Hidden Truths, page 3
I wonder if this is what almost feels like.
I can almost hear. Almost feel. Almost grasp what’s happening.
I try to move but pain shoots from everywhere. My body feels heavy, like the red tub of baseballs.
The air feels cold. Or is that me? Am I shivering?
My mind closes. Darkness folds around me. I’m tired. Really tired.
More noise. More heaviness.
I drift.
7
Back to the Before
“I need to be with Dani,” I tell my dad. “Please.” I lean against the trunk of an oak tree to steady myself. Dirt-covered tears roll down my cheeks.
“You can’t, Eric. Not now. The EMTs are putting her in the ambulance. We’ll follow them. You have to get checked by a doctor, too.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. What I need is to be with Dani.”
My dad hugs me.
Worry drifts down my neck.
Somewhere a dog barks.
I look around. “Where’s Casey?” I ask, my voice laced with fear as I watch the firefighters douse the flames with powerful streams of water.
Was Casey in the camper? Did she come outside with me?
I dig through my brain but don’t remember.
“Casey!” I yell.
Dani’s dog can’t be in there. I shake my head back and forth. No. No. No. Then I race toward the camper. A firefighter in a helmet and a large black jacket with neon-yellow stripes moves in front of the door. “You can’t go in there. It’s not safe.”
“But my friend’s dog. She may be…I don’t know. But…” My words trail off.
“Eric, take a deep breath,” Dad says, guiding me away from the camper.
“I have to find Dani’s dog. This is the one thing—the only thing—I can do for her.”
“Let’s think it through together. Okay?” Dad says.
I nod as the tears slip down my face.
“Did Casey follow you out of the camper this morning?” He rests his hand on my shoulder.
I close my eyes. Think back to before. The cold floor. Dani asleep in front of the bathroom door. Me stepping out of the camper. Stubbing my toe. Is Casey with me? Does she nudge my hand with her cold nose? I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to see what my brain can’t.
“I don’t remember.” I start calling for her.
Dad follows.
We run through the thick forest on the left. The pine needles coat the path, but their scent is gone, replaced with fire and smoke and fear.
I didn’t know fear had a smell.
Until now.
We run down to the lake—Casey’s favorite spot. I yell for her. Nothing.
I run toward the oak trees on the right, past the now-abandoned firepits, picnic tables, and campsites. “Casey, come!” My voice is scratchy. I dig in my pocket for treats. But it’s empty except for an old tissue and a crumpled gum wrapper.
I stop running and look up. Please let Dani and Casey be okay. Please. I’ll do more chores. I’ll clean out Dad’s toolshed and stinky fishing stuff. Whatever you want.
My heart pounds.
Dad catches up with me.
Blood from my knee drips down my leg. “I don’t understand what happened,” I say, looking around at what was supposed to be the best weekend of the summer.
“I don’t know. But I do know we need to get you to the hospital.” He rips the bottom part off his T-shirt and ties it around my cut. “The firefighters are here. They can look for Casey and keep us informed.”
I freeze. Informed sounds like a word soaked in horrible things.
“Dad, we have to find Casey,” I say, desperation leaking into every word.
He shakes his head. “Eric, it’s not a good idea.”
“Please.”
He sighs. “For now, but if that gash gets worse, we’re leaving.”
I nod, trying to ignore the throbbing.
We race down another dirt path. “Casey!” I yell.
Then I hear it. A rustle of leaves. I turn around.
A squirrel runs away.
Not Casey.
I exhale and keep calling. And running. And searching. I go down another path, this one filled with thorns and honeysuckles.
“Come on, girl.”
Time slips. I keep going. I can’t stop moving, because I don’t want Dad to tell me we have to leave. I need to do this for Dani.
“Find me!” I yell.
Another rustle of leaves.
I turn around.
But this time it’s not a squirrel.
This time it’s Casey.
Running toward me.
8
Like Static
Someone is talking. A woman.
