Andre is hunched over in his wheelchair, savaged by his inability to turn back the clock and angle his body in such a way as to break Sandra’s fall. He buries his face in her palm. “I wish we could switch places.”
Andre’s recollection of the wrongs he did to Sandra sets upon him like a whirlwind, and suddenly her hand is soaked with his tears.
Her hand moves. Then her entire body convulses and her chin thrusts upward. Every machine in the room goes berserk. A horde of nurses crashes the door.
“She’s having a seizure,” one says.
Another nurse spins Andre out of the way and collapses the sides of the bed. They spirit Sandra from the room and leave Andre suspended between echoes of hysteria and Sandra’s dangling IV.
Andre covers his head as anguish boils over his body. He looks to the ceiling.
Take me, man. I can go.
Mr. and Mrs. Horton enter the room.
“Where’s Sandra?”
Andre shakes his head. “Seizure.”
Mr. Horton smacks the door and blows out of the room. Mrs. Horton follows.
Andre awakes still parked in the space where Sandra’s bed once was. The sun has set and long shadows slice the room into silver and dark swatches. A candy striper passes and doubles back.
“Mr. Bolden, you’ve been in here all this time?”
Andre nods.
“I’ll take you back to your room.”
Andre sees Mr. and Mrs. Horton walking slowly down the hall.
“How is she?” Andre asks.
They look at him blankly.
“I’m really sorry,” Andre says.
Mr. and Mrs. Horton move on.
Back in his room, Andre stares at the ceiling for hours, or so it seems, even though it could have been only minutes. Time won’t release him except to bully him with regret.
Feeling trapped, Andre converses with God. Or is it himself? He doesn’t know because it’s all in his head.
You should’ve just killed me with my folks.
Give me a reason.
One good reason why I’m here?
Pause.
Nothing.
But it doesn’t matter because I’m going to solve this as soon as I get out of here.
Andre feels a presence in the room. He looks up and it’s Little Dre who stretches out to him.
“He wanted to see you,” Mrs. Horton says.
“’Ey, Dah-dah,” Little Dre says as he hugs his father tight around the neck. It feels so good that Andre ignores the misery chorus that roars through his members when he reciprocates Little Dre’s embrace.
“Daddy missed you so much.”
“Where Ma-ma?”
“She’s sleeping in another room.”
“Andre, I want to ask you something,” Mrs. Horton says, assessing him sharply with her eyes.
“Okay.”
“I want to let Little Andre see Sandra.”
Andre swallows a lump of solid fear.
Mrs. Horton grabs his hand and looks him in the eye. “I want to do it because I believe God is going to raise her up, Andre. Can you believe that with me?”
Andre nods his head.
“Then we’re agreed,” Mrs. Horton says.
She rolls Andre down the hall. He holds Little Dre, who looks up at him and makes funny faces, unaware of what he’s about to encounter. Andre fights back tears as he makes faces back at him, determined to keep his promise to Mrs. Horton.
Little Dre’s playfulness halts when he sees Sandra lying in bed, not moving. He reaches for her. “Ma-ma.”
Mrs. Horton takes him from Andre’s arms and walks him to the bed. “She’s going to get up, baby.”
Little Dre looks at Mrs. Horton and then back to Sandra. He reaches for his mommy again. Mrs. Horton sits him between Sandra’s arm and breast. He pats Sandra’s chest and smiles. “Ma-ma.” He steals a kiss and quickly reaches for his father.
Mrs. Horton shuttles him back to Andre. Once he’s in Andre’s lap, he buries his face in Andre’s chest, but doesn’t cry
Rock pops his head in Andre’s room. “My brother.”
Andre plays it cool so as not to reveal his disappointment at how long it took Rock to finally show up.
Rock grabs a seat. An awkward silence.
“So why did you want to see me?” Rock asks.
Andre feels his way back to the sense of guilty responsibility that hemmed him in after Mr. Horton blitzed his convictions.
“I saw who shot me and Sandra,” Andre says.
———
Since the shooting, Rock has wrestled with the realization that he is one with the cruelty that is at the core of Andre and Sandra’s bind—and Andre’s words make it worse. He thinks of a disturbing proverb. A thief’s partner is his own worst enemy. He will be punished if he tells the truth in court, and God will curse him if he doesn’t.
“And it’s the same person who murdered my cousin,” Andre finishes.
Rock’s stomach takes a bilious turn toward queasy.
