eyes to find Casey standing over him, looking panicked.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
He opens his mouth to tell her he’s fine, just a little tired. He can feel the words forming in his throat, but nothing comes out. Casey disappears for a second then returns with a middle-aged woman in a white doctor’s coat.
“Mr. Silver?” she says. “Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can hear you,” he says, and moves to stand up. But nothing happens. He can’t feel his limbs, can’t move his lips, can’t make a sound. He closes his eyes for a second. He can’t get over how quiet it is in his head, no buzzing at all. He hasn’t heard silence like this in years. He wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket and weep with relief.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s in the hospital.
CHAPTER 13
I f there’s a good thing about waking up in a hospital it’s that, even with your brain still flickering like a loose bulb, it takes only the faintest germ of lucidity to figure out where you are. The beep of the heart monitor, the smell of industrial disinfectant, the overly starched sheets, and your wife sitting in the chair beside you.
Ex-wife.
Right.
Denise is squinting into her magazine in much the same way she used to squint at him, peering into his workings like a mechanic trying to find the frayed wire, the loose connection responsible for his host of malfunctions. This sense memory of her habitual contempt serves as a toehold for his short-term memory, which doesn’t so much come back as reveal itself to have been there all along, temporarily camouflaged against the sandy texture of his brain.
Denise looks up from her magazine. “You’re up.”
She doesn’t look terribly concerned, which might be a good sign or might be because she doesn’t particularly give a shit either way. His death, at this point, wouldn’t have much in the way of ramifications for her. Or anyone else, really. This realization is enough to get him to close his eyes and try to reconnect with dreamless oblivion. He hears the high-pitched wail of dry hinges, and then footsteps.
“Dad?”
He opens his eyes to see Casey standing over his bed, holding a bottle of Diet Coke with a chewed straw sticking out of it.
You called me Dad.
“Can you talk?”
I’m fine, Casey.
She turns to Denise, alarmed. “Why can’t he talk?”
Denise leans over him and says, loudly, “Silver, can you talk?” like he is a three-year-old. She used to talk to the Mexican gardeners like that too.
Of course I can talk. This is me, talking.
Denise stands up and positions her face right in front of his. “Blink if you can understand me.”
What the fuck, Denise?
“I’m going to get Rich,” Casey says, running out of the room.
“You’re OK,” Denise tells him, but she’s looking at him with that old familiar gaze, the one that says that, to no one’s great surprise, you’ve gone and shit the bed again.
* * *
They met at his cousin Bruce’s wedding. She wasn’t the most beautiful bridesmaid, that was Andrea Lumane, whose plum-colored gown clung to her like shrink wrap, and whom the photographers followed around the reception as much as they did the bride herself. Neither was Denise the runner-up. That honor went to Hannah Reece, who could have sailed through on her unassailable cleavage alone. But Denise was a strong third place, maybe a bit plain-looking, but her soft features had a certain understated elegance, and her smile was full and honest. She seemed like someone who could laugh at herself, which was a trait he looked for in the women he attempted to date. It made it less likely that they would laugh at him.
So he downed a few shots to tranquilize his innate introversion, fixed his wild mane of hair as best he could, popped a breath mint, and then boldly sat down in the empty seat beside her.
“You look like you could be having a better time,” he said.
She had been a bridesmaid one too many times, and was drinking more than
“What’s wrong?” she says.
He opens his mouth to tell her he’s fine, just a little tired. He can feel the words forming in his throat, but nothing comes out. Casey disappears for a second then returns with a middle-aged woman in a white doctor’s coat.
“Mr. Silver?” she says. “Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can hear you,” he says, and moves to stand up. But nothing happens. He can’t feel his limbs, can’t move his lips, can’t make a sound. He closes his eyes for a second. He can’t get over how quiet it is in his head, no buzzing at all. He hasn’t heard silence like this in years. He wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket and weep with relief.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s in the hospital.
CHAPTER 13
I f there’s a good thing about waking up in a hospital it’s that, even with your brain still flickering like a loose bulb, it takes only the faintest germ of lucidity to figure out where you are. The beep of the heart monitor, the smell of industrial disinfectant, the overly starched sheets, and your wife sitting in the chair beside you.
Ex-wife.
Right.
Denise is squinting into her magazine in much the same way she used to squint at him, peering into his workings like a mechanic trying to find the frayed wire, the loose connection responsible for his host of malfunctions. This sense memory of her habitual contempt serves as a toehold for his short-term memory, which doesn’t so much come back as reveal itself to have been there all along, temporarily camouflaged against the sandy texture of his brain.
Denise looks up from her magazine. “You’re up.”
She doesn’t look terribly concerned, which might be a good sign or might be because she doesn’t particularly give a shit either way. His death, at this point, wouldn’t have much in the way of ramifications for her. Or anyone else, really. This realization is enough to get him to close his eyes and try to reconnect with dreamless oblivion. He hears the high-pitched wail of dry hinges, and then footsteps.
“Dad?”
He opens his eyes to see Casey standing over his bed, holding a bottle of Diet Coke with a chewed straw sticking out of it.
You called me Dad.
“Can you talk?”
I’m fine, Casey.
She turns to Denise, alarmed. “Why can’t he talk?”
Denise leans over him and says, loudly, “Silver, can you talk?” like he is a three-year-old. She used to talk to the Mexican gardeners like that too.
Of course I can talk. This is me, talking.
Denise stands up and positions her face right in front of his. “Blink if you can understand me.”
What the fuck, Denise?
“I’m going to get Rich,” Casey says, running out of the room.
“You’re OK,” Denise tells him, but she’s looking at him with that old familiar gaze, the one that says that, to no one’s great surprise, you’ve gone and shit the bed again.
* * *
They met at his cousin Bruce’s wedding. She wasn’t the most beautiful bridesmaid, that was Andrea Lumane, whose plum-colored gown clung to her like shrink wrap, and whom the photographers followed around the reception as much as they did the bride herself. Neither was Denise the runner-up. That honor went to Hannah Reece, who could have sailed through on her unassailable cleavage alone. But Denise was a strong third place, maybe a bit plain-looking, but her soft features had a certain understated elegance, and her smile was full and honest. She seemed like someone who could laugh at herself, which was a trait he looked for in the women he attempted to date. It made it less likely that they would laugh at him.
So he downed a few shots to tranquilize his innate introversion, fixed his wild mane of hair as best he could, popped a breath mint, and then boldly sat down in the empty seat beside her.
“You look like you could be having a better time,” he said.
She had been a bridesmaid one too many times, and was drinking more than
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