Chapter NINE
The white panels of the emergency room ceiling reminded April of the Beatles song her father loved. She couldn’t remember the name—something about a hole in the roof or filling holes in Albert Falls—but she could remember that he practically worshipped John Lennon. Heather’s theory was that people put Lennon on a pedestal because he got shot, but Heather didn’t know squat about music and, besides, that sounded like something Heather’s parents might have said, not Heather. Still, in a way, it was cool that he got shot before he got a chance to sell out.
At one time April had started a list called TAD—Things About Dad—naming everything she could remember about her father. Singing Beatles songs was at the top, and second was the way he’d suddenly grab her and throw her up over his head before April realized what was happening. She’d be in the air, trying to catch her breath, and in the next moment she’d see her father’s face suddenly in focus, his smile, the tiny gap between his two front teeth, and the scratchy feel of his kiss on her cheek. But the third entry stopped her short. She didn’t want to include it, although skipping it would somehow make the entire list less credible, less real. And because it was a topic she didn’t want to think about, much less write about, she abandoned TAD altogether.
The argument had started out to be what she thought would be an ordinary fight between her parents, but it grew so loud, and with so much crashing and stomping and crying, that April had hid in her room and tried to work up the courage to dial 911. By the time things quieted and she came out, it was too late. Her father had left without even saying good-bye. He called her a few days later and promised he’d be back someday. But even at eight, she knew the word, coming from him, meant never. And now, a few days past her fifteenth birthday—which he had yet to acknowledge—she also knew there was a reason someday was never, and that—any minute now—this reason would come bursting into the room, hair on fire with worry and hands on the side of her head and mouth wide, a big O, like that awesome painting of the weird guy on a bridge, screaming and asking questions and maybe crying about her baby, her baby.
As if this whole situation weren’t embarrassing enough.
Three stitches above her right eyebrow, which actually looked pretty cool. She couldn’t wait to show her friends. They’d gasp. She’d shrug it off. Keith Spinelli would be concerned. He’d want to comfort her in some way. She’d let him.
She wondered if there’d be a scar. She hoped so. She didn’t want anything big and disgusting, just a small, white line, raised a little bit. Forehead Braille. Irresistible. An interviewer would ask her how she’d gotten it. She’d explain. People all over the country—the world—would then cut themselves just so, to look more like her. She’d then have to hold a press conference to tell kids not to do it. But they’d do it anyway.
She needed a story her mom would buy. Yeah, I’m such a spaz. It was so cold that I wanted to get into the house fast and I walked right into that stupid storm door at the same time Grandpa was opening it. She was sure her mom would go along with the scenario, just as she had when April told her that the “Life Lessons from a Mentor” essay was now her assigned final project for English. This proved to be the perfect cover for the driving lessons her grandfather was more than willing to keep secret. Like most people, her grandfather seemed a little afraid of her mother—which was weird, since he was her father and all. But April noticed that whenever her mom dropped her off or picked her up from her visits, he’d ask in almost a little-boy voice if she’d called Nick or Mike yet. To which she would let loose with one of her hanging-on-the-cross sighs and say she’d left messages and how many times did she have to tell him? And Grandpa, who’d recently been given billing as the first and only listing on Signs Of Intelligent Life, would jeopardize his standing on said list by nodding meekly.
God only knew what the woman would do to him now. But her grandfather had insisted on coming here. She’d tried to tell him no, that it would ruin everything. He told her not to worry about her mother, that her mother would be grateful that they were being extra careful, making sure everything was okay.
She wondered how a father could know so little about his daughter.
“You decent in there, kid?”
“Come on in, Grandpa.”
Her grandfather pushed aside the curtain and glanced around as if he had expected to see someone else. He was still wearing his heavy plaid jacket—April called it his lumberjack special—and his hundred-year-old rubber galoshes, complete with the metal snaps down the front. “How do you feel?”
“Same as the last fifty times you asked. Fine. Can we get out of here?”
He nodded. “Doc should be by soon,” he said. “He wants you to sit for a few minutes. Let me see those stitches.”
April told him she didn’t want to take the bandage off. There wasn’t a chair in the tiny cubicle, so she scooched over on the bed and invited him to sit next to her. When he did, she could tell he’d been smoking his pipe. The smell, combined with the feel of his weight next to her, was both comforting and confusing. She suddenly wanted to cry. How lame would that be? A few stitches and she turns into a baby. Still, inside she was trying to will her grandfather into holding her tight so she could bury her face in his smelly plaid shirt.
“How bad’s the car?” she managed.
The question seemed to take him by surprise. He had been staring straight ahead, the way he sometimes did while she was driving. Earth to Grandpa, April would call out. But she didn’t trust her voice to do so now.
“A little banged up on the passenger side,” he finally said. “The headlight works but probably needs to be replaced. All in all, not too bad.”
The funny feeling had moved up to April’s throat, threatening to explode. “I am so sorry.”
