask me a question and I don’t answer but I smile at you or I wave my hands like I’m eating something hot, I’m having a little seizure. It’ll pass, just give it time. If I’m driving, I may pull over and ask you to drive. One day you’ll probably witness me having a grand mal seizure. It’ll upset you more than it will upset me. You may look at me differently afterward. You may decide that you can’t have an emotional attachment to someone like me. I’ll understand. Just tell me that. Don’t tell me that it’s something else. Tell me the truth. That’s all I ask.”

He pauses. Throughout his speech, Mica listened intently. Now she curls up the corners of her mouth as if in question.

“I love you, ” Evan says. “And I think I have to let you know what you’re dealing with if I want you to return my love.”

She kisses him deeply, and he accepts her kiss; then he breaks away, moves toward the door.

“Stay, ” she says.

“I can’t. I have to go get Dean in the morning and I need sleep.”

“Okay. Call me, then.”

“I will.”

He opens the door.

“Evan, ” she stops him.

He turns.

“I’ll return your love, ” she says.“And I won’t look at you differently. And I’ll always be there to put something under your head so you don’t hurt yourself.”

He smiles at her and leaves.

HE WANTS TO call her the second he walks in the door. He picks up the phone and notices that there are two messages on his machine.

“Hi, Dad. Are you there, or are you in Yakima?”

It’s Dean. Dean has never once called Evan “Dad” without a massive dose of irony. Something’s wrong.

There’s some background noise, then:“If you’re there, pick up.”

A long pause. Then Evan can hear him say to someone else:“He might be asleep, or maybe he went to the store. Can I call back in a little while?”

Then the beep of the answering machine. Message over.

Evan sits up and listens closely. Something was definitely wrong about that call.

The second message is much more clear.

“Look, Dad, it’s me, Dean. I’m in jail.”

(Another voice in the background says:“It’s not jail. You’re at the police station.”)

“I’m at the police station, ” Dean corrects himself. “I’m in a lot of trouble. Can you come and get me?”

(Background voice:“Give him the number.”)

Dean reads off the telephone number.

(Background voice: “If he doesn’t call soon, we’ll call your grandparents. You can’t stay here overnight.”)

Then, Dean, almost at a whisper: “I know you don’t want me around, but you have to come and get me, Dad. They said if you don’t come soon, they’ll call Grandma. She’s been talking to Frank. They’re getting back together. He came back today. He’s gonna kill me. I stole your pot and they caught me with it. The cop said I could go to jail for dealing. I didn’t know how much it was, I’ve never smoked pot before, I just took it and showed it around, I didn’t give anybody any of it, I didn’t smoke any. You have to come and get me. Please. I’m afraid.”

Beep.

Oh, my God. He replays the messages. The first call was at nine-ten. Shit. The second call was at ten. He dials the number Dean left.

“I’m calling about my son, Dean Wallace Smith, ” Evan says quickly when the man answers.

“And who is this?” the man asks.

“His father.”

“Hold.”

Dead air space. Crap. Dean was arrested. No wonder Evan couldn’t find his pot. Dean took it. Oh, man. That was more than an ounce of pot. That’s a felony.

“Mr. Smith?” a new man says into the phone.

“Wallace. Evan Wallace. He has his mother’s name.”

“I see. Where’s his mother?”

“She’s dead—”

“I’m sorry.”

“We all are. Look, I’m on my way. Don’t call his grandmother. I’m on my way.”

“She’s already been called.”

“Don’t let him go with her.”

“She picked him up an hour ago, sir.”

“You’re kidding! Was Frank with her?”

“Frank?”

“Her husband. He beats Dean.”

“Sir?”

“Dean’s grandfather beats him. If he finds out about this, he may kill Dean for all we know.”

“Does he have a record?”

“No—I don’t know—”

“Any history?”

“Plenty of
history.
I just don’t know if it’s recorded in any of your files, okay?”

“The best I can do is have a squad car do a pass-by, ” the cop says.

“Well, park a fucking squad car in front of their fucking house until I get there.”

