Free Somebody Up There Hates You by Hollis Seamon Page B

Edward tells me the next day, Jeannette was a complete and utter basket case, she was so scared. She was shaking and crying and she called him in early to take over her shift since she couldn’t see straight. But, lucky thing, she didn’t call the cops or my mother or anyone else, she was so afraid she’d lose her job. She just paced around, cursing the name of Philip Casey up and down the corridor.
    Here we are, All Souls’ or Saints’ morning, and Edward’s got his hand on my pulse and he’s mad, I can feel it. I’m lying flat on my back and keeping my eyes closed, but I can feel heat in his hand. “She curse my name?” I ask.
    â€œSame name, Mr. Casey. Same name.” Edward drops my wrist and bends over, putting a hand on my chest. “You listen to me, Richie. You almost got a good nurse fired. You scared that poor woman to death. You can’t do things like that. You . . .” Then he sighs. There’s a long sort of pause, then he says, quiet, like he almost can’t believe he’s saying it, “You got to grow up, man.”
    And, you know, couple days ago, way back on Cabbage Night, I’d have laughed at that. But today, it makes a sort of sad sense. Might be something to think about, if I get a minute. But I can’t think. All I can do is sleep. All day. I sense people walking in and out of the room, I hear them talking. I hear my phone ring, a lot. Finally, a nurse answers it and talks, low and calm, to my mom. Couple of times, I go to pull up my blue star blanket, I’m so cold. But it’s not there. Somebody brings in a white hospital blanket and puts it over me. People stand around the bed, whispering.
    But it’s all part of a dream. I know that, because Marie is there, too. She’s part of a crowd. A whole bunch of people I don’t know, some of them in weird clothes, costumes maybe. Everybody’s drinking, smiling. It’s some kind of big party. Mom’s there. She looks young and happy, and there’s some guy with her, a guy I don’t know, laughing and putting his hand on her neck. I know, in the dream, that I’m not born yet, that Mom hasn’t got a care in the world. I’m not exactly me, not yet. I’m just, like, about to be. Hard to explain. I’m, like, there, watching, but I don’t exist. Like I say, it’s hard to explain.
    I don’t wake up, really, until it’s dark outside. And when I do, it’s Sylvie who’s sitting next to my bed, all curled up on the lounge chair. I sit up, try to pull myself together. She’s grinning. “Oh, man,” she says. “You are so cool, Richie. You got out. You are, like, the hero of hospice. I even heard those two old men in 304 laughing about it. ‘Kid got out,’ they kept saying. ‘Damned if he didn’t.’”
    I shake my head. I mean, here’s a weird thing: I have never, ever been cool. Not even close. Never in my whole life. Ever.
    Sylvie stands up, wobbly on her feet. I notice that she’s dressed, wearing some kind of black top and jeans. They’re about four sizes too big, but she’s trying. She’s got this funny little green striped hat on her head and she’s wearing lipstick. She leans over my bed and puts her lips right next to my ear. “Richie,” she says, clear as can be, “Richie, I don’t want to be a virgin anymore. Okay?” She backs up. “Okay?”
    I just stare at her.
    She smiles. “You think about that. Okay? But not for too long.” She walks out, holding on to the door frame with one hand, steadying herself, walking on her own. She’s determined, anybody can see that.

Part II
    NOVEMBER 1 - 3

8
    S O NOW IT’S NIGHT and I can’t sleep. It’s real quiet; the harpy’s closed up shop for the day. Everyone else on the floor, I’m guessing, they’re deep in sleep. But me, I’m sitting up in bed, kind of