Pretending Normal (17 page)

“Is he
…”

“I can’t believe it.”

He’s really going to die?

“He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get sued, or at the very least, fired.”

“He isn’t dying?”

She shakes her blond head and a handful of curls
spills out of her updo, trail along her neck. The twenty-something guy stares at her legs. “It’s horrible.”

“Is he hurt?”
I am still on dying.

“Lord, if it could only be that easy.
He’s got to make everything so damn complicated.” She lets out a long sigh. “Your father’s got a broken arm, maybe a cracked rib, nothing major
or
life threatening.”

Is that regret I hear?
“Then what’s the matter?”

“You have no idea
.” She leans over and a swirl of Emeraude wraps around me as she whispers, “No idea what that man’s gone and done.”

“What?”

“He can’t wait for the forklift operator to come back from break, ten minutes is all, and he can’t stay in that little hole of an office he has. So what does he do? He gets it in his head to drive the damn thing himself. God. Can you believe it? And of course, he rams right into the lunchroom and hits four people.
Can you believe it?”

“But he
knows
how to drive a forklift. How could this have happened?”

“He was drunk, that’s how.
And now he can’t hide it any longer, not that people didn’t suspect. Stan said everyone’s been talking about him for months, but now they
know
, Sara, now they’ve seen it, everyone’s seen it. The higher ups will have to make an example of him, I’m guessing.”

“How?”

“If he’d stayed in his little hole of an office and kept quiet, no one would have said anything.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”
It’s embarrassing for the rest of us. What’s it going to look like for Uncle Stan, who works in the Personnel department at the mill?

“I don’t know
.” She shakes her head, too quickly, and I wonder if Uncle Stan has already outlined Frank’s future.

“Where is he now?”
I don’t ask if I can see him. What would I say?
Nice job, Frank, way to screw up your life and everyone else’s?

“Oh, that’s another one.”
She presses her pink fingernails against her temples. “He couldn’t wait for the ambulance, no, not Frank Polokovich. He’s got to try and get up, make excuses—his foot slipped, he blacked out for a second, the brake caught.” She massages her right temple. “And this is the classic. They moved the lunchroom wall. How do you like that? They
moved
the lunchroom wall.”

I don’t like it. It’s sad and pathetic. Like Frank.

“And then he turned belligerent when Stan tried to help him, started cursing and saying horrible things.” Her upper lip quivers, stops. “They had to sedate him to get him in the ambulance. It took four men, imagine that picture.”

I try not to.

She reaches out, strokes my hair. “He needs help. You know that, don’t you? That’s why this is the perfect time to talk to Mr. Jebowitz and tell him what happened. Remember the knife. They can’t make you go if you tell them you fear for your life. Besides, you and Kay can’t stay home alone with your father stuck here, at least for the next few days.” Her lips flip into the faintest of smiles. “They’re going to evaluate him… psychologically. Once they detox him, that is. The new doctor, Dr. Donnelly, is going to do it. The nurse said he has one hundred and two hours to evaluate Frank and decide if he needs further psychiatric care. If he does, they’ll hold a hearing and get him admitted.”

Dr
.
Donnelly.
Peter’s father
.

“Sara?”
She has her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I want to laugh,
then scream,
Dr. Donnelly can’t even evaluate his own family.

“He’s got a very good reputation, this Dr. Donnelly,” she goes on, as if she needs to reassure me.
“Graduated top of his class from NYU. I read all about him in the Gazette a few months ago. He’s got two boys, one of them must be a year or two older than you.” She taps a pink nail to her chin. “Yes, I remember thinking that when I read the article. His name is Peter, like his father. Do you know him, this Peter Donnelly?”

I look straight at her, my voice clear, strong.
“No, I don’t know him.” At least in this, there is truth.

I stare at the ceiling, grateful for
the darkness. I like black rooms. There are no eyes giving silent scrutiny, no gestures to interpret or misinterpret, nothing but sound and blackness, opening up, wide. Kay and I talk most at night, side by side, voice to voice.

But Kay isn’t here now.
She’s in the next room, sleeping in a high, white metal-framed bed with a pink eyelet comforter and six, she counted them, smaller pillows, three circle, three heart, done in pink eyelet, trimmed in white ruffle. My bed is white too, with a high wooden headboard, but the comforter is white eyelet with only three smaller pillows, squares. We have been at Aunt Irene’s for two nights and it is strange not to have Kay beside me, even though she talks too much, even though she hogs the bed. The night sounds are unfamiliar here. I would even be happy to hear T-Rex’s yapping but he’s at the Jedinski’s because Aunt Irene detests what she calls ‘dog smell.’

I am thinking of the
one hundred and two hours, thinking that forty-eight are gone and there are fifty-four left. And then what? If Dr. Donnelly decides Frank needs psychological help, there will be a hearing, people will have to testify, not me, but medical people.

I see him tied up to a metal bed, thrashing from side to side, straining against the ties, the veins in his neck bulging, eyes wild, screaming,
Fuck you! Fuck you, you mother fuckers! Get me out of here, you goddamn mother fuckers
.

Why did I insist on seeing him?

I should have left with Aunt Irene after the nurse came to tell us his arm was in a cast and Dr. Donnelly would be checking in on him later that evening. That would have been the smart thing to do. But maybe guilt forced me to peek through that tiny window, or maybe I did it for my mother.

I want to sleep and forget but I can’t do either, so I am thinking about these hours, wondering what they will mean
for all of us. The fan blades drown out the
tick, tick, tick
of the Big Ben on the nightstand, but I don’t need to hear it, my eyes are fixed on the minute hand as it creeps forward, nothing to stop it unless I unwind it and then, still, the minutes will pass on their own. In fifty-three hours and forty-nine minutes Dr. Donnelly will tell us our fate.

