Safe in the Black Sand

6

We sit in the hospital room, waiting.

What's uglier than red?

The longer I stare at Angelica's fingernails, the more they upset me. There's already too much red in the world—the color of gore and scars, of conquest and torches, forbidden fruit, ink on failed tests, embarrassment, rust, rage, emergency lights—the tangle of red tape at hospitals—the fear of red cards, the dangers of red meat, of being in the red, of being caught red-handed. Red is the color of heartbreak, spilled wine, murder and revenge. Red is the color of the stitched-up wounds across my sister's face.

Mom's eyes are bloodshot.

            "What did the doctor say?" I ask.

            I clutch at hope, a feeling that, in the ICU, is colorless. I stare into Mom's tired Egyptian face. Her shoulders slouch under the weight of grief and gravity. Her hair is a bramble of gray and black split ends. 

"Mom? What did the doctor say?"

"The coffee."

"What?"

"So bad. Vending machine. Only thing to eat. You have anything? Granola bar? Gum? Sugar, I could use. Lifesaver?"

Her syntax is unraveling with her sanity.

"There's not a cafeteria?" I ask.

She nods vaguely, not listening. "I did have one of those square crumbly things filled with goo you kids loved to eat growing up."

"Pop-Tarts?"

Every now and then she reminds me she was raised by immigrants. 

"Yes, Pop-Tarts." She manages a half-smile. "Funny name. Because they pop. Out of the toaster."

"Mom, what did the doctor tell you?"

She looks at me, snapping into focus. "You know how they are. They keep things vague. Afraid you'll turn around and sue if they're wrong. Can't be wrong if they're too vague to be understood. Play it safe." 

"Just tell me what they told you."

Mom can be harder to talk to than Dad sometimes.  

"I thought I understood English," she starts, "but all these medical words—unstable, serious, critical—I graduated from Yale and have no idea what they actually mean." 

"Did they say Angelica's in critical condition?"

She goes on rambling, "I'd thought critical meant serious but not life-threatening, which is what I remember them telling me at some point, though who knows if I'm remembering it right. Apparently that's what the word critical means in some hospitals—but jargon being jargon, it varies from place to place. Like pizza—some places it's square, some places triangular or deep-dish."

"Mom, please. Focus."

She glances at Angelica's motionless body on the bed then back at me. "I've heard far too many words today," she says. "I think I need a chocolate bar or something—"

"Jesus, Mom. Stop."

            She looks at her feet and kicks the floor, leaving a scuffmark. Then she looks over at the bed again, her eyebrows sloping in anger.

"Alright," she says, eying me sternly. "You want to talk? Let's talk. They—some people—a group of guys—men—by the cemetery on Grove Street. They did this to her. They dragged her into the cemetery and did this to her." Mom motions without looking toward Angelica's patchwork of bloody stitches. "Happened on her way home from work last night. You know she works late at the restaurant on Tuesdays."

            Mom wipes her leaky red eyes. Then she adds, "When I came here, I left your father at home. I told him I was going out to do some errands and wouldn't be back for a while."

            "He doesn't know?" I ask in shock. "Mom, we can't just leave him. If Angelica's in critical condition—"

            "She'll be fine," Mom insists, as if stressing the last word will make it true. "Let's wait until Angelica's awake. Then we'll tell your dad to come see her. Trust me, Jax. He won't be able to handle seeing her like this. He'll go off the deep-end and may never come back." 

            The sight of Angelica's bloody face and swollen eyes, the sound of machines beeping—I have to get out of here, drowning in the deep-end myself. 

            "I'm going home," I say defiantly. "And I'm coming back here with Dad."  

Mom opens her mouth, inhales as if preparing for a longwinded argument, then nods.  

            Angelica lies still amidst the churning motors and beeping machines keeping her alive. Her face is Halloween-ready, a mishmash of wounds and clots.

My fists clench as I walk out of the room. Who were these men that hurt her?