Read Between the Lines, Page 2

  I was no sissy.

  Maybe I was a mama’s boy, though.

  Until she left me.

  Then I was no one’s boy.

  When someone leaves unexpectedly, it has to be someone’s fault. You need someone to blame. My father blamed me. He blamed me, so he hated me.

  The day my mother left us, I was never his boy again. I was his burden.

  When the neighbor and her dog found me in the bushes that night, I begged to be left alone. But she brought me home anyway. And that night, more than my finger throbbed with pain.

  No one slams the door on my father.

  But secretly, I really thought he beat the crap out of me because I came back.

  Mrs. O’Connor waddles over to the refrigerator to get an ice pack for me. I glance at her very tidy desk. There’s a bouquet of flowers on one corner with a card sticking out. I bet it’s from her husband. On the other corner, there’s a framed photo of her family. She has four kids, and she’s posing with them and her husband. They’re all wearing jeans and white T-shirts. They’re beaming, as if they are the happiest family in the world, even if they also look like the dorkiest family in their matching outfits. The kids seem to range in age from about four to twelve or so. They all have really white teeth. I wonder if they were Photoshopped. I wonder if they are all really that happy. Probably.

  “This will hurt at first,” Mrs. O’Connor says as she hands me the ice pack. “But it should help with the swelling.”

  She pulls a piece of paper across the bed behind the curtain and puts a fresh paper case on the pillow. “Can you sit and lean against the wall? I think you should keep your hand raised above your heart for now.”

  I nod and adjust myself on the bed. It farts awkwardly as predicted. I lean against the cinder-block wall. It’s cold and reassuringly hard. Solid. I close my eyes and feel myself disappearing, just like little kids think they do when they hide their faces. If only.

  “You’ll be all right,” Mrs. O’Connor tells me. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  She pulls the curtain shut.

  I listen to her nursing shoes creak under her weight as she makes her way back to the stool. The air in the cushion empties out in a quiet whistle-breath when she sits back down. She starts to hum the tune to “It’s a Small World.” She probably takes her family to Disney World every year. That’s probably where they took that picture. That’s probably why they all look so happy.

  I concentrate on my pulsing finger, almost throbbing to the rhythm of the song. I sing it in my head as Mrs. O’Connor hums.

  I find that song kind of depressing, to tell the truth. People like Mrs. O’Connor’s kids get the laughter and hope part of the world; people like me get the rest: tears and fear.

  Womp-womp-womp.

  I close my eyes and pretend the invisible trick works.

  After a while Mrs. O’Connor peeks her head around the curtain to check on me. “How’re you doing?” she asks.

  I lift the ice pack off and look. The swelling is about the same, but my finger seems to be getting more purple.

  “Ooh. That’s not good,” she says, stepping closer to inspect.

  “Does that mean I broke it?”

  “Maybe. I better call your dad back. I really think you need to have it X-rayed.”

  I look up at the ceiling and sigh. She pats my knee. “It’ll be OK,” she says.

  But I don’t know what she means by it.

  She goes to make the call. It takes about two seconds to figure out that my dad is not happy.

  “Well, it does look pretty bad,” Mrs. O’Connor says quietly. Pause. “Yes, I really think he needs to have an X-ray. [Pause.] No, I can’t tell just by looking. But I’ve seen a lot of broken fingers over the years, sir.” Her voice gets louder. “No, I’m not a doctor. [Pause.] All right. Yes. He’ll be here. We’ll see you soon.”

  I brace myself for the look on her face when she pulls the curtain back again.

  “He’s such a dick,” I tell her, surprising myself with my choice of words. “Sorry.”

  “I don’t like that talk,” she says. But she pats my knee again and smiles. Code for But, yes. He really is.

  I lean my head back against the hard wall and close my eyes again.

