Almost Gone

Where To?

where to? Scott · 2009 You lie there, breathing very deliberately. “But if it happens tomorrow, how long will it take?” The television buzzes behind me. It seems like they only show sitcoms here; half-hour segments steeped in canned laughter and oblivion. I step closer to the bed and squeeze your right foot. It’s cold, even under the sheet. With my other hand I reach under my shirt and pinch the soft skin of my stomach to keep my voice level. “It’s not going to happen tomorrow or the day after, or the day after that,” I fib. I pretend that we are talking about something else. A thunderstorm . A tooth falling out. I rub your toes until they feel warmer. “Not tomorrow or any other day. This is just a little vacation. Like when we went to Virginia, remember?” “With the horses and the mini-golf and the hotel pool shaped like a peanut,” you recite. “Right?” I watch you close your eyes to send yourself back there, and I close mine, too. I remember lifting you onto my shoulders in the pool, spinning you around. And chasing each other, roaring with laughter, our wet feet slapping on the cold pavement while Hailey yelled for us to stop because someone could get hurt. But neither of us listened, and you whooped and hollered when I almost slipped and fell. But it had been dangerous. And now I’m ashamed. It was irresponsible and careless. Maybe Hailey has been right all along. I open my eyes and stare carefully at your face, unsure whether you’re asleep or not. You look nothing like the girl from that day anymore. Your face is not reddened AlmoSt goNe· 176 · by the sun and peppered with Hailey’s light freckles, but sunken and pale. Then you cough. It sounds like a piece of cardboard ripping. Like a magnet my hand goes to your forehead. It scorches. I push the longer hairs back. Your breathing is definitely worse than it was yesterday , when I lied to Hailey in the hallway before she went in and told her that you weren’t any worse; you weren’t any better but you weren’t any worse. She hadn’t believed me anyway. The doctor had already told her the same thing he told me—that you could pass any day now. God, how I fucking hate that word pass. “I want to sit up,” you say. I can feel the sharpness of your ribs, the dampness of your back sticking to the sheets. I push lumpy pillows behind you, moving one over to cover a yellowed stain on the wall. Footsteps clack down the hallway. “Dad, I hate this place,” you whisper. “I really hate it. I wish we could just . . . go.” That’s all it takes. It happens so fast: bringing the car around, flicking the hazard lights on and then striding quickly back. Running with you hanging over my shoulder, jostling against me, so lightweight and frail that you could crumble into pieces at any moment. Your laughter falling to the linoleum floor, sounding unnatural and guttural, in part because I haven’t heard it in months and in part because you’re hanging upside down. The nurse and the receptionist squawking and then actually running after us, the slamming of doors and the way you sink into the seat and smile up at me, as if we have all the time in the world. I jam my Red Sox hat onto your head and you pull it down as sirens and car horns blast all around us. My arm locks you into place, and we swerve across the parking lot, gaining speed. You cling to my arm, the same arm that just swung and elbowed whoever was following us. I’d felt the soft give of flesh, heard a shocked gush of breath. The police! A woman had cried. I’m calling the police! Security! Where is security?! But none of it matters to me. Assault, negligence, life, death. None of it. where to?· 177 · “Where to, miss?” I ask, biting my lip and checking the rearview as we weave through traffic. It’s an old game we used to play. You are the famous movie star. Just don’t say home, I think, where Hailey’s camped out, smoking Parliaments with her friends and blaming me for everything...