like that, but then I see her
slip him something that
looks like pills.
The way she darts her
eyes around to see if
anyone is watching
makes me wonder
FAITH
I dream
sometimes
about those
white birds
and in
the dream
they begin
to form
into wings
around my
shoulders,
a giant
pair of wings
made up
of white
feathered
birds
who are
lifting me
higher and
higher.
But then
I hear voices
from below,
calling me.
Faith, they say. Come back.
And it’s
Emma’s voice,
loudest
of course,
and Dad’s
and Mom’s,
even Polly
has a voice
in this
dream.
So I tell
the birds
that I need to
go back.
And gently,
very gently,
they start to
descend,
back down
to
earth.
I told
my friend
Francesca
about
that dream
and she
teased me
about my
Near Death
Experience,
said that
Oprah will
probably
be calling
to ask for
an interview.
And then
she folded me
the most
beautiful
white
paper crane
I’d ever
seen.
Wednesday, December 15
EMMA
I dream about that boy Walter Smith.
Over and over I dream about him,
his rifle pointed straight at me.
But in the dream when I raise my hand,
the thing in my hand isn’t a rubber crow.
It’s a gun.
In the dream I aim that gun at Walter Smith,
and I shoot him. Again and again.
Bullets tearing into him. Until he is dead.
FELIX
mom tells me that the first thing she did when i came out of the coma was to call my dad in afghanistan. she said it took a little maneuvering but he’s coming home, has a flight out next saturday.
I’m not seeing him, I say, interrupting her going on about how excited he was to get the news and all of us being together for Christmas.
What? she says.
He never said he was sorry.
What do you mean? she asks, looking anxious.
He never told me he was sorry. Did he ever say he was sorry to you?
she stares at me.
Felix, if you’re talking about last year, that night when you saw . . . , she says. I mean, it really wasn’t what you thought it was.
Mom, I say, I know exactly what it was. And it was really messed up. And it was even more messed up that you acted like nothing happened, that you’re still acting like nothing happened.
tears suddenly flood her eyes.
I . . . Felix, it’s just . . . , she starts.
then she breaks down, sobbing hard, her whole body shaking. and suddenly she runs out of the room. i want to get up and follow her but i can’t. more than three months on my back in a hospital bed has turned my muscles into a bunch of worn-out rubber bands. they say it’s going to take at least a month of rehab for me to even be able to walk again.
i stare at the door, feeling bad. but i don’t regret what i said. and i’m not going to change my mind.
Friday, December 17
MAXIE
I visit Felix
in the hospital,
a few days after he gets
his new eye,
his fake eye.
He asked me to come because
he said he wanted to
test drive it
with me,
since I had a good eye (ha-ha)
for
color
and light.
He had told me all about
how they would fit him
for it,
how it would match his
other eye
exactly,
how it wouldn’t be made of glass
like he was hoping,
but of some
acrylic material.
When I walk in the room
Felix is sitting up in bed.
And it is amazing
to see him,
with no more bandages,
and two eyes
looking back at me.
There is puckering
in the skin
around his right eye
and some faint white scarring,
but it really is
something,
how real
his new eye
looks.
Wow, I say.
Yeah, it’s pretty awesome, what they can do, he says If you look closely, you can tell, because of the way it doesn’t move like the other.
If you say so. But the color is perfect. Amazing, I say.
He smiles.
Thanks, Max, he says. I can do tricks. Wanna see?
I don’t know . . . , I answer, apprehensive.
And of course he does it,
pops his fake eye
right out of the
socket,
which gives me sort of a sick feeling,
mainly because of the hollowed-in
look of the empty socket.
But he’s holding the acrylic eye
in the palm of his hand,
and I can’t resist.
I pull out
my camera.
Flash.
He beams at me.
Nice, he says. You should submit that to the school lit magazine.
Maybe I will, I say, smiling back.
He puts the eye back in,
and I don’t watch.
The nurses say I shouldn’t do that too much, unsanitary or something, but I knew you’d appreciate it, Felix says.
Do you know when you might be going home? I ask.
I think pretty soon, he starts, but then I see him looking past me toward the door.
Emma is standing there,
leaning on crutches,
in the doorway.
Hey, Felix, she says with a grin, I heard you finally woke up.
Felix grins back.
I was just showing Max my new eye, he says.
Emma comes further into the room,
peering closely at
Felix’s face.
Jeez, I can barely tell which eye is the fake one, she says.
He points to
his right eye.
Excellent, she says.
You doing okay, Emma? Felix asks.
Yeah, she says. I’m hoping this next surgery is the last. It’s getting old.
She spots the pile of
Joey Pigza books.
Hey, I remember those, she says, crossing over to them and picking one up. You read them about twenty times, back in middle school.
Yeah, and did you hear about my Joey Pigza miracle? Max was reading it to me and, shazam, I woke up, Felix says.
Good old Joey Pigza, she says. Faith had a miracle, too. An official NDE.
Very cool, says Felix.
Yeah, there were these white birds and glowing light . . .