  Here is my fantasy:

  I’m sitting with my dad in the waiting room at the hospital. It’s full of people moaning about whatever pain it is that brought them there. My father will appear physically uncomfortable having to be near so many people, especially people who are “bellyaching.” I will enjoy watching him squirm. A hot nurse walks into the room. She’s holding a clipboard. She scans the list on it and calls out, “Nathan Granger?” My father and I will both stand up at the same time because my name is the one and only thing we share. But the nurse will check me out, not my dad. She’ll smile and give me a sexy look and say, “Come with me,” in this really suggestive way, and I will smile back at her and then give my father a very fake-sorry face. The hot nurse and I will disappear down the hall together, leaving my father alone with all the drug addicts and runny-nose coughing little kids. Instead of taking me to some tiny little cubicle with curtains for walls, the nurse will take me to a supply closet. She’ll tell me how hot I am and start to undress and say how she wants to be the one I lose my virginity to and how she’s going to make sure I never forget my first time and . . .

  Mrs. O’Connor starts humming “It’s a Small World” again.

  I shift uncomfortably on the squeaky bed and try to think other thoughts before she sees what else is suddenly swollen.

  Oh, God.

  I concentrate on the pain in my finger instead. The paper crinkles under me. Then I hear a click on the other side of the curtain. It’s the sound of the office door opening.

  “Well, hello, Claire. How are you doing, honey?”

  The curtain is closed so I can’t see who’s on the other side, but I only know one Claire. Claire Harris. And she is even better than my fantastical hot nurse.

  “Hi, Mrs. O’Connor,” she says.

  “How can I help you, hon?”

  I’m kind of surprised to hear her call someone else hon. I thought that was just for me.

  “Uh,” Claire says quietly. “I have cramps.”

  I wish I hadn’t heard that.

  “Aw, hon,” Mrs. O’Connor says again. It’s kind of bugging me.

  “They’re really bad. Can I call my mom?”

  “Sure, sweetie. I’d let you lie down, but the bed’s occupied.”

  Claire peers through the curtain.

  Oh. My. God.

  “Hey,” she says. She doesn’t seem to be embarrassed by the fact that I know she’s having her period.

  “Hey,” I say, but it comes out like a high-pitched croak.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  Claire Harris just asked me a question. Claire Harris is talking to me. Keith is going to die of jealousy.

  “Gym,” I say. I lift off the ice and we both gasp. My finger is hideous.

  “Wow. That looks, like, really bad,” she tells me.

  “He’s going to the hospital as soon as his dad gets here,” Mrs. O’Connor says. “Do you want to sit down while I call your mom, Claire? What’s the number?”

  Claire sits next to me on the bed and recites her number. The bed doesn’t fart when Claire Harris sits on it. It’s like even the bed has standards. I’m a little offended, but I also understand. It’s Claire Harris after all. Sitting ten inches away from me. So close I can smell her perfume. It smells like . . . grass? Summer. It’s nice. Like outside.

  “Hi, Mrs. Harris, this is Mrs. O’Connor from school. I’ve got Claire here, and she’s not feeling well. [Pause.] That’s right. [Pause.] Oh, I know. We ladies just can’t get a break.”

  Claire sighs and stares up at the ceiling. She seems unaffected by the topic of conversation, but my face is burning hot.

  “She wants to go home, if that’s all right with you? [Pause.] The bus? [Pause.
] OK. I’ll tell her.”

  Claire stands up as soon as Mrs. O’Connor gets off the phone. I try not to look anywhere near her . . . reproductive area.

  Oh. My. God.

  “I’m gonna go now,” Claire says. She picks up the bag she left on the floor and swings it over her shoulder. Her hair gets caught in the strap and she pulls it out. It cascades down her back like she’s in a shampoo commercial.

  “Be safe, hon,” Mrs. O’Connor says.

  “I will.” She turns to me and smiles. “Hope your finger’s OK, um. Sorry. What’s your name?”

  “Nate,” I say.

  “Nate.” She smiles again. Then she leaves.

  “Pretty girl,” Mrs. O’Connor says, raising her eyebrows. “A little old for you, though, I suppose.”

  “And a little too hot,” I say.

  She laughs.

