The doctors were astounded at Marty’s recovery. Astounded and oddly chagrined. They showed about as much emotion as doctors are allowed to show when something better than they expected happens through absolutely no agency of their own. Which is to say they showed very little joy and a lot of skepticism, like Marty’s resurrection was some sort of elaborate magic trick orchestrated by Ted, who just looked askance at them and said nothing about the ticket cure. The doctors didn’t want to let him go, but Marty scoffed at their dire warnings. This was his story, he told them, not theirs. Marty and Ted waited for a quiet moment and then simply walked out without checking out. It wasn’t prison. Opening the door to exit the hospital felt to Ted like rolling away the stone. He actually felt like he was in a story, his father’s story. This was a miracle of some kind, of that Ted was certain. Marty said goodbye to Mariana on his own as Ted waited outside in the car. Marty felt okay, actually, not bad at all, considering, and he had a date with destiny. He and Boston both.
They were going to drive up to Boston in the balky Corolla, so Ted had packed them each a little suitcase and was in the kitchen cutting a big roll of bologna and making sandwiches for the road.
“Dad, you ready? I don’t wanna rush, don’t wanna tire you out, I wanna take our time, get a motel.” Ted handed Marty a sandwich. Marty zipped his suitcase. Ted went to pick the suitcase up. “Jesus, what did you put in here? It weighs a ton.”
“Don’t know how long we’ll be gone, could be on the road for a while. We got the playoff, then the divisional series, then the pennant, then the World Series. Hold on, I got to call Maria.” He went off to dial his new old love. As they talked, Marty’s laughter filled the house, as did his piss-poor Spanglish. Ted just smiled and shook his head. When they opened the door to leave, they saw two shopping bags of food and a note that read, “For your trip, from M.” From Mariana. Marty peered in at the food. “Wonderful. Wonderful,” he said.
“I’m fine with bologna,” Ted said.
“Take her food, you idiot. Don’t you know what it means when a woman makes you food?”
“I bet she cooks for a lot of people.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m just saying that I bet she cooks for a lot of people.”
“What does that have to do with cooking for you? Stop being such a pussy.”
Ted picked up the bags of food.
“I was fine with bologna,” he said.