Julian’s new room is totally dark except for a panel of fluorescent lights behind his bed, making him look like a strange museum exhibit, every cut and bruise perfectly lit. His right index and ring fingers are wrapped in bandages. He’s wearing an oxygen mask and is connected to just as many machines as before. He has an antiseptic smell, like maybe they washed him before dressing him in the hospital gown.
I get a sudden rush of apprehension. Russell must’ve gone home by now, must’ve seen Julian isn’t in the trunk. What if he tries to find him? What if he comes here?
I jump when a round nurse touches my shoulder and says she’ll be taking care of Julian till her shift ends at seven A.M.
“What happened to his fingers?” I whisper, even though he’s shown no sign of stirring.
“They’re broken.” I must look as sick as I feel, because she adds, “He’s not in any pain. The doctor gave him morphine.” Overhead, there’s a noise, like a couple of bars of music from a creepy ice-cream truck. “A new baby.”
“What?”
“That little lullaby plays all over the hospital whenever a baby is born.” She smiles like it’s sweet, but there’s something twisted about it to me. I mean, everyone, everywhere in this hospital can hear it, but why? So when you’re dying you can contemplate your own mortality and the circle of life?
The nurse points to an orange-and-yellow-striped recliner in front of the window. “That’ll pull out into a bed,” she says. “I’ll get you some covers.”
“Thanks.” It’s freezing in here, like even colder than school, which can’t be good for sick people.
Soon I’m under a thin blanket on the hard twin fold-out bed. Lying in the same room like this reminds me of when Julian and I were younger, only now each of his inhales and exhales are mechanical and amplified like he’s breathing through a microphone.
I’m exhausted, but too keyed up to sleep. When Julian lived with me, sometimes he had trouble sleeping. I remember one time, being almost asleep and hearing him whisper my name.
“Adam?”
“Yeah?” I said.
“Can you see me?”
There was just enough light filtering through the mini blinds in my room. “Yes, I can see you.”
“I’m scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try and go back to sleep.”
“I can’t. I’m too scared.”
“Just think good thoughts. Mom used to tell me to do that when I was little.”
“You used to get scared?”
“Sometimes.”
“What did you think about?”
I rolled over and looked at him. A vertical stripe of light from the blinds fell right across his eyes like a mask. “Spider-Man.”
He squinted at me skeptically. “You’d pretend Spider-Man was with you?”
“Well, no, I’d pretend I was Spider-Man.”
“And that made you not scared?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I’d think about the movies, sort of playing them in my head. Then I’d just fall asleep.”
“But Spider-Man is scary.”
“No, he’s not. He’s awesome.”
“I don’t like that one guy with all those metal arms.”
“Doc Ock? Yeah, I guess he is pretty scary. Okay, so don’t think about that. Think about something you like.”
“I don’t know what I like.”
“Yes, you do. Think.”
“Elian Mariner?”
“Okay, so think of your favorite Elian Mariner book, and go through the whole thing in your head and don’t let yourself think about anything else.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Are you doing it?”
He nodded.
“Where are you?”
“In Elian’s ship. I’m flying.”
Now the machine version of Julian’s breath echoes in the room. The burn in my throat intensifies. Something hot and wet streaks down my cheeks. I’m crying, hard but without sound, into the stiff hospital blanket. I want to stop, but all I can picture is nine-year-old Julian’s face when I gave him my brilliant piece of advice—fearful and doubtful, because he must’ve already known the truth. Superheroes aren’t real, and even if they are, they come too late.
I WAKE TO the sound of whimpering. A nurse built like a wrestler is jamming a needle into Julian’s skinny arm. How could they possibly need more blood?
A quick glance at the digital clock on his bedside table reveals it’s only seven thirty. I must’ve fallen asleep, though I’m not sure how. I’d always figured hospitals were quiet, restful places. Instead they’re full of medical machinery going off like car alarms, nurses coming in and out every few minutes, and the pitiful screams of sick people in pain.
I stand, my back aching. “Hey, Julian, are you okay?” He doesn’t open his eyes, but he whimpers again when the nurse retracts her needle and jabs it back in.