“Sir, don’t use that kind of language—”

“And make sure Frank Smith knows it’s there!”

“Sir, I can’t do—”

“Do it!” Evan shouts into the phone. “Do it! Do it!
Do it!”

“Sir!”

“If that man hurts my son, so help me God, I will spend the rest of my life making your life a living hell.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Wallace?”

“That’s not a threat, ”Evan hisses.“That’s a plain fucking promise.”

He slams down the phone.

Shit. Double-crossed by Ellen, of all people. She gets Dean and the first thing she does is call in Frank.
Shit
.

Dean’s in serious trouble this time. And where is Evan? Five hours away. Powerless.

He dials Ellen’s number. It’s midnight. The machine picks up. Damn. He hangs up, dials again. No answer. He dials again. Nothing.
Shit
.

He throws on his shoes. No time to find a thermos. No time to make coffee. He’ll have to stop at a truck stop or something. He has to get out on the road right away.

What a mess. Dean stole his pot. Well, why the hell wouldn’t he? Evan had declared that it was the best pot on the planet, so why wouldn’t Dean want to steal it?

Evan rushes out to his car. He heads for Walla Walla.

THE NIGHT AIR is thin and dry; it’s not really dark at all because of the moon, which hangs menacingly over the valley like an angry god. He stops for gas just outside Yakima. It’s two-thirty. Making pretty good time, considering . . .

To tell the truth, he doesn’t feel altogether great. He feels a little nauseous; this news about Dean has made him physically ill, like he wants to puke his guts out on the dashboard. He buys a cup of coffee from the station store, but maybe he should buy some Pepto-Bismol instead. His stomach is unsettled, his head hurts, the beginnings of a headache. There’s something wrong.

No. Now’s not the time for waffling. His son’s welfare is at stake. He starts up his car and pulls out of the station. It looks like the service road parallels the highway for a while before it feeds back on. Is he going in the right direction? Or is something wrong? There are no cars on the road, so he leans on the gas a little, doing sixty in a thirty-five zone. That’s a ticketable offense.

He feels a slight twinge in his neck as he passes through an intersection. Another twinge as he pulls onto the entrance ramp and that’s when it occurs to him that something is wrong.

Something is wrong. Evan doesn’t get twinges. Something is happening and there isn’t even an aura. A thought flashes through his mind that he should pull over, that maybe this is an aura, but before he can act on that thought, he realizes that he has no control of his hands. Or his arms. They are his limbs, true. They are gripping the steering wheel, true. But he can’t make them turn the wheel. And as quickly as he realizes this he hears a sound, a gurgling sound, a choking sound, and he knows that sound is coming from him, and there’s something wrong. His head snaps violently to the side; snaps again; a third time and he hears a deafening crack, a head-splitting sound followed by a roar and he thinks his head must have been torn clean off his shoulders, nothing left for him to see, a tenth of a second of darkness, and then nothing, not even darkness, just nothing. Nothing.

There’s something wrong.

W
ELL, THE GOOD news is that he doesn’t wake up dead.

The bad news is that he wakes up in a hospital bed with an IV stuck painfully in the back of his hand.

The room is semi-dark. There are many beds. Intensive care. Machines are beeping all around him.

An electric pump attached to a stand next to his bed keeps careful track of the drugs being leaked into his veins. Lying on his chest is a small plastic tube with a button on one end and a wire that leads to a pump at the other end.

He is wearing a hospital gown. It is white with little pale blue flowers on it.

His left eye is swollen; his face aches terribly. His arm is strapped to his torso. His shoulder screams.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed—if it can be measured in hours or days—but he knows he is late. He was supposed to be somewhere, and he is very late.

He tries to sit up, but he can’t. He doesn’t have the strength. There are too many drugs in his body keeping him down. He picks up the tube and pushes the button to call the nurse. The electric pump beeps; almost instantly he feels the rush of a sedative. That isn’t a call button; that’s a PCA.
Damn
. He drifts off to sleep, angry at himself for breaking his promise to his son.

