Did all hospitals smell the same? Like stale air … or old fruit? Like something good gone bad?
The smell stung my nose, bringing back memories, as if they’d been wrapped up in that scent. Memories of the last time I went to a hospital, when I was five years old and Mom had brought me to visit Bubbe. The tubes with clear liquids going in and dark liquids coming out. The machines with lights flashing red or green. The plastic breathing tubes going in her nose.
To me, that smell reminded me of death. And now it was Zeydeh in that room. Zeydeh lying in that bed.
And it was my fault.
I’d come out to the hospital garden to escape the smell—and my memories. But I couldn’t. It seemed like forever since Zeydeh collapsed, but it had only been two hours. Dad called the paramedics and they were there in minutes. A concussion from the fall, they thought, possibly a fractured arm. Low blood pressure the likely cause of his fainting.
I kept waiting for Zeydeh to open his eyes, but he didn’t, not in all the time it took to get him on a stretcher and out to the ambulance. Mom rode with him to the hospital, and he came to for a few seconds, but he didn’t seem to know her.
He was awake now, but not really awake. Benny and I got to see him for a few minutes. He had an IV sticking from his hand with a long tube feeding him liquids. His left arm was wrapped in a splint and an ice pack rested against his head. He looked tiny in the bed, like a lumpy pile of sticks.
His eyes were open, but it was as if he were looking into his own mind. “Is the train coming?” His eyes fluttered.
“No, Dad, there’s no train,” Mom said gently. “Ellie and Benny are here.”
“The train is coming,” he mumbled. Then his eyes fluttered closed.
“It’s okay,” Mom told us. “He’s not really awake.”
But she hadn’t looked like it was okay.
Then they’d taken him for tests. Dr. Straus, Zeydeh’s doctor, had come by. A concussion, he said. The CAT scan showed a subdural hematoma—a bruise on the brain. They’d monitor it closely. As long as it didn’t worsen … They’d keep him overnight and see how he was in the morning. Yes, confusion was normal. Try not to worry.
But I was worried. Mom was, too. Dad pretended to be strong, but his eyes were more red than Mom’s. Benny didn’t say much. He had his iPod on, but I could tell it wasn’t very loud, because every time the door leading to the patient rooms opened, he looked up.
The nurses were setting up a reclining chair for Mom in Zeydeh’s room. Dad said he’d take us home as soon as we had word about Zeydeh’s arm. But the waiting room just made waiting worse. At least the courtyard garden was empty. Even at 8:00 p.m., it was still too warm for most people to want to be outside.
I remembered I’d been to the garden before, too. There were bushes and flower beds and a few trees with twisted green trunks. A flagstone path wound around the garden and through the middle where curved benches faced a fountain. Zeydeh and I had come out here and stood by the fountain. Back then, it had been taller than me. Water poured from a spout at the top, into a wavy-edged bowl, then into another, and finally into a shallow pool. The bottom looked like solid metal from the coins that had been dropped in. I thought of all the people who had tossed in those coins. People like me, praying, hoping. Had their prayers been answered, I wondered?
Zeydeh hadn’t dropped in a coin. “What does God need with money?” But he’d stood out here for a long time, staring at the fountain and holding my hand.
I looked into the sky. The hospital lights shone from every floor, a stairway of lights rising where—to heaven? No, not for Zeydeh. Not for Zeydeh! I blinked into the shadows, searching beyond what I could see. I squeezed my eyes shut, and my throat closed on a sob.
He can’t die, God! You can’t let him! Hot tears dripped down my cheeks. It’s not his fault—none of this is. Don’t make him die. Not because of me. Zeydeh was right: I didn’t belong at that camp. I never should have gone. If I hadn’t, none of this would have happened. He’d be home right now, making his soup.
“Ellie?”
I startled and spun around. The electric doors had slid open; I hadn’t even heard. Devon stood in the doorway, as if he couldn’t decide if he was coming or going. Hurriedly, I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped out, and the doors swooshed shut behind him. He walked toward me wearing a white polo over jeans. I realized I’d never seen him in jeans before. He looked really good, which for some reason made me feel worse.
“When you didn’t show for the performance tonight, I got worried,” he said. “I tried calling, but you didn’t answer. Finally, Megan got through to your brother, and she told me what happened. How is he?” He reached for my hand, but I folded my arms across my middle.
“I don’t know. He has a concussion.”
“Your brother said he fainted?”