***

Children aren’t given choices, they’re given situations.

This is my situation
—I am sitting at a round, wood-grain Formica table in a small room off of the Emergency entrance at Beechmont Hospital. Dr. Peter Donnelly, Sr., M.D. is sitting across from me. He is an older version of Peter, his blue eyes cooler, the flash of white teeth not so white.

“Sara.”
Will Peter sound like this when he is his father’s age, a deep, textbook-clinical, controlled voice? Does this happen to all doctors?

“Dr. Donnelly.”

“I wanted to speak with you first, before I talk to your Aunt.”
He picks up a pen, twirls it between long, strong fingers… Peter’s fingers. I jerk my head up, see he is watching me. “I’ve spent a considerable amount of time with your father these past few days, asking him questions, examining him”—he clears his throat—“evaluating him. There’s clinical evidence that indicates he has alcohol related problems; elevated liver enzymes, vitamin B deficiency, classic shuffle connected with a neurological deficit, and of course, agitation, along with occasional bouts of paranoia, dissociation, possible depression related to your mother’s recent death or perhaps, the drinking. Or a combination of the two.” His voice lowers, turns sympathetic, “But nothing severe enough to warrant further clinical evaluation.”

“What are you saying?”

“I find no evidence to indicate your father
is a threat to himself or others.”

He’s coming home
.

“I’ll be releasing him this afternoon.”

Like I said, this is my situation. There are no choices, not really. I can run back to Aunt Irene’s but he’ll only come after Kay and me, and then we’ll both lose, or I can let Kay go with Aunt Irene and I can stay with him. That way, I’m the only one who loses.

“Sara, don’t be afraid.
He’s not going to hurt you, I told you, he’s not a threat.”

It is on the tip of my tongue, so close, almost a word, to ask him if he thinks his son’s drug pushing is a threat to
himself or others? And what about his wife’s drinking? I am dying to ask this, but I don’t. I bite the inside of my cheek instead.

“Things will work out.” A smile slides across his mouth, stops part way.

I say nothing, stare at his hair. Will Peter’s fade from golden to pale wheat?

“How old are you, Sara?
Fifteen?”

He knows how old I am, it’s in the chart.
I hate it when people do that, especially doctors, trying to draw you out, as though you really have anything to say to them.

“I have a son who’s seventeen.
Maybe you know him. His name’s Peter.”

I shake my head.
“I know the name. But I don’t know him.”

And in this, again, amidst all the lies, there is truth.

***

“I told that quack doctor I blacked out,” Frank says.
“People black out all the time. Jesus”—he runs a hand over his crew cut—“he tried to make a federal case out of it.”

We have just left Beechmont Hospital and Frank is sitting in the front seat of Ms. O’Grady’s Caprice Classic.
I am in the back and Ms. O’Grady is driving.

“One minute I’ve got my hand on the lever and the next, I’m flat on my back, with Paul Shengley, remember him,
Peck, from East End, leaning over me, blood gushing and my arm hurting like a sonofabithch.”

“Paul Shengley,” Ms. O’Grady says
. “Is that Rita and John’s boy, the one who went to Pittsburgh to become an x-ray technician?”

“Yeah, come to think of it, he did go to Pittsburgh.
Wonder why he’s an EMT?”

I wonder why he came back to Norwood.

“I heard he didn’t like the idea of filling people with radiation, maybe killing them,” Ms. O’Grady says.

“What kind of bullshit is that?”

She shrugs her bony shoulders. Today she’s wearing a white, cotton T-shirt and jeans. I’ve never seen her wear shorts, not even when it‘s eighty-seven degrees outside. “That’s what Patricia said.”

“Hah!
Figures it would come from that big mouth sister of yours.”

“Maybe it’s not true, Frank,” Ms. O’Grady says, “maybe he just missed Norwood.”

“Now that’s some real bullshit, Peck.” He throws back his head and howls. “Who in the hell would miss this town? Huh?” He turns around, jabs a finger at me. “How about you, Sara? Are you going to miss this town when you get out of here?”

I shrink back against the vinyl seats.
No, I won’t miss it, I’ll never think about it again, once I escape from here
. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you better damn well start thinking about it.
She needs to start planning her great escape, huh Peck? We’ve all done that.” He lets out a long breath. “None of us ever made it, not for good. You, Peck, you got the farthest, didn’t you? Too bad it didn’t work out, too damn bad.”

Ms. O’Grady says nothing.

“And Helen, she got out but she came back.” He pauses, scratches his cheek. “You think she ever regretted it, not staying in Buffalo? You think so, Peck?”

She doesn’t answer right away like she’s trying to decide between telling the truth and hurting his feelings.
Maybe she’s going to
pretend
around the truth.

“Helen made her choice when she married you, Frank, and I don’t think she ever looked back.”

“Hmm.” He slouches in the seat a little, content with her answer.

But it isn’t an answer at all.
Maybe she didn’t look back, maybe she wouldn’t
let
herself, because what good would it do? What difference could it possibly have made to dream another life?
Did she regret her choice?
Did she wish, in the quiet of her own thoughts, that she had not stayed in Norwood, married Frank Polokovich, had Kay and me?

Well,
did she?

“Jesus, I got a headache
.” Frank rubs his left temple and squints. “And my arm’s killing me. That bastard doctor wouldn’t give me anything for my arm. What do you think of that, Peck? What kind of doctor won’t even give his patient a Percodan?”