T
HE SECOND TIME he wakes up, there are people in his room.

Someone is speaking: “As soon as we get his blood count back from the lab and it indicates that he’s stable, we’d like to operate.”

That would be a doctor. Evan recognizes the tone.

“It’s important to do it now. You understand. We either do it now or we wait until it’s healed and break it again. It’s your call, of course. I’ve paged our chief surgeon, Dr. Richard Wald. You may want to airlift him to Harborview. It’s your call.”

Evan can’t see him, but he sounds young. He sounds afraid.

“I sat in on a lecture of yours at the University of Washington when I was pre-med there. You were giving a talk at the Medical Center about repairing ventricular septal defects. Absolutely fascinating. It was the defining moment in my life really. It tipped the scales for me. I was thinking of dropping medicine and going into law. But when I heard you speak, I knew I had to be a doctor. Is he awake?”

“Hello, Evan.”

Evan closes his eyes. This is a bad dream, right? This can’t be happening. The apple doesn’t fall close to the tree. No, the apple tries to get as far away from the tree as possible, it’s just that the goddamn tree keeps following.

“Can I have some more of the happy juice?” Evan groans. “I think I’m feeling another seizure.”

Evan, eyes still closed, hears the young doctor scramble to his side.

“Are you having an aura?” he asks, practically hyperventilating, reaching for Evan’s pump. “I can begin the drip immediately!”

“Relax.” Reee-LAX! That would be Carl. Dr. Dad. Never loses his cool.“Dr. Boukas, I’m afraid that’s my son’s idea of a joke.”

Evan opens his eyes. Carl. What a guy. Got to give him credit. He went to the trouble to don a white coat for the hospital. Doctors. So afraid that people will forget they’re doctors.

“A joke?” the young Dr. Boukas asks.

“Evan?”

Evan smiles, but when he does a searing pain flares up on the left side of his face.“Hi, Dad. What brings you here?”

“Can we have a moment?” Carl asks Dr. Boukas, who immediately excuses himself.

“He’s a pleasant young man, ” Carl announces after Boukas is gone.“Too bad he doesn’t know that airlift helicopters are reserved for things like critical burns and severed limbs. Shattered collarbones and facial contusions simply aren’t given the same priority.”

He smiles tentatively at Evan. His idea of a joke.

“I have a shattered collarbone?” Evan asks. “Is that why I feel like my chest has been caved in?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing else is broken, as far as they can tell. Do you feel any pain?”

“Only when I live.”

Carl sighs and sits on the edge of Evan’s bed, his back to Evan. All Evan can see is Carl’s hunched frame, his large head of gray hair, his broad white jacket.

“Evan. What have you done?”

Here we go again.

“Just another fuck-up in a long line of fuck-ups, Dad.”

Carl nods slowly.

“I get a call at four in the morning from Yakima Memorial Hospital telling me that my son has been in a terrible accident and could I please come right away. Thank God you were wearing your Medic Alert bracelet.”

“I never leave home without it. You never know when you’ll end up in a ditch somewhere.”

“Yes, well, you didn’t end up in a ditch, you ended up wrapped around a telephone pole. Thank God you didn’t hit someone and kill him, a poor, innocent bystander.”

“As opposed to me, a guilty participant, who deserves to die.”

Carl scowls at Evan.

“I have to go, ” Evan says abruptly.“Can you unplug me?”

“Go?” Carl asks.

“I have to go right now.”

“Where?”

“I have to go get Dean.”

Carl takes a deep breath and turns away from Evan. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb.

“My grandson, ” Carl sighs. He turns slightly to Evan.“How old is he?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen, ” Carl repeats thoughtfully. “Who would have thought that I had a fourteen-year-old grandson named Dean?”

He pauses, waiting for an answer from someone. But Evan doesn’t have an answer. Maybe Carl is waiting for God’s reply. He covers his face with his hands.

“I wanted to buy him a present on the way over, ” he says.

“Did you?” Evan asks.

Carl looks over his shoulder at Evan.