“I thought he was dead.” My voice caught and I turned around to face the fountain. A pebble had gotten stuck in one of the wavy edges. The water swerved and dodged, trying to find a way around the block.
“He’ll be okay, Ellie.”
I watched a little pool of water gather behind the pebble. “We had a fight, Devon. A terrible fight. We argue all the time, but not like that. Never like that.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of what I’d said. If only I could go back. Take it all back.
I opened my eyes and took a careful breath. “Today at camp, he realized I was trying to hide him. My grandpa, who I’m so proud of, and I wanted him to disappear.” My voice crumbled into a million pieces, and I went on in a sob. “When I showed up to get him tonight, he was dressed like an Orthodox rabbi. He wanted to out me to your grandmother. And instead of getting mad at her, I got mad at him.”
“Ellie,” he said. I heard the worry in his voice and saw the shadow of his hand reaching out to me. “It’s not your fault.”
I flinched from his touch. “Then whose fault is it?” I swung to face him, anger rising inside me, turning my tears into acid. “Your grandmother is the racist. Is it her fault?”
“Don’t say that.”
I lifted my chin, daring him to meet my eyes. “It’s true, isn’t it? You can call it something else, but that’s what it is.”
He turned away and stared at the fountain. I could tell he was trying to calm himself. But I didn’t want him to be calm. Zeydeh was fighting for his life—how dare Devon be calm!
“I didn’t come to argue, Ellie. I just wanted to be with you.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to be with you.”
The trickling water sounded loud in the sudden quiet. I could see his throat working, but then he hunched his shoulders in a shrug. “Okay. Sorry. I just …” His eyes flickered over my face and he swallowed his words. “I’ll see you Monday at camp, okay?”
“I won’t be at camp on Monday.”
“Oh. Oh, right,” he stammered. “You’ll want to be with your grandpa. I’ll tell Grandmother. She’ll understand. Even if you don’t do your oratory, she’ll understand.”
“How sweet,” I said, my voice dripping sarcasm. “Will she understand when she finds out I’m Jewish?”
“Half Jewish.”
“Why do you always say that?” I demanded. “Does that make it okay for you? What if I was one hundred percent Jewish, then what?” I planted my hands on my hips. “Or is your grandmother not the only anti-Semitic person in your family?”
“What?” he gasped. “You’re the one who talked about being half and half.”
“Maybe there is no half and half. In Nazi Germany there wasn’t. I’d have died in a concentration camp for being ‘half and half.’ ”
He gestured with a hand. “This isn’t World War II.”
I almost laughed. That was my line. How many times had I said that to Zeydeh? “You’re right, Devon, it’s not. Which is why I shouldn’t have had to lie.”
He shoved a hand through his hair, gripping his scalp with obvious frustration. “You’re the one who wanted the scholarship. I just told you things to help.”
“You said it was no big deal.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“Well, it is!” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard. “Why couldn’t you have stood up for me?”
He held up his hands. “What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” I cried. “Maybe you could have told your grandmother your girlfriend is Jewish and to get over herself.”
“Ellie—”
“Forget it.” I cut off the excuse I could hear coming. “How could I expect you to stand up for me when you won’t even stand up for yourself?”
His jaw pulsed. “What does that mean?”
“You know what it means. You just follow along, do whatever they tell you.”
“You could have spoken up, too, you know.” Now he looked as mad as I felt. “But you wanted the money.”
His words stung. Because they were true.
“Not anymore,” I said, my voice feeling raw. “I wouldn’t take a dime from your grandmother.”
He paused. “What about Benedict’s?”
I glanced up toward the line of windows. In one of those lit rooms, Zeydeh was lying in a bed. “My grandpa wanted me to tell your grandmother the truth,” I said, “and I’m going to. Then, I’m done with it all. Benedict’s. The scholarship.”
You.
I couldn’t say it out loud. Instead, I whispered, “All of it.”
His eyes were dark shadows—for once they were almost black and ugly. “Fine. I won’t bother arguing.” His voice was full of sarcasm. “It’s not like I stand up for myself, anyway.” Then he backed toward the hospital doors. “If you have something to say to my grandmother, great.” He stepped on the rubber mat in front of the door, tripping the automatic sensors. The glass doors slid open. Lights spilled from the lobby, shadowing a figure as it moved toward the opening. Then she stepped outside.
“You can tell her now,” Devon said. “She’s the one who drove me here.” He turned and walked back inside, leaving me alone with the night and Doris Yeats.