Demanding Ransom

Chapter FOUR



I push the bristles across the tile floor, but the strands of hair catch in the grooves and make them impossible to sweep up. There’s a loud echo of deep voices and overly high-pitched giggles that swallows up the music blasting through Dad’s surround sound system. It adds to the headache already vibrating through my head.

“Don’t worry about that, Maggie,” Eric nearly yells, motioning his free hand over the ground between us. His other hand steadily clutches the electric razor as it glides across his scalp, and his eyes follow its movement in the mirror Sadie has situated in front of him. “I’ll take care of that.”

“No, it’s fine. I got it.”

Pushing the broom around the room is about all I can do, and using the wooden pole to steady myself actually works quite well for balance. It’s better than the crutches that have become a permanent fashion accessory these past three weeks. Collin, my physical therapist, told me that I need to start stretching myself again in order to rebuild the strength in my quad, so little by little, I’m heeding his advice. Sweeping is doable—painful, but doable.

“How do I look?” Eric swivels on his barstool to face the audience of his fellow football teammates at my back.

“Awesome. Me next.” One of the guys drops down into the open chair and tosses his baseball cap onto the kitchen counter. Sadie hands him the mirror and scrapes the razor across his blond sideburns, which I’m sure he worked very hard to even grow. Mikey tried to grow his for months when he was fifteen, then decided the peach-fuzz made him look like he was trying too hard, which was true. By the time he turned eighteen, he had finally matured into the man he’d pretended to be as an adolescent, thick sideburns and all.

“I’m after Tony.”

Eight of Mikey’s friends are already donning hairless scalps, all in tribute to my little brother’s newly shaved head—a necessary result from his tumor removal sixteen days ago. Things went well. After twelve hours of surgery, the doctor announced that it was a “success”—that they were able to extract the majority of it. So I was surprised when he held firmly to that original statement, even after the results came back indicating the tumor was malignant. That my little brother has brain cancer. It’s odd to put the words “success” and “cancer” in the same sentence. They just don’t fit together.

“That’s their jeep!” A girl with tight blonde curls races toward the bay window, her hair bouncing along her delicate shoulders hidden under her boyfriend’s letterman jacket. “Mikey’s home!”

Bodies rush past me, the loud thudding of linemen, running backs, and tight ends racing through the entry and out onto the driveway. I steady myself with one hand on the counter and the other on the broom, ignoring the throbbing ache that flashes through my leg. Gritting my teeth, I reach for the two metal crutches leaning against the wall and tuck them under my arms.

Mikey’s already in the foyer by the time I round the corner, seated in a familiar, blue hospital wheelchair. His head is bandaged, his eyes are wet, and the smile he wears draws my heart up into my mouth.

“Sorry I missed the party,” he jokes, taking inventory of our thrashed house. There are red Solo cups lining the tables, jackets and sweatshirts strewn about the room, and piles of hair littering the kitchen floor. It’s a total disaster zone. “Looks like I missed out on all the fun.”

“The fun is just beginning!” Josh boasts. His head is half-shaved, while the other portion still has his red curls clinging to their roots. “I’ll let you do the honors of finishing this up.” He thrusts the razor Mikey’s direction.

“Nice.” Mikey smiles again. My chest burns and my eyebrows feel painfully tight. I shake my head, hoping the anguish on my face isn’t as evident as it feels. “Gimme a sec, though. I seriously gotta pee.”

Eric takes the handles of Mikey’s wheelchair and swivels him around toward the dimly-lit hallway. “I’ll help you man. We’ll be right back.”

Shifting my weight, I lean up against the back of the couch at the same time Dad walks through the still-open front door, sheets of paper in one hand, and a plastic hospital bag containing Mikey’s personal belongings in the other.

“Let me give you a hand with that, Dad.” I fumble with the crutches.

He shakes his head. “Nope, Mags. I’ve got it just fine.” Pushing the door back into its frame behind him, Dad’s gaze finally sweeps across the destruction that is his house.