  “Looks aren’t everything, hon.” Even if it’s a little less special now, I still like it when she calls me that.

  The door opens again, and this time there is a bitterness that blows in with it. It does not smell like grass and the outdoors. It smells like my father. Like aftershave and stale cigarettes.

  “Hi, Mr. Granger,” Mrs. O’Connor says. She pulls the curtain all the way open with a loud swish as the rings slide harshly across the bar. My father sees me and my finger and shakes his head.

  “Doesn’t look that bad,” he says.

  It never does, Dad.

  I glance over at the nurse, who looks like she just smelled something gross.

  My dad leans closer. “Let me see it.” He starts to reach for my hand.

  I hold it out to his ugly frown to keep him from getting too close to me.

  “It’s not even that swollen,” he says, turning to Mrs. O’Connor. “You really think he broke it?”

  She sighs. “I don’t know for sure. But yes. That would be my guess. Fingers aren’t supposed to be purple.”

  Good one, Mrs. O.

  He squints at my finger. Any idiot can see it is a strange shade of purple and three times bigger than the others. Slowly, I curl down my pinkie and ring finger. Then my pointer and thumb, so that I’m holding my fingers inside a fist aimed at my dad. All but one finger, that is.

  And my God, even though it hurts like hell to do it, because moving any of my fingers causes shooting pain up my arm, it is worth it. It is worth it to stick my big, broken purple middle finger up at my father. To stick it right in his face.

  I grin.

  He frowns.

  We stare.

  Finally, it dawns on him what I might be doing. He looks confused. Would I really have the balls to give him the finger? Would I dare? We both know he wouldn’t hesitate for one second to smack me across the face right here if he thought I was. Screw the nurse. Screw what she would think.

  I stop smiling at the image and think the words my finger is saying. The words I have longed to say to him every time he boxes my ears. Every time he laughs when I make a mistake. Every time he calls me the name I refuse to repeat. Every time I call to invite a friend over and they say no and give some lame excuse, never acknowledging that it isn’t because they don’t like me but because they’re terrified of my father. How are you supposed to make friends in a situation like that?

  Maybe I am a Worthless Little ——. But I’m only a Worthless Little —— because of you, Dad.

  He grunts, deciding I don’t have the balls after all. “Let’s go, then,” he says. “I don’t have all day. This is already costing me at work.”

  See?

  I stand up and feel dizzy but quickly find my balance before my dad can see me stumble. Be weak. Mrs. O’Connor gives me a sympathetic look.

  “No worries,” I say. I even wink at her. I have never winked at anyone before. But this strange feeling of ballsiness has come over me.

  I hold my hand and finger up behind my dad and smirk.

  I don’t know why, but somehow I feel like something good is going to come out of this injury after all.

  In the cab of my dad’s truck, we stare straight ahead, not speaking. I hold my hand upright across my chest and crack the window open to keep from getting sick from the smell of his cigarettes. He quit before I was born, when he met my mom, but picked right back up the day she left. He huffs and puffs with his window rolled up, just to torture me, I swear.

  I open my window and, like a dog, lift my face to the breeze just to torture him back.

  Every so often my dad sighs uncomfortably. He never asks if I’m OK. This isn’t a surprise. Just an observation.

  We pull into the parking lot and park near the emergency entrance.

  “Let me see that again,” he says.

  I lift my middle finger toward him and think the words when he makes his disgusted face.

  “It doesn’t look that bad,” he says again.

  “Then let’s just go home,” I dare him.

  He looks up and squints at the hospital entrance. He takes an awkward breath and chokes. I wait for him to pull out another cigarette, but he keeps his hands on the wheel.

  I wait.

  He waits.

  We both eye the pack between the seats, and he instinctively grabs it and opens his door.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he says. He lights up and starts puffing as he walks toward the entrance.

  I follow silently.

  We pause when we step on the sensor that opens the door. He turns to me and looks at my finger one more time. He takes another long drag. Then another. The embers glow bright, and I think he’ll swallow the thing whole if he’s not careful.