“Did you hear about the guy who got shot down the block from the police station on Bergen a few months ago?” Andre asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I saw it happen. And the guy doing the shooting saw me see him. It was the same guy, man. But this time he had a young dude with him that slings on Communipaw. This is OGC, Rock. And they were coming to murk me to make sure I don’t say anything.”
Rock unconsciously crosses his pointer finger over his thumb to cover his OGC tattoo and settles it in his mind. “I’m bowing out of servant leadership, Dre.”
“You’re quitting?” Andre asks.
“Not quitting. Just not qualified. Too much darkness in my closet.”
There’s a hearty ruckus outside of Andre’s room, followed by men’s voices. In tramps Strange-O, Mark, and Fredrick.
“Hot wings, baby!” Strange-O says as he pokes a Styrofoam container emitting hot-sauce-scented steam under Andre’s nose.
“And check the radish roses!” Mark chimes in. “I carved ’em myself!” He proudly displays a green leaf salad with a smattering of the red and white flowered fruit.
Fredrick has a bottle of sparkling cider in each hand.
“What’s real tonight, fellas?”
Rock tries to mask his embarrassment. He forgot it was Wednesday.
Strange-O elbows him. “Where you been at, man? Nobody’s been able to get up with you.”
“Sorry, brothers. It’s been a lot going on,” Rock says.
“Like what?” Mark asks.
Every eye in the room rests on Rock. He tidily diverts. “This ain’t about me. What matters is that we’re all here with Dre for the Realness.” He raises a rugged hand to clap Andre across the shoulder but catches himself when Andre flinches.
Strange-O turns to Andre. “So are you eating under your own power yet, or do you have some sexy nurse force-feeding you blended soul food through a straw?”
———
For the first time in two weeks, Andre smiles without a teardrop accompaniment. “I’ve only had hospital food since I’ve been here,” he says.
“Well, we got plenty for you tonight,” Mark replies, smacking his lips.
Strange-O clutches the nurse call control like a mic and blows through it to test. “One, two, one, two. This is Strange to the O. We need some paper plates up in this piece. Over and out.”
Andre and the Realness quartet crack up at Strange-O’s clueless degree of certainty.
A nurse appears at the door. “What did you say?”
Strange-O smiles. “How you doing, Florence Nightingale? We’re having a party in here for my man, and we need some paper plates in order to serve this chicken up right. Bring ’em fast enough and it might be a few wings in it for you too.”
“First of all, we’re a hospital, not Chicken Delight,” the nurse says. “And second, it’s too many of you here at one time. Who let all of you in?”
Hakeem pokes his head in. “Got room for one more?”
“Nurse Williams, these are my best friends,” Andre says.
“I’ll let it slide this time, but keep it down in here.” She turns to leave and says over her shoulder, “And I’m coming back for my wings too.”
“See? Chicken works like a charm,” Strange-O says.
Andre breaks in and says, “Fellas, this is Hakeem Shabaaz. Hakeem, these are my brothers from the Realness, Rock, Strange-O, Mark, and Fredrick.”
“I’ve been calling every day,” Hakeem says to Andre. “What was up with the visitors ban?”
“Yeah, what was up with that?” Fredrick repeats.
Andre examines every eye in the room. “Honestly? After everything that went down, I wasn’t up to hearing anybody talking about God was in control. I mean, Sandra’s still in a coma. And one doctor said that the longer she’s in it, the less likely it is that she’ll ever come out.”
Every vestige of joviality flees the room.
Mark stops chewing. “So why don’t you mind us being here now?”
Andre peers at the darkness lurking outside of his window. “The isolation was killing me.”
Strange-O places the container on the table. “Dre, you really know how to ruin four dozen wings, man.”
No one laughs at Strange-O’s attempt to lighten the mood.
“Dre, I’m ’a keep it real one hundred with you,” Rock finally says. “And you can get mad at me if you want. But you ain’t serving God, man. He would rather afflict you in this life than judge you in the next. Whether you believe that or not is on you.” Rock moves toward the door. “I’m tired of tap-dancing around people that’s offended by what’s real.”
After Rock bolts, the room is so quiet that you could hear a dead man breathe.
Rock is in Sandra’s room with his head hung low.
“Everything okay, Pastor Jenkins?”
He looks up at the nurse in the doorway.
“Please. I’m not a pastor. My name is Rock. And things are about as well as you can expect, given the circumstances.”
After the nurse leaves, Rock closes his eyes tight.
Something’s gotta give or I’m gonna crack.