“Mom? Is that you?”
No answer. More talking. Lots of voices. Crisscrossing.
Muffled together.
Like static.
Buzzing.
Sounds fading.
It’s cold and I’m tired. I close my eyes. Wait, are they already closed? Am I sleeping? Where am I?
My thoughts weave and wander.
I’m pitching. My lucky coin is in my pocket. I throw a strike. And then another. And another. I look around. But no one’s here. I’m alone. No batter. No team.
Where did everybody go?
9
Jitter Bob
I hug Dani’s wet dog, who smells like smoke. She licks my face, and Dad wraps us in his big arms. Lloyd the EMT comes over and cleans the cut on my knee, squeezes some ointment on it, and wraps it in gauze. Then he offers us a ride to the hospital. I sit in the back seat of his muddied truck, and Casey lays her body across my lap. It feels good, having her near me. My mind spins as I stare at the fly sitting on the pizza box next to me.
Okay, God, it’s me again. Thanks for before. And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I kind of need something else. I need Dani to be okay-okay. As in totally fine. Please.
I hear Dad talking to Mom on the phone. She’s with Alice, Dani’s mom. They’re driving to the hospital now.
I rub behind Casey’s ears like I’m helping somehow.
My eyes feel heavy, but I’m too scared to close them. Too scared to see what I saw. Feel what I felt.
When we pull into the hospital parking lot, Aunt Josie’s waiting for us. She lives halfway between home and the Cape and drives way too fast, so she got here quick.
“You frightened me,” Aunt Josie says, wiping a tear she doesn’t want me to see. “I love you.” She grabs my face in her hands. I spy her missing tooth. Josie’s terrified of the dentist. She’s also afraid of spiders and the color teal. Thankfully, she’s not afraid of dogs and has agreed to watch Casey until we’re done at the hospital.
“Love you, too, Aunt Josie. I promise, I’m okay.”
She hugs me. “I’m putting it out in the world to heal Dani.”
“Thanks.” Aunt Josie believes if you say your wish out loud—put it into the world—it’ll come true.
I love that about her. She does everything a little sideways. Like me, I guess. She always says we’re a lot alike, both skinny, scattered, smart, and full of laughter. I like the smart and laughter parts.
“And, um, I appreciate your watching Casey.”
“I’m happy to help. Plus, Casey can keep Charles company.”
I rub Casey’s ears, wish her luck with Charles—Aunt Josie’s ancient hairless cat—and kiss her cold nose before we go into the hospital.
As soon as the automatic hospital doors open, the smell of sickness hits me in the face. It’s like rubbing alcohol and puke mixed with feet and bad breath.
I try not to breathe but eventually lose that battle. Then Dad and I are brought back to a room in the ER with a divider that reminds me of the blue shower curtain at home. Which isn’t great, since I have to wear a hospital gown that opens in the back. I ask for two so I can keep everything covered. The doctor comes in and examines me. Turns out the gash on my knee from falling on the rocks is just a bad cut that needs cleaning, more antiseptic, and a large Band-Aid.
When I’m done, Mom’s waiting for Dad and me with clean clothes. Her eyes are red. She holds me tight.
The morning feels like a movie in fast-forward—everything speeding past me, too fast to fully understand.
Mom traces her hand down my cheek.
“Mom, I’m all right.” I pull back. “The doctor even said so.”
We walk along the white-walled hallway with strange hospital smells to the waiting room and sit in the rigid orange plastic chairs. Life-size cutouts of Spider-Man, Batman, and Superman stare at me, and the music from Beauty and the Beast plays through a speaker above my head.
Hey, God, about that Dani thing, just a reminder in case you forget stuff like me: Please make sure she’s okay.
My brain wanders to a little over a month ago. It was the night before Dani left for baseball camp. We sat at the counter seats at Harry’s Hot Dog Palace and got hot dogs with heaps of relish and an order of curly fries to share. I look around the stale waiting room and wish we were back there now.