  “You sure it could be broken?” he asks seriously.

  The question takes me by surprise. So does the look on his face. It’s more than annoyance. Or anger. He looks scared.

  We both gaze at the door, and I realize why he’s so nervous. Because I remember this, just like he’s probably remembering. The two of us, standing here on another horrible day, somehow both knowing the terrible news waiting on the other side. And now it suddenly feels terrifying to move forward.

  I look down at my mangled finger.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it,” he says, dropping the still-glowing cigarette to the ground next to the butt bin. He doesn’t bother to stomp it out. He steps forward bravely and walks inside.

  He’s gruff with the nurse at the admissions desk. She’s gruff back.

  We find seats in the waiting room once the nurse puts a plastic bracelet with my name on it around my wrist. I sit first, at a seat where I can watch the TV that hangs from the ceiling in one corner. My father chooses a seat next to some other empty chairs across the room instead of the one next to me. Could be he just doesn’t want to watch Fox News. Could be he just doesn’t want to sit next to his embarrassment of a son. Whatever.

  There’s a lady sitting in the corner with her daughter. The girl rests her head on her mom’s shoulder. They’re holding hands. I try to remember what that felt like. My mom’s hand in mine. Reassuring. Calm. Safe. When she took my hand, I felt loved.

  I press my throbbing hand to my chest and glare at my father, who sits restlessly on the other side of the room.

  I try to see him as a stranger would. His hair is trimmed close to his scalp. Not quite a crew cut but almost. He is clean shaven. He has no laugh lines. The wrinkles between his eyebrows are from making his angry face. His mouth is set in a scowl. He appears to be reading Time magazine, but probably he’s just looking at the pictures. He’s flipping through the pages way too fast for anything else. Hyper. I can tell he needs a cigarette by the way his hands tremble when he turns the pages.

  Chillax, I imagine saying. You’re not the one with the smashed finger.

  He glances up and looks around the room. His knee bounces nervously. He gives me the evil eye. It’s all your fault I’m here, I can hear him thinking. It’s always your goddamned fault.

  It dawns on me that he’s probably right. The last time he w
as here, in this very room, he was waiting for news about my mom. Waiting and hating me. Blaming me. Wishing it was me in the ER, not her.

  It’s my fault she got in the car that day. She didn’t like me taking the bus. She didn’t like the bruises I acquired on my ride home. Besides, she said, she liked picking me up at school. She liked to be able to check in with the teachers and other parents. It was a social thing, she insisted, whenever my dad questioned her. But she and I both knew, and maybe my dad did too, that she was really trying to protect me from the daily torture I was sure to get on the bus.

  Even though I know it’s not rational, I ask the maybe questions too. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I should have told her I liked taking the bus. Maybe if just that one day I’d told her I wanted to.

  But I didn’t.

  And she died.

  She died a horrible, painful death right here. In this hospital. Because some person drank too much and got in a car and crashed into her.

  My dad can’t blame the driver, though.

  Because we never found out who it was.

  The police said that judging from the marks in the road, the person was probably wasted. “Typical hit-and-run,” they said.

  I hate that phrase.

  It sounds like a baseball game.

  Not murder.

  It’s too hard to blame a nameless, faceless person, even though I suppose we’ve both tried. In the end, it’s easier to blame me. I know.

  “Nathan Granger?” a guy nurse walks into the room. So much for my earlier hot nurse fantasy. Guess I won’t be losing my virginity today after all. Surprise.

  I stand up.

  “Ouch,” the nurse says. “That’s gotta hurt.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I glance over at my dad. He doesn’t look up from his pretend reading.

  “Are you with a parent?” the nurse asks.

  “My dad,” I say.

  Finally my dad looks up from the magazine.

  “Would you like to come with us, Mr. Granger? Or wait here?”

  “I’ll wait outside in the truck,” he tells me. “You can call me if you need me to sign anything and I’ll come in.”

  The nurse looks at him like he is a first-class asshole.

  “Will it be long?” my dad asks. “I really need to get back to work.”