Don’t Buckle Up

 

 

Three Morton family members came out of Mac’s room. The relatives had been visiting Mac for the last few minutes in groups of twos and threes. Now, most of them were talking to Howard and my mom in the hallway.

When Mac’s room was empty, I snuck inside. I had to see Mac. There was something I needed to tell him.

Machines beeped and buzzed as I took a seat beside Mac’s bed. I didn’t think it was possible, but Mac looked even more frail and broken than he had yesterday.

I kissed Mac on his cheek, and blew air against his eyelashes.

“Do you still like weird stuff? ‘Cause buddy, I got a whole bunch of weird for you to enjoy. I don’t have much time, so I’ll just share this. Your mom gave me a pair of sunglasses that let me see a better version of myself. Not a bad start, right?”

Mac didn’t respond. The machines registered no change.

“So Better Bertie tells me that if I don’t start thinking differently, nothing will change. The same ole, same ole will keep happening over and over. At first, I figured she was just trying to help me out. Better Bertie comes and goes, it’s kind of annoying. Anyway, I think she wanted me to share the piece of advice about thinking differently with you, Mac.”

No response, said the machines.

“Wherever you are, Mac, find a way out of there. You’ve gotta do it now, buddy. You don’t have time to be afraid. Get bold. Get crazy. Just do it. Find a way to think different! Can you even hear me?”

No response.

I sat silently amid the machines. If anyone had heard the way I was talking to Mac, no doubt they would’ve told me I was being weird or inappropriate. I didn’t care. I wanted Mac to fight.

Finally, I sighed and stood up. I left the little boy with one last incentive. “If you wake up for me, Mac, you can pet Leon whenever you want to, take him for walks, and treat him like he’s your dog, too.”

Still, no response. I was getting upset. At the machines. At Mac. And at Dr. Myles and God.

“Promise me you won’t die, okay? You can’t die, Mac. It’s not good for either of us. I put the only Morton who likes me in a coma. Sorry, bad joke.”

Nothing changed with Mac.

Grabbing my backpack, I walked to the door. I stopped when I spotted something glowing in my backpack’s side pocket. It looked like a burning red frog trying to bust out. Then I heard the vroom vroom of a car engine, and I remembered the Hot Wheels race car.

“No way!”

Digging out the tiny car, I placed it in Mac’s left hand and folded his fingers around it. As soon as I let go of Mac’s hand, the race car fell to the floor. But the feisty car would not be denied. Vroom vrooming louder, and spinning out on the floor tiles, it was like it wanted Mac to hold it.

I picked up the toy car and tried again.

“Grab the car, Mac,” I whispered. “Wait, no! Even better, get inside the car, then hit the gas and drive yourself home. Do it, Mac. Drive yourself back to us!”

Finally, a response.

Glancing down, I saw Mac gripping the race car. Gripping it hard like it was a lifeline connecting him to the world of the living.

“Excuse us, Bernice, it’s our turn now.”

In the doorway, I saw a group of Mortons waiting to visit with Mac. Each one of them, except for Howard’s brother, Dennis, who was actually kind of friendly and cool, gave me the witch’s wart look. Time to get out of here.

I bent down to Mac, and I whispered more inappropriate instructions into his ear.

“Drive fast during your journey home to us.”

“Take chances.”

“Ignore red traffic lights.”

“Don’t buckle up!”