didn’t react when the guy shoved him—the brother or uncle or whatever the hell he was. He didn’t react, but he looked at the girl again. And the guy shoved him again. Then Sam was done.
It took me a while to figure out why Sam took those two shoves. I’d never seen him eye a girl wearing a hijab, and I’d never seen him take two shoves.
Sam and I were smart. And we were careful. And we didn’t do anything without thinking about it first.
“LUIS. THERE’S ANOTHER BOY I want to talk to you about.”
Boy. Dr. Ghosh had never used the word boy before. He used the word kid, which is the one I use, the one I must have used when I was unconscious. What does he know? What did I say?
“Yeah.” I say it slowly, like I don’t care, like I haven’t noticed he used the word boy . Dr. Ghosh is smart. He knows he used boy for the first time.
“This is a boy who wrote you a letter. Do you remember that?”
Now I am confused, because I don’t know anything about a boy and a letter. Dr. Ghosh must see this on my face, because he says, “You got the letter just before the accident. Just before you got hurt. Have you remembered anything about that day?”
I don’t remember that day. I remember the fact. I remember that I shot myself. But that’s it. Weird, huh? Like, why would I be sure I did that if I couldn’t remember anything about doing it?
But I don’t.
There was the time before I knew why I was in the hospital, when I was trying to figure out what Dr. Ghosh meant that someone had shot me, and then there was just the knowledge. I had shot myself. And I had done it with a .22. Which isn’t even an Army issue.
And Dr. Ghosh and I talked about that too. When I told him that I had remembered, I told him that I remembered the information but not the event. He said that was pretty typical, and that I might never remember, or I might, and I should just talk to him about it if I wanted. I could bring it up whenever it came up, so to speak.
And he didn’t seem to care about the gun. Where I got it. Why I used it. Dr. Ghosh didn’t seem to think that was part of the story.
“Yes, Luis, you got a letter. From a young boy in Las Vegas. It was a school project in his third-grade class, I believe. To write to soldiers from Nevada.”
I don’t remember.
I don’t remember anything about this letter. And I am wondering why Dr. Ghosh is bringing it up. What difference it makes. Last Christmas, we got boxes of stuff from people in Las Vegas. The Blue Ribbon Moms sent us stockings filled with coffee and licorice and socks.
“The thing is, Luis, you got a letter from this little boy. And you answered him. You wrote him a letter back, and you put it in the post. And then you shot yourself.”
So that’s why Dr. Ghosh is interested in that letter.
Because I wrote the boy back.
What did I write to him?
I can’t remember anything about this. What would I have written?
Did I send a suicide note to an eight-year-old kid? The thought makes me queasy real fast, and my head just starts pounding. I can’t stand it. I sort of gasp. And I look around for the button that calls the nurse. And then Dr. Ghosh is standing next to me, and he’s holding my hand, and he says, “Luis, it’s okay. It’s okay, Luis. We’re not going to talk about this right now. I am going to sit here, and you can rest. I’ll have the nurse give you more for the pain.”
And so I close my eyes. And my heart is beating. And my head feels like it has come off my body, it’s the size of this room, but I keep my eyes closed, and I don’t move, and I don’t think about anything. Because I might be about to die, right here. No .22 needed. That’s how much it hurts. That’s how crazy my body is going.
11
----
Avis
I SWING BY NATE and Lauren’s house about two. They need some glasses for a party they are having, and I have promised to leave them on their doorstep. Jim and Nate biked the Red Rock loop over the weekend and stopped to hike
It took me a while to figure out why Sam took those two shoves. I’d never seen him eye a girl wearing a hijab, and I’d never seen him take two shoves.
Sam and I were smart. And we were careful. And we didn’t do anything without thinking about it first.
“LUIS. THERE’S ANOTHER BOY I want to talk to you about.”
Boy. Dr. Ghosh had never used the word boy before. He used the word kid, which is the one I use, the one I must have used when I was unconscious. What does he know? What did I say?
“Yeah.” I say it slowly, like I don’t care, like I haven’t noticed he used the word boy . Dr. Ghosh is smart. He knows he used boy for the first time.
“This is a boy who wrote you a letter. Do you remember that?”
Now I am confused, because I don’t know anything about a boy and a letter. Dr. Ghosh must see this on my face, because he says, “You got the letter just before the accident. Just before you got hurt. Have you remembered anything about that day?”
I don’t remember that day. I remember the fact. I remember that I shot myself. But that’s it. Weird, huh? Like, why would I be sure I did that if I couldn’t remember anything about doing it?
But I don’t.
There was the time before I knew why I was in the hospital, when I was trying to figure out what Dr. Ghosh meant that someone had shot me, and then there was just the knowledge. I had shot myself. And I had done it with a .22. Which isn’t even an Army issue.
And Dr. Ghosh and I talked about that too. When I told him that I had remembered, I told him that I remembered the information but not the event. He said that was pretty typical, and that I might never remember, or I might, and I should just talk to him about it if I wanted. I could bring it up whenever it came up, so to speak.
And he didn’t seem to care about the gun. Where I got it. Why I used it. Dr. Ghosh didn’t seem to think that was part of the story.
“Yes, Luis, you got a letter. From a young boy in Las Vegas. It was a school project in his third-grade class, I believe. To write to soldiers from Nevada.”
I don’t remember.
I don’t remember anything about this letter. And I am wondering why Dr. Ghosh is bringing it up. What difference it makes. Last Christmas, we got boxes of stuff from people in Las Vegas. The Blue Ribbon Moms sent us stockings filled with coffee and licorice and socks.
“The thing is, Luis, you got a letter from this little boy. And you answered him. You wrote him a letter back, and you put it in the post. And then you shot yourself.”
So that’s why Dr. Ghosh is interested in that letter.
Because I wrote the boy back.
What did I write to him?
I can’t remember anything about this. What would I have written?
Did I send a suicide note to an eight-year-old kid? The thought makes me queasy real fast, and my head just starts pounding. I can’t stand it. I sort of gasp. And I look around for the button that calls the nurse. And then Dr. Ghosh is standing next to me, and he’s holding my hand, and he says, “Luis, it’s okay. It’s okay, Luis. We’re not going to talk about this right now. I am going to sit here, and you can rest. I’ll have the nurse give you more for the pain.”
And so I close my eyes. And my heart is beating. And my head feels like it has come off my body, it’s the size of this room, but I keep my eyes closed, and I don’t move, and I don’t think about anything. Because I might be about to die, right here. No .22 needed. That’s how much it hurts. That’s how crazy my body is going.
11
----
Avis
I SWING BY NATE and Lauren’s house about two. They need some glasses for a party they are having, and I have promised to leave them on their doorstep. Jim and Nate biked the Red Rock loop over the weekend and stopped to hike
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