She laughed bitterly to herself.
When summoned at last by a nurse, they all filed to the restricted area and followed her down the winding corridors. Most of the doors along the way had been left ajar, and they passed strange and sad tableaus of sleeping patients; tired old men staring at overhead TVs; families and friends clustered around a privacy screen, crammed into tiny spaces; and oddest of all, the empty rooms with unmade beds. Nurses came and went, crossing their path without a glance, and they arrived at last at the white room where Nick lay all alone. The curtains had been opened and the last sunset of the last day of the year poured weakly across the foot of his bed. A vase of white roses, sent from the Florida grandparents, perfumed the air. Pale and unconscious, Nick breathed quietly. Oxygen flowed through the thin tube at his nose, and in his arm, a plastic port had been installed, his hand colored with a plum bruise, an ID bracelet curled around his wrist. The thin blanket and sheet over his body were smooth and undisturbed.
Dr. Ogundipe arrived five minutes later, less animated in the presence of the child. After glancing at his chart, she went to Nick’s side and held his thin wrist in her hand, counting his pulse, and then she laid his arm against his side and studied the saline drip. “You can talk to him now, Jack.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Jack would not look at the boy in the bed.
“Tell him hello,” the doctor said. “Say whatever you are feeling.”
Like a wild bird he approached gingerly, two hops forward, one step back, ready to fly away at any threat. At last he found his way a few feet from his friend’s head on the pillow but no closer. He cocked his head and looked at Nick slantwise.
“Hello, Nick,” he said and waited a few beats for an answer. “Hello, Nick,” he repeated in a louder voice. The boy in the bed did not move at all, and Jack frowned at the doctor, confused and uncertain.
“Go head,” she said. “He can hear you.”
Jack’s right hand twitched and his fingers danced. “No more monsters,” he said. “All the monsters are gone away.”
“Whatever is he talking about?” Fred asked. “What monsters?”
“He won’t get up,” Jack said.
“Try some more,” Tim said. “Tell him you are sorry.”
“I don’t blame you anymore, Nick. I’m not mad at you. I am just tired of drawing all the time. No more monsters. You can get up now.” His shaking hand stilled, and he turned away from the unconscious boy and faced his mother with tears in his eyes and then rushed to her arms.
In the dying light of the day, the others took turns speaking to Nick until there was nothing left to say. The Wellers would be staying the night, but they told the Keenans to go, get some rest.
“Come back tomorrow if you wish,” Fred said. “We’ll be sure to call you if anything changes.”
*
Blue moonlight reflected off the snow, and the ride home was like driving through a dreamscape, the familiar streets and landmarks transformed by a smooth white cover. Jack studied the windows to catch his reflection when the light was right, so that he could see both himself and the outside world pass by at the same time. As they pulled up in the driveway, their old house same as ever, he imagined his friend Nick waiting there for them to start their next game. But Jack knew he wasn’t inside. When her cell phone buzzed, Holly fished it from her purse and lit the tiny screen to read the latest.
“It’s the police,” she said. “The bone’s gone missing. They opened the box and found nothing but ashes.”
His father said it would be all right to stay up and watch TV till the ball dropped in New York City, and his mother agreed that it would be okay if he would first change into his pajamas. The empty bed reminded him of Nick in the hospital, but he would soon be just another imaginary now, gone like Red and all the others. On his desk, a quiver of sharp pencils stood in a cup beside the last pages of his sketch pad. It would be easy to sit in his chair and continue as he always had, but he set his mind to resist the temptation. Jack changed out of his clothes and sat cross-legged on the carpet, looking up at the dresser mirror and the moon reflected in the glass, trying to push the last of his friend out of his mind. The lady with the cloud in her eyes would help him. He would talk with her next time. Tell her the whole story.
A soft knock at the door broke his concentration. His mother appeared at the threshold, and when he nodded she came in. “What have you been doing up here all this time? We’ve been waiting for you to join us. Don’t want to miss the countdown.”
He rocked gently to and fro, unable to put into words what he was feeling.