“Offshore Louisiana? Or ten thousand feet into Austin Chalk?” I pause. “Or here with Jeremy?”
“Angie,” Dad says, “be flippant if you like, but I’ve got responsibilities. There’s work to be done.”
“No matter what happens.” I finish the sentence for him.
He sighs as though he’s trying to be patient. I guess he is. Gathering up his papers he manages to sneak a look at his watch. “It’s about time to have some dinner, isn’t it?”
“Why don’t you and Mom go out?” I ask him. “I’d like to stay with Jeremy for a while. I can find something to eat when I get home.”
“I guess we could do that.” He looks relieved. “You’re sure you wouldn’t want to go with us?”
“You and Mom need some time together. And I’d like to be with Jeremy. Really. I would.” I look at my brother, who still sleeps peacefully under that array of bandages and tubes. I think of the way his hand seemed to move in mine. “Does he respond at all when you talk to him, Dad?”
Dad looks startled. He stares at Jeremy, then back to me. “He’s unconscious, Angie.”
I’d like to talk to Dad about Jeremy, but I don’t know how.
He stands, stuffing papers into the folder. “Mrs. Clark went out for dinner. She ought to be back in about half an hour.”
“Who’s Mrs. Clark?”
“The woman who is sitting with Jeremy today.”
We stare at each other as though we’re looking for loose pieces. “I’ll stay with Jeremy until she gets back,” I tell him. “Maybe longer. Don’t worry about me. Okay?”
He plants a kiss in the direction of my forehead and is gone. The rattling carts are muffled by the heavy door as it swings shut. I sit on padded plastic that is still warm and reach for Jeremy’s hand. I wish I could talk to the woman in the newspaper story I saw, who read story books to her child when he was in a coma, and one day he woke up. Anything’s possible. I’ve got to believe that.
“I went to the Andrews house,” I tell Jeremy. “I think someone was there, but Del came too: and whoever was in the house left by the front door when we came in through the kitchen.”
There’s no response. I wait a few moments, then say, “Jeremy, is the Andrews house the one you wrote about? Is that where I’ll find ‘the ghosts of now’?”
Is it my imagination, or does he take a quick breath, out of time with his steady, rhythmic breathing?
“Jeremy, I am going to help you,” I tell him. “I’m going to help you get well again, because I’m going to find out what happened to you and why. Do you hear me?”
Nothing.
My voice is low, almost a whisper, as I look at my brother, at his bruised face, the bandages immobilizing his body. “I love you, Jeremy.” There are tears running down my face, warm salt trails sliding into the corners of my mouth. “Jeremy, I know I can get through to you! It’s going to be all right! You’ve got to get better!”
I talk to him about discovering his poetry and how good it is. I go on about Mom unpacking his birdhouse and how great it looks in the mulberry tree, and I tell him about Del.
Mrs. Clark stays away long enough to have a five-course meal and an after-dinner nap, but I don’t mind. I’m happy being with Jeremy, and I’m happy because I was right. Some of what I’m saying is reaching him. I feel it. And maybe some of what Jeremy wants me to know will reach me. So I don’t just talk. I wait and listen and hold Jeremy’s hand in mine.
But I don’t pick up a message. Maybe I’m trying too hard. Every now and then the phrase “the ghosts of now” comes into my head, but at the moment it doesn’t make any sense.
Mrs. Clark tiptoes into the room. It was good being with Jeremy, but I don’t want to talk to her. I do a fast good-bye.
One thing about all that dust in the West Texas air: you choke on it, try to scrub it off, grit your teeth on it, and curse it, but it does make for spectacular sunsets. Gold and red have blasted the faded
“Angie,” Dad says, “be flippant if you like, but I’ve got responsibilities. There’s work to be done.”
“No matter what happens.” I finish the sentence for him.
He sighs as though he’s trying to be patient. I guess he is. Gathering up his papers he manages to sneak a look at his watch. “It’s about time to have some dinner, isn’t it?”
“Why don’t you and Mom go out?” I ask him. “I’d like to stay with Jeremy for a while. I can find something to eat when I get home.”
“I guess we could do that.” He looks relieved. “You’re sure you wouldn’t want to go with us?”
“You and Mom need some time together. And I’d like to be with Jeremy. Really. I would.” I look at my brother, who still sleeps peacefully under that array of bandages and tubes. I think of the way his hand seemed to move in mine. “Does he respond at all when you talk to him, Dad?”
Dad looks startled. He stares at Jeremy, then back to me. “He’s unconscious, Angie.”
I’d like to talk to Dad about Jeremy, but I don’t know how.
He stands, stuffing papers into the folder. “Mrs. Clark went out for dinner. She ought to be back in about half an hour.”
“Who’s Mrs. Clark?”
“The woman who is sitting with Jeremy today.”
We stare at each other as though we’re looking for loose pieces. “I’ll stay with Jeremy until she gets back,” I tell him. “Maybe longer. Don’t worry about me. Okay?”
He plants a kiss in the direction of my forehead and is gone. The rattling carts are muffled by the heavy door as it swings shut. I sit on padded plastic that is still warm and reach for Jeremy’s hand. I wish I could talk to the woman in the newspaper story I saw, who read story books to her child when he was in a coma, and one day he woke up. Anything’s possible. I’ve got to believe that.
“I went to the Andrews house,” I tell Jeremy. “I think someone was there, but Del came too: and whoever was in the house left by the front door when we came in through the kitchen.”
There’s no response. I wait a few moments, then say, “Jeremy, is the Andrews house the one you wrote about? Is that where I’ll find ‘the ghosts of now’?”
Is it my imagination, or does he take a quick breath, out of time with his steady, rhythmic breathing?
“Jeremy, I am going to help you,” I tell him. “I’m going to help you get well again, because I’m going to find out what happened to you and why. Do you hear me?”
Nothing.
My voice is low, almost a whisper, as I look at my brother, at his bruised face, the bandages immobilizing his body. “I love you, Jeremy.” There are tears running down my face, warm salt trails sliding into the corners of my mouth. “Jeremy, I know I can get through to you! It’s going to be all right! You’ve got to get better!”
I talk to him about discovering his poetry and how good it is. I go on about Mom unpacking his birdhouse and how great it looks in the mulberry tree, and I tell him about Del.
Mrs. Clark stays away long enough to have a five-course meal and an after-dinner nap, but I don’t mind. I’m happy being with Jeremy, and I’m happy because I was right. Some of what I’m saying is reaching him. I feel it. And maybe some of what Jeremy wants me to know will reach me. So I don’t just talk. I wait and listen and hold Jeremy’s hand in mine.
But I don’t pick up a message. Maybe I’m trying too hard. Every now and then the phrase “the ghosts of now” comes into my head, but at the moment it doesn’t make any sense.
Mrs. Clark tiptoes into the room. It was good being with Jeremy, but I don’t want to talk to her. I do a fast good-bye.
One thing about all that dust in the West Texas air: you choke on it, try to scrub it off, grit your teeth on it, and curse it, but it does make for spectacular sunsets. Gold and red have blasted the faded
Similar Books