“That car’s had a pretty . . . what do you call it? . . . charmed life.” Her grandfather patted her hand. He continued. “It’s what—twentysomething years old? Never been in an accident. Somehow, that’s just not right. You can’t reasonably expect to live that long and not get dinged a few times. Sooner or later, there’s got to be some sort of payback. It’s like what Clare—your grandmother—used to tell me, that sooner or later—”
He stopped abruptly and stared at the floor. April wasn’t sure what to do. This was one of those awkward moments that she found both baffling and annoying. Was her grandfather just putting a happy face on the fact that he was truly and mightily pissed off? Did he want her to apologize again? She wanted to. But he suddenly seemed on edge and she wasn’t sure what effect her words would have. Maybe he’d tell her sorry wasn’t good enough. Maybe he’d tell her he understood. Worst of all, maybe he’d tell her that the driving lessons weren’t such a good idea, after all.
“Anyway,” he said suddenly, “lots of people have trouble remembering which way to turn in a skid. Although most people don’t normally assume the gas pedal is the answer.”
He winked.
April wanted to laugh. She tried to laugh. In fact, she thought she was laughing. But she was crying and she put her head in her hands and leaned forward and sobbed and waited for her grandfather to wrap his arms around her, but he just seemed to sit there, which made her cry harder, but then, finally, she felt his hands on her shoulder and she was being pulled forward and someone was murmuring in her ear and she felt and then smelled the breath, but it wasn’t smoky or tobacco-y but more garlicky . . .
Her mother.
It took a while for April to stop crying but probably less time than it would have taken if it had been her grandfather holding her and stroking her hair. When she stopped and looked up, she saw that her mother was squatting in front of her, giving her one of those meaningful I ’m-looking-you-straight-in-the-eyes-to-show-I-care l ooks that she probably read about in Parents magazine.
“So. Tell me what happened.”
“April’s been working hard on this school assignment of hers,” her grandfather answered. “So I thought she deserved some hot chocolate. The kind you used to—”
“I’m asking my daughter,” her mother said, not taking her eyes off April’s. Must have been a technique covered in the article—maybe a sidebar tip: Do Not Break Eye Contact When Interrogating Your Delinquent Teenager.
“You asked what happened,” her grandfather continued. “That’s what happened. We were headed to Friendly’s when we hit a little ice. Knocked some poor guy’s mailbox over. Accident. That’s all.”
Still staring at April but in a low voice that April knew was actually the first rumblings of an impending volcanic eruption, her mother said, “That’s all?”
April felt her grandfather shift his weight.
“Yeah. We were going to Friendly’s to get a hot chocolate like I said, and we got in an accident. That’s all. No biggie, as you kids used to say.”
Now her mother finally broke eye contact and stood, directing her death stare at her grandfather. April saw that her grandfather was smiling, but she knew—and it felt like a secret—that it was a phony smile. But his smile wilted as her mother stepped closer.
“Easy for you to say, old man, when it’s someone else, not you, who needed stitches to close a huge gash just inches from her eye. No biggie for you!”
“Mom! Chill!”
“Don’t tell me to chill. Do you have any idea how terrifying it was to get that phone call to come to the hospital? I’m in the middle of a meeting and I get this call and I have to rush to the hospital not knowing anything. Not knowing if you were alive or—”
“Uh, Mom? Since I’m the one who called you, I’m not sure you had to wonder if—”
“Don’t smart-mouth me, young lady. You know what I mean.”
April shook her head and looked away. She wanted to sleep.
Her mother turned her attention back to her grandfather.
“Let’s cut to the chase, old man. Were you drinking?”
April watched her grandfather smile sadly. He looked down and didn’t answer. If it hadn’t been for his white stubble and the gross gray hair in his ear, he would have looked like a little boy—a little boy who needed to be rescued.
“Mom, Grandpa’s the one who insisted we come here. I wanted to go home.”
“Well, bully for him,” Marcy said. “For the first time ever, he demonstrates more sense than a fifteen-year-old. Stop the presses.”
The sudden silence that followed her mother’s remark reminded April that they were in the emergency room of a hospital. She supposed that their argument was helping the other patients take their minds off their pain, if only for a few minutes.
“Which Friendly’s?” her mother asked, locked in on her grandfather.
“You know which one,” he replied. “The one on Forest.”
“Oh! The one on Forest.”
“Right. The one we used to go to. On Forest.”
“The one on Forest that closed five years ago? That one on Forest?”
April tried not to look over as her grandfather reached down to fiddle with one of the snaps on his boots. “Really? Didn’t know that. Guess we would have found out when we got there.”
Her mother snorted so loudly April thought she might honk out half her nose. “You are so full of it,” she said.
“Leave him alone, Mom.”
“I will! And so will you! You’re not to get in a car with him again.”
“Jesus, Mom.”
“I’m not going to tell you again. Don’t ‘Jesus’ me.” Marcy turned to her father. “Okay, Billy Boy, here it is. You can’t take care of your house, you can’t remember that Friendly’s, a few blocks from your house, closed years ago, and April tells me you sometimes forget her name. It’s time to stop driving.”