Any other parent would launch into a tirade of scolding, disciplining, and ultimate dismissal of the rowdy teenagers from his home, but Dad’s never been like that. He’s always quick to forgive, to listen to any excuses (no matter how fabricated they might be), and to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe that’s what made me hate her so much—what sucked away any ounce of forgiveness I might have had deep in my heart for my mother. That she could do what she did to a man as selfless as my dad made the thought of ever forgiving her—of ever reconciling with her—unimaginable. It’s one thing to cheat on a lying jerk; it’s another to leave a family and a man that have done nothing but remain steadfastly loyal throughout years of invisible deceit. In my eyes, my dad is a saint.

“Did you guys find the soda out in the garage fridge? I stocked it fully just last night.”

Sadie stretches out a hand to my dad and takes the bag of Mikey’s things from him. “Yes, Craig. Thank you for doing that.” She bats her eyes. “Eric’s got a Shirley Temple already made with your name on it.”

“My favorite,” Dad says, flashing Sadie a wink. “Looks like I’m one of the only ones left?” A few of Mikey’s teammates cheer, and Josh gives my dad a fist bump and squeezes his shoulders as Dad slides onto the barstool. “So which one of you has the steadiest hand? I think I want to Bic it.”

The girl with the blonde curls rises up. “I’ll do it. My mom’s a hairdresser, and I wouldn’t trust any of these guys with an actual razor near your scalp.”

“Hey, come on,” Josh chuckles. “You could end up with one manly scar.”

“Not as manly as mine, Dad.” The room falls instantly silent. Mikey and Eric have returned from the bathroom break, joining the rest of us in the kitchen. No one speaks, but I can audibly hear a few guys breathing loudly over my shoulder. Mikey shifts his gaze from teammate to teammate. “Seriously?” he asks, slightly annoyed. “I’m not allowed to joke about it?”

“Mikey—” Sadie begins, pressing her palm to his arm protectively.

“No, I’m serious. Have you seen my scar? It’s pretty damn impressive.”

I roll my eyes. “Not nearly as impressive as mine, Mikey. I bet I’ve got three inches on yours.”

“Is that so?” Mikey’s long fingers coil the bar on the wheels of his chair, and he spins around quickly with notable skill. “I think we should let the tape measure be the judge of that.”

***

“Dude, she was right.” Eric snaps the metal tape back into the place. “Hers is almost two inches longer.”

“But they just patched up your leg,” Mikey teases, rocking back on two wheels so they squeal against the hardwood surface from the friction. It’s seriously impressive how much control he has over his new chair. Not surprising though; Mikey has always been incredibly strong and athletic. “They patched up my brain.”

“I doubt they had much trouble doing that, Mikey.” I throw him a mocking glare. “Because they really didn’t have much to work around in that empty shell.”

Mikey clasps his heart and feigns injury. “Low blow, Sis.”

“Seriously,” Josh mumbles around a mouthful of chips. His head is still half-shaved, half-full of hair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he keeps it like this; it sort of fits his oddball personality. “That one was below the belt, Mags.”

“Is that what you used to tourniquet your leg?” The blonde, whose name I discovered is apparently Layla, slides into Eric’s arms now that he’s seated on the leather couch across from us. They’re a cute couple, so much so it’s almost unbearable. And their entire student body obviously agrees since they were voted homecoming king and queen last month. “Did you use a belt to stop the bleeding during your accident?”

“No.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek. “I didn’t do anything. The paramedics stabilized me.” I didn’t do anything. I just dangled there, motionless. Clueless. My face suddenly feels hot.

“I heard you lost like a third of your blood. A few more minutes and you could have bled out.” I don’t know who says it; I can’t see past the water pooling into the corners of my eyes. I clench them shut to draw back any tears that might have the chance to spill.

“The femoral artery is not one you want to mess with.” Dad strides into the room, his mouth pursed on a red and white striped straw as he takes another swig of his Shirley Temple. His newly bald head shines under the overhead light. “And Maggie’s was cut pretty deep. I’m so grateful for the paramedics that were already at the light when the accident occurred.”

At the light? I shake my head. Does that mean they were there before it all happened? That they saw the accident take place?

“Okay, I hate to be rude,” Mikey begins, “but I’m feeling a little slighted over here. So what? Maggie almost bled out. I had a freaking tumor in my head, people!”

“Fine,” I shrug my shoulders and smile widely. “You win.”

“Damn right, I win.” Mikey high fives Eric over the top of Layla and he lifts his head with a swift, cocky nod.

And I hope he does win. Because right now, winning for Mikey means so much more than it ever could for me.