“Nothing’s open at four in the morning. And, besides, I don’t know what he likes. I don’t know him. I’ve never met him. I didn’t know he existed until a few weeks ago.”

Evan thinks he sees a tear running down Carl’s cheek.

“Why?” Carl asks, turning away.“I don’t understand. Why?”

Evan shrugs. “It’s inexplicable.”

Carl repositions himself so he’s facing Evan.

“No, Evan, I think it
is
explicable. I really do. I just think you don’t want to take the trouble to explain it.”

Carl looks at Evan directly. Evan doesn’t know what to say. That it all started on a cold, rainy evening in November, many, many years ago? That he didn’t want to let them down again, so he didn’t tell them? That he felt sorry for himself, so he tried to hide his own disappointment? No. There is no explanation. It’s inexplicable.

“He’s a good kid, ” Evan says of Dean.

“I know, ” Carl nods, then, suddenly, sobs, trying to suck it back inside, hide it inside, not let it out.“I know.”

Evan wants to reach out to his father, take him, hold him. But he can’t do it. Not because he doesn’t want to. Not because he doesn’t need to. He just can’t. Carl is sitting on his IV tube. Evan can’t move his arm. He can’t sit up. He wants to laugh about life’s little compromises, but he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry, ” he says.

“No, ” Carl shakes his head, shifts his weight. The IV tube is pulled tight. Evan feels a shooting, burning pain in his hand. He tries not to react.

Carl sighs.

“I don’t like getting calls like this, Evan. You’re my son, and I don’t like getting calls in the middle of the night that you’re in the hospital. It makes me feel like I’ve let you down, somehow.”

“You haven’t.”

“I feel like I’ve failed you.”

“No, Dad—”

“I’ve failed you.”

“You haven’t failed me, Dad.”

Carl nods, looks up at the lights hanging from the ceiling.

“We put Ralphy down the day before yesterday, ” he says.

Evan starts. His heart races. Ralphy. Gone.

“He was old, ” Evan says.

“Not old enough, I think.”

“He was sick.”

Carl smiles a tight smile of agreement. He’s a very sad man.

“So, ” Carl says loudly, getting up off the bed, thankfully, taking the pressure off of Evan’s tube, stopping the pain. “Your mother would like to see you before the surgery.”

Evan can see how hard his father is working to keep it all in. All the tears. Evan rarely, if ever, has seen his father cry. This is as close as Carl gets. Using his supreme powers of restraint to bottle it all in, hold it tight, only letting a sob out occasionally, eyes red, nose running, sucking it all back in.

“Why didn’t she come in?” Evan asks.

“Intensive care. Only one visitor at a time.”

Please.

“They would have broken the rules for you, ” Evan says.

Carl shakes his head.

“There are other people to think of, Evan. Other patients. We have to respect their privacy.”

Oh, yeah. Right.

“She wanted to be here when you woke up, but the timing didn’t work out. She’ll be in. They’ll operate on your collarbone this afternoon. No reason to go to Harborview. I know Dick Wald, the chief surgeon here. Top notch fellow. He’ll do a great job.”

“No, ” Evan says.

Carl pauses.

“No? No, what?”

“No operation.”

Carl, seemingly lost, stares at Evan a moment. Then he laughs.

“Why not?”

“I have to go, Dad. I have to go right now. Send in Dr. Boukas. Tell him to unplug me.”

“You have a compound fracture, Evan. If you don’t let them operate now, it will have to heal as it is. It will be painful, it may even get infected. Then, in six months they’ll re-break the bone and reset it. And that will be more painful than anything else, believe me. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t care, ” Evan says. “I have to go.”

Carl is silent. He picks up the plastic tube and presses the button. The pump beeps.

“No—”

“This will help you sleep, ” Carl says, pressing the button again.

“Dad, stop. I don’t want to sleep.”

And again.

“Give that to me, ” Evan says, grabbing for the tube, but Carl holds it beyond his reach.

Beep.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’ll feel differently when you wake up.”

A fog rapidly descends on Evan; suddenly, he is asleep.