April felt the flush again—not at her mother’s a*sholeness, but at her own betrayal of her grandfather by mentioning the memory lapses. To April’s immense relief, her grandfather, head still bowed, tilted his head toward April just enough to make eye contact. He looked like a playground coconspirator. He winked.
Her mother’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the display.
“Mortgage broker. I’ve got to take this.”
“Uh, mom?”
April pointed to a sign on the wall: ABSOLUTELY NO CELL PHONES.
“Stay here,” Marcy said.
As if I have a choice, April thought.
She and her grandfather sat quietly for a few moments. A heavily accented voice on the PA called for a Dr. Woodson.
“Thanks for lying for me,” April said.
“Who lied? I told your mom we got in an accident. Truth.”
“The hot chocolate . . . Friendly’s . . .”
“That’s true, too. I just didn’t tell you I was going to treat you. A surprise. You like surprises, don’t you?”
“But Mom thinks you were driving. And now she thinks you’re too old to drive. And she thinks this is all your fault.”
Bill reached over and patted April’s hand. His hand felt thin and papery.
“Two things. First, your mom is right. It is my fault. Second, you can’t control what people think—no matter what you say or even do. Sometimes it’s not worth the effort.” He winked again. “Life lesson number whatever.”
There was a sudden swish of the curtain opening and closing, and a white coat appeared before them, worn by a short, rotund man with a few wisps of hair and a nose exploding with red veins.
“I’m Dr. Brennan,” he said, and extended his hand to April’s grandfather. “And you are . . . ?”
“Yes, I still am. Plan to be for a while.”
The doctor frowned. “Your relationship to the young lady here?”
“Grandfather. Plan to be that for a while, too.” He gave April a playful jab in the side with his elbow. Definitely coconspirators.
“And her mother or father is . . . ?”
“Her mother is outside on her cell phone. She’ll be back in a second. Never mind about her father. Out of the picture.”
April’s grandfather smiled at the doctor as if he’d just remarked on what a beautiful day it was. The doctor seemed confused.
“I see,” he said. “Well, I have to get to a consultation, so if Mom has any questions, she can call me.” He turned to April. “In the meantime, young lady, you should take it easy for the rest of the day. Tylenol for the pain, if you need it. Any questions?”
“Nope,” her grandfather answered.
The doctor glanced at him, then back at April. “I was asking the young lady,” he said.
“No,” April said. “No questions.”
“See?” her grandfather said. “She’s tough. Like her granddad.”
The doctor didn’t seem to be listening. He jotted something on the chart. He then clicked his pen and put it in the front pocket of his white coat. He looked at April seriously, and she had a feeling he was about to do her the immense favor of dispensing some wise and kindly doctorly advice.
“You should see the people who come in here who don’t wear a seat belt,” he intoned. “They often don’t walk out. Judging from that cut and the bump on your head from the steering wheel, it’s a good thing you were wearing one.” He turned to leave, which was fine with April. The guy gave her the creeps. But just then the curtain opened. April didn’t even look up. She could feel who it was.
“And you are?” the doctor asked.
“Marcy Shea. Her mother. Can I have a word with you, Doctor?”
She didn’t give him much of a choice, April saw, as her mother grabbed the doctor by the elbow and led him out into the hall. April looked up at her grandfather. He winked at her.
“Don’t worry, kid. We’ll get through this.”
Before April could respond, her mother was in front of them, staring hard at April.
“So. You were driving.”
“Look, Marcy.”
“Shut up old, old man,” her mother said. “I’m speaking to my daughter. I already know—oh, god, do I know—that you’re a liar. I need to find out if my daughter is.”
Was this it? April wondered. Was this the moment she had been planning for, the moment she had been writing about in her journal, in her songs? The moment, finally, to use the word that she knew would hurt her mom most. Failure as a mother. Failure as a wife. Failure in careers. In her daydreams of the event, she delivered the verdicts calmly, her mother cowering, cowering, until she begged for forgiveness. They would be in a restaurant, and she pictured herself standing up suddenly, towering over her mother, and finally walking away to leave her mother staring at the half-eaten Chilean sea bass or whatever.
Later, when April thought back to this moment in the hospital, she wondered if her grandfather, her coconspirator, had somehow sensed what April was planning and had decided, as April had a few minutes earlier decided for him, that she needed to be rescued. Because it was he who spoke up at this point, not April. He looked calm, but sad.
“Your daughter is not a liar, Marcy,” he said. “She’s a good kid. You’ve done a great job.”
Her mother’s reaction was exactly what April had been hoping for in her fantasies: surprise, shock, and—best of all—silence.
And then, without a look back—no nod, no conspiratorial wink, no nothing—her grandfather walked down the hall. April and her mother watched him go. He looked tall to April. Tall and strong, even in that ridiculous jacket and those embarrassing galoshes and even if he took small steps and had to pause at the end of the hall, right beneath the exit sign, to figure out which way to go.