A Place In This Life

Chapter 9

I must have a low tolerance for beer, because it was almost noon before I finally rose from the dead, sitting on the edge of my bed waiting for some kind of energy to rise from within and carry me to the bathroom. It took a minute, but I was soon standing and then, putting one foot in front of the other, on my way to getting ready for the day.

The drive to the hospital would be a bit far, but distance wasn't going to stand in the way of my seeing Todd. I imagined him sitting in bed, the television on and a nurse coming into his room every five minutes to take his temperature while his head was half inside a barf bucket. Could I handle it? Would I make it to his room, and if I did, would I stay?

The magnet that pulled me toward Todd answered all of my doubts, drawing from my core across the street, up the freeway, into the elevator and down the hall to his room.

My mother had loaned me her car — a big, blue 1980 Chevy Caprice Classic that was embarrassing to drive, not to mention iffy given its age. But once it got going, the V8 would beat any rice rocket on the road. Someone at school had nicknamed it the Big Blue La Bomba, because it was built like a tank, took up two parking spots, and I couldn't park the damn thing. If I pushed the Bomba, I would be in Orange by 1:30.

As the miles of asphalt sped by, my mind drifted to Sarah's party. Cara had driven like a perfect angel all the way home, and got me back before curfew, not that anyone was waiting up. I knew that my mom pretended to sleep, but usually couldn't until she heard my key in the lock. My own sleep had been spotty, with my mind racing, my stomach gurgling from the beer, and my heart torn for what I did with Alex. It felt sooooo good. So tempting. So normal.

It also felt like I needed to wrap my experience up in a brown paper bag and hide it under the bed, lest Todd or anyone else find out about it.

The hospital loomed in the distance, a modern building where the youth of Orange County came for serious pediatric care. I tabulated all the different illnesses they probably saw — Sickle cell anemia. Hole in the heart. Cancer. It wasn't right.

Two older women accompanied me on the elevator ride up. One clutched a teddy bear, the other a pink container of Kleenex. A feeling of sadness permeated every cell in the metal box, which shimmied too much for my taste before it stopped at Todd's floor. In the hallway, I detected the slight scent of vomit and rubbing alcohol, as well as the tense sense of hope fighting hopelessness with each door I passed.

I took a mask at the entryway and slipped it over my face, and then washed my hands at the sink by the door. I quietly entered Todd's room, which was dark and still except for the grinding IV machine next to his bed, dripping liquid down through a line and into his Broviac. He was lying halfway down, mouth open, dozing with his eyes at half-mast. The hair that he had been growing back during the summer was still there. A low groan came from his throat when he heard my footsteps.

"Go away," he said, raising his hand to shoo me away.

"I don't think so," I answered, standing by the side of his bed.

He opened his eyes wide when he realized it was me, in spite of the yellow mask.

"It's the masked ranger," he joked, moving his hand to touch mine.

"What're you doing?"

He glanced over at the plastic tub on the table next to him.

"Contemplating whether I'm going to throw-up or not."

"It's making you sick," I said, moving closer to take his hand.

"You think I'd get used to it. But I never do," he exhaled, as if he was pushing smoke out of his lungs. He paused for a moment and looked intensely into my eyes.