My eyes sting and my hands still smell like smoke.
Mom leans over after a few minutes. “You must be hungry. Why don’t we take a walk to the cafeteria?” She stands up.
I sigh. She’s not totally wrong. I am hungry, but more than that, my worries need space. I need space. To breathe. “I’ll go myself.”
Mom glances at my dad. I interject before he flanks my other side—I’ve seen them do the silent tag-team parent thing before—“I’ll be fine. I promise.”
My parents look at each other again and then at me. They have a weird unspoken conversation, then Dad hands me food money and gives me directions to the cafeteria.
I weave through the halls—each one a different shade of happy colors. At the end of the kiwi-green one, I find the cafeteria. I grab a bagel and a carton of chocolate milk and slide into a table next to a couple holding hands. Someone left today’s Clippings on the table with the crossword puzzle half filled in. Something else I have in common with Aunt Josie. She’s the original family crossword puzzle master.
The clue for 22 down: “Chase away, as a fly.” I fill in SHOO. For 18 across: “Tiger___.” The answer: WOODS. I finish most of the puzzle, check my phone for news about Dani. No word yet. I stare at the food and realize that no matter how hungry I am, I can’t eat anything. I get up and head back.
I take the pumpkin-orange corridor that dead-ends at the hospital chapel. Wrong way. I stand there but don’t turn around. Instead I peek inside. The room is dimly lit, with candles and red velvet seats and pews.
I wonder if I need to be more religious to go inside.
I look down at my soot-covered sneakers.
Or dressed nicer.
Or cleaner.
I stare through the stained-glass window to see if there’s a dress code posted, but there isn’t.
A woman with wrinkles around her eyes and blue-rimmed glasses walks out. “Bless you, my child,” she says as she passes me.
Am I supposed to bless her back?
I whisper, “Bless you, too,” in case that’s a thing people do. I pull the door open and step inside. Breathe. It’s small and kind of like my temple. Not the Torah part, but the pulpit, the soft seats, and the stained-glass window. I don’t feel strange or out of place, which is weird. Not that I go to Shabbat services every week, but I thought I’d feel like an outsider in this chapel. But I don’t. I slip into a seat in the back, clasp my hands together, squeeze my eyes shut, hoping I’m doing this right, and pray. Again.
I re-promise to clean my room and Dad’s shed if Dani’s all right.
Can I repeat a prayer? Is that how this works?
In case I need a new one, I promise to stop drinking the milk straight from the half-gallon carton in the refrigerator.
My mind drifts. What happened this morning? I replay everything we did when we got to the Cape. We collected firewood, fished, and cannonballed off the dock. We swam until our fingers looked like raisins, strung the lights, ate dinner, told ghost stories, made mac and cheese, and finished off the donuts.
As I’m staring at the stained-glass window, it hits me like a burst of freezing water in the shower. The stove! Dad’s always lecturing me about the danger of leaving it on. He reminded me, like, a thousand times before he even let me use it myself. Last night I turned it on to boil the milk to make the mac and cheese.
What if I never shut off the stove?
I feel all the air seep out of the chapel.
I forget stuff all the time.
Last night Dani and I were talking about my plan to finally talk to Rachel. What if I got distracted and forgot to shut off the stove?
What if this is my fault?
Dani didn’t even want the mac and cheese. She wanted to go to sleep.
Beads of sweat race down my back. I interlock my hands until my knuckles turn bone white, get down on my knees, and amend my prayer.
God, I’m back.
My breath is stiff and choppy.
Please make Dani all right and make this not my fault.
I need air.
I walk out of the chapel and find a bathroom. Splash water on my face and dry it with a brown paper towel that smells like wet dog and chemicals. I stare at myself in the mirror.
What did I do?
I weave back to the waiting room, which now includes a woman talking way too loudly on her cell phone about Buttons—her neighbor’s cat—and a couple sharing a bag of Doritos.
