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We were on the evening news last night and the late night news as well. The image of our trailer smoldering, the charred shell of our dilapidated home with curls of smoke still seeping from the seams, behind the ambulance my mother was slid into, leaving me behind, talking to Officer M. Daniels. It feels completely unreal every time it comes on, and my stomach churns because “the police have not ruled out foul play.”
I am sitting in one of the many “family rooms” of the hospital, drinking the cafeteria coffee that brews all night, listening to the silence of the hospital around me. A nurse shuffles past the door outside, but I have been peacefully alone tonight. I couldn’t stand the beeping of the monitors when I woke up, so I made my way here. I am still dressed in the scrubs they gave me, and I feel a little like a person in costume, assuming a different identity. I could have put on my own clothes—I have my backpack—but there is something strangely comforting in the anonymous, slouchy, blue scrubs. I have a concussion, which probably explains why I am missing so much of my memory, and maybe that’s why I didn’t think of putting my own clothes on after I showered.
I am struggling to reconcile the parts of myself. The restless energy of my guilt for what I attempted and the sick feeling that they will figure it out, or worse yet, my mother will remember, makes it hard for me to sit still. Does it make it okay that I bite because my life has been spent chained to the doghouse? Does the fact that my mother is broken make it okay? It doesn’t. I know it doesn’t, and I am trying to figure out how I can live a good life when I am every bit as broken as she. What do I have to look forward to?
I scoured my mother’s room before I left in search of a sharp object, a scalpel, a blade, even a paperclip. Almost anything metal would do. I have new words singing to be placed, and the skin of my right arch and my left ankle are itching with the need of it. Hopeless. Broken. I am dwelling on the dark and ominous aspect of my future when my solitude is interrupted by a young man coming in with a dolly of boxed snacks. He doesn’t look at me, in my corner where I sit hunched. I catch his face in profile when he shifts to open the vending machine. Damn. My breath hitches in my throat, and it is a sound he hears, glancing back and over his shoulder, startled. Apparently he thought he was alone. It is Warren. Warren from Christmas.
“Hey!” A smile spreads on his mouth, that beautiful full mouth, and he comes around to face me. I straighten, unrolling my back a full six inches until my shoulders pop into their normal position.
“Hey.” I let my smile come free. It’s strangely comforting to see a friendly face tonight. He is a friendly face. Strange.
His mouth, that mouth, contorts, expressing his puzzlement at seeing me here, dressed in scrubs like one of the nurses. “Your mom?” I nod. “Yeah, I had heard she’d had an accident. She still in here?”
“No. She was home for that.” I hear a small laugh escaping my chest, and I suddenly am aware that I am still unhinged. “Our house burnt down today . . . well, yesterday.”
“Oh shit.” He leaves the vending machine open and comes to squat down in front of me. “What happened?”
I just frown and shake my head. I feel my chin puckering, a sure sign that I am about to fall out, and the sudden welling in my eyes makes me look away. His proximity is disconcerting. I can smell him, the scent of shampoo on his hair, the tang of a cigarette smoked some time ago.
“Damn.” He reaches out and wipes an escapee off my cheek. His voice is quiet, with none of the attitude that he carries around him like his clothing. “You’ve had a hell of a week.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, and another tear escapes. “And I got hit by a truck this morning . . . well, yesterday morning.” He expostulates again, and I suddenly am laughing at the complete improbability of my life. He wipes another tear from where it is getting ready to drip off the end of my nose. I draw my hands up over my face for a second. Trying to pull myself together. It doesn’t work, and I find that I am shuddering and tears are spilling free. I raise my hands in a “what the hell” motion and release a small, broken laugh. “Sorry,” I finally manage to say, trying to set him free, but he is still kneeling in front of me, his hands resting on my knees.
“What kind of truck?” His lips quirk into a small, lopsided smile, and I am suddenly laughing. Nearly hysterical laughing, but released from the intensity of emotion that has held me all day. I laugh until my face hurts and I can feel the blood throbbing in the large knot on the back of my head. What a strange sensation.
“I don’t know!” I slap against his shoulder, and he falls back, splaying across the floor, which causes my laughter to start all over again. When I finally catch my breath again, I reach out and offer him a hand up. He takes my hand and rises to his feet and draws me up after him. He wraps me in his arms for just a second, a second of my cheek pressed against his chest, his arms folding around me, a squeeze, and then he releases me. He leads me to the vending machine and slices through the tape on top of one of the boxes with a yellow box cutter, flinging the lids out and starts loading it. “So you’re the vending machine guy?” I ask.
“Yep.” He smiles, and I swear there is pride in his face when he says it. “I’m the Vendor Tender.” I start laughing again, and he smiles at my hilarity. “Really. That’s my company.”
“How long have you worked there?”
An eyebrow raises above his storm-colored eyes. “About a year.”
I stand up to join him where he has begun sorting treats and snack packs into the chute. I don’t ask if I can, but I follow his pattern and help him fill the pretzels, honey buns, gum, and chips until all the slots are full again. “You’re a natural,” he says, and I smile at the praise. What is wrong with me?
“Thanks.” He’s repacking his dolly, and we make our way toward the door. “It was nice seeing you,” I say, bumping lightly into him, like I would Dylan.
“Yes it was.” He bumps me lightly back. “I’d like to do it again.”
“What?”
“See you.” We are through the door and into the hallway. “Again.” I feel my face redden, and I look down at my feet as we walk.
“I would like that.” I glance at him, but he is looking forward.
“You would? Great.” He pauses a beat. “Friday?”
“Yes.” I smile. “I work till eight.”
“I’ll pick you up there.”
Just like that I have a date. What an insane, eventful, and crazy day. I feel like all the bad is just going to slip away, and that it’s really all going to be okay. I slip the yellow box cutter into the inner pocket of my scrub pants and wave as he walks away.