While she talks
Emma has been straighten
ing
the pile of Joey Pigza books,
but then she trails off
and suddenly looks
like she’s about
to cry.
What’s wrong? I ask.
Nothing, Emma whispers. It’s just Brendan . . .
She stops abruptly,
an uncertain look
on her face.
The three of us get quiet.
Then Felix clears
his throat.
Hey, Emma, I can do this amazing trick, he says.
EMMA
At first, in the weeks and months after
that night, I hated Walter Smith. I hated
everything about him. Even his name.
I hated that he took so much
from all of us, but especially
from Brendan and Felix.
But something Faith said changed me,
not right away but gradually.
She felt sorry for Walter Smith.
I was pissed when she said it,
my soft-hearted, wrongheaded
little sister.
Walter Smith was a freak,
who raised a gun to his shoulder
and tore our lives apart.
Feel sorry for him? How?
But even though I tried to avoid reading
the stories in the newspapers, I couldn’t help it.
And one of them, an in-depth report
by someone who was a good writer,
told Walter Smith’s life story.
And it was really sad. Walter Smith had always had
so little. Not one single person cared if he
lived or died, except his crazy old grandmother.
No mother or father or sister. No friends.
Just his cowboy books and cowboy movies.
He never had a chance.
Monday, December 20
CHLOE
“How Many Dumb Blondes Does it Take to Screw in a Lightbulb?”
One of the nurses sends me
on an errand to the rehab unit
and I happen to catch Brendan
as he’s finishing
his physical therapy.
I can tell he’s really
working hard,
the way he used to
in lacrosse practices.
Which seems like a good sign.
Unlike that thing I saw
a while back,
with the nurse Suzie.
He’s all sweaty, with a towel
draped around his neck
as he wheels toward me.
When he gets closer I can
see that his eyes are red,
the pupils constricted,
like the eyes of a patient
I helped out with last week
who had been on narcotics.
Hey, Chloe Carney, he says, how’s Highland Park Hospital’s cutest volunteer?
Good, I answer. And then I add, So I saw you flirting with that nurse Suzie the other day.
Oh yeah? he says, darting a little look at me.
Yeah, I say.
What can I say? This chair is pretty much a chick magnet.
He’s giving me
his best dimpled smile,
but I’m not buying it.
I saw her give you pills, I say.
He looks surprised,
his smile fading a little.
Yeah, just a few sleeping pills, he says. Sometimes I have trouble getting to sleep.
I give him a steady look. Doesn’t your doctor give you stuff like that?
I ran out. Suzie was just lending a hand. Look, I won’t do it again, he says, flashing me that smile again.
A couple of interns in scrubs walk by.
What’s she really giving you? I ask.
Huh?
And where do you hide them, I mean from your parents?
He stares up at me.
It’s saying, I thought
Chloe Carney was dumb.
Well? I persist.
Percocet. Under the mattress, he says.
Then he gets this look in his eyes,
like he can’t believe he just
told me that.
BRENDAN
Holy crap. Why’d I do that?
Tell her?
It’s okay, Chloe says, putting her hand on my shoulder.
I shake my head.
What’ve you got, like magic powers? I ask. First Walter Smith and his rifle. Now me.
Chloe Carney puts her head back
and laughs.
And I swear to God, it’s one of the
nicest things I’ve heard in a long time.
Thursday, December 23
MAXIE
After lunch one day
right before winter break,
this guy with ginger hair
comes up to me.
He wears wire-rimmed glasses
and a T-shirt that says
IF DESCARTES WAS RIGHT
YOU WOULDN’T EXIST.
You’re Maxie Kalman, right? he says.
Yes, I say.
I’m Zander, editor of Versions, the lit magazine, he says, and so far, the photos I’m getting are pretty lame. So I was just wondering if you’d like to submit stuff.
Uh, okay, I reply, immediately thinking of the photo of the fake eye in Felix’s hand.
Great!
Then he digs into his backpack.
Oh, and I’ve got some poems. Would really like to pair them with some cool photos. See if they inspire you, okay?
I nod, taking the
pieces of paper
he hands me.
Great, he says again. I put my e-mail at the top there.
Then he gives me
a big smile
and walks off.
Leaning against
my locker,
I read the poems.
They’re actually a
series of haiku,
all with the theme of
good-bye
or
departure.
And they are
beautiful.
For some reason
they remind me of
that night.
So of course,
tears come to
my eyes.
But then an
amazing thing
happens.
I say No.
Not out loud
but inside my head,
and I deliberately shift to
thinking about
those haiku and
thinking about
the photos
I could take
to capture those
beautiful words.
My tears dry,
and I feel a
tiny,
warming
glimmer of
hopefulness.
Tuesday, December 28
BRENDAN
I’d been thinking about it for a long time
and decided it was time to visit Felix.
The guy who lost his eye
because of me.
Felix’s house is all handicap friendly, which is a relief.
Just need to wheel myself up to the door.
His mom is surprised to see me,
but she doesn’t say anything.
Felix is lying on his bed, eyes closed,
listening to an iPod.
I watch him for a few seconds,