Mom’s sipping coffee and Dad’s doing something on his phone. They look up when I walk over. “Did you find food?” Dad asks, foot tapping.
“Mm-hmm.” My brain is on guilt overload. I sit down but stand up again when I can’t stop my knee from bouncing. Mom calls it my jitter bob. She says Aunt Josie has it, too, and when they watch Jeopardy! together, the couch shakes.
I pace until my leg stops, then push a couple of chairs together and slide in my earbuds, hoping the music drowns out the shouting in my head.
But it doesn’t.
Your fault.
Your fault.
Your fault.
10
Just Me
I feel Mom’s hand in mine. It’s buttery soft and holding tight.
I open my eyes. She slides her hand out.
“Hey, kiddo.” She’s wearing her LIFE'S A PICKLE sweatshirt.
My lips are dry. She gives me a spoon and a cup with ice chips. “This should help.”
Her smile’s warm.
Her steel-blue eyes are worried.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice raspy. I notice the white walls and bright lights in my hospital room. Machines beep as I survey my space. My body doesn’t look or feel like my body. My right leg is in a blue cast from knee to ankle and is hanging in a hammock-like thing. My head is foggy. My right shoulder is purply black, and my right hand feels tingly and numb.
“How long have I been sleeping?” My throat is like sandpaper.
Mom looks at her phone. “Since they brought you to the room. About an hour or so.”
“I can’t believe I was camping this morning.”
Mom exhales and rests her hand on the metal railing on the side of my bed. “Dr. Jeffries was in earlier. Do you remember him?”
I nod. My neck feels stiff. “Yeah. He was the guy with the purple bow tie. Said I fractured my tibia, then he put a cast on the bottom part of my leg.” I stare at my body. “What’s the plan now?”
Mom glances at the notes on her yellow lined pad. “They need to run some more tests on your shoulder.”
I try to wriggle my fingers but can’t. I mean, my brain is telling them to move, but they’re just lying there, not listening.
Worry slides in.
“What’s, um, wrong with my hand?” A nervous knot ties in my stomach. “Why can’t I move it?”
“Dr. Jeffries said you sustained nerve damage in your shoulder. He hopes it will improve when the swelling goes down.”
Hopes?
“Dani, honey, the most important thing to remember, the only thing that truly matters, is that you’re okay.” She smiles, then barely takes a breath before diving back into whatever else she wrote on her pad. “And with a fractured tibia, you can gradually bear weight with the cast on. Then, if all goes well, in around two months, the cast comes off, you get a boot, and from there just lots of PT to get strong.” She talks like this is a winning plan.
But my head spins. “Two months?”
She nods and keeps going. “However, Dr. Jeffries said with the nerve damage you likely won’t be able to grip crutches initially.”
I blow out a big breath. “Then how do I get around?”
“You’ll mostly use that while you’re here and at school.” She points to the wheelchair parked at the end of my bed.
My brain is on overload.
“But when you get home, you get to use the rolling walker.” It’s in the corner. It has some weird arm attachment and looks more like something Gigi would have used.
Mom glances up from her notes. “Dr. Jeffries said you can use the walker for short distances here, too.”
I inhale through the fear squeezing me.
“The nurse will be back soon to give you pain meds. You don’t have to worry, though, because I’m keeping track of everything.” She taps her notepad with her pointer finger.
I notice the scrapes on my shoulder and up and down my arms. “All I remember is Eric and me having donuts and mac and cheese, then going to sleep. What happened after that?” I strain to remember, but it’s like all the important stuff has dumped out.
Then I hear voices outside my room. I glance over and see a desk with nurses and doctors and other official-looking people buzzing behind it. I spy a woman in a blazer talking loudly to a girl with long dark hair in joggers that are the same happy yellow color of the shag carpet in my bedroom. Then the woman says something. I can’t hear her words, but they don’t seem very happy yellow.
