got puppies and pinwheels.
Movies had taught me that hospital rooms were terrifying places, with screaming and crying and human vegetables hooked up to wheezing machines. Charlie’s room, while slightly depressing, wasn’t nearly so bad, and Charlie himself—tucked in and mounted on his mechanical bed so he had a perfect view of the TV—looked almost serene.
“Hey,” I said as I stepped around the curtain. My dad waited in the hall, gathering the prognosis from Charlie’s parents.
Charlie gave me a devilish grin as he pulled his hands out from under the blankets. He waved two gauzy lumps.
“Hey, buddy.” The words crawled out from his dry throat. “Missed the grand finale.”
“Jeez,” I replied. I looked at the heart rate monitor. The blips were steady.
“It’s okay,” Charlie said. “Stupid bottle rockets. Wrap twenty together and they pack a wallop.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What? Why? I’m sorry you missed it. How many times do you get to see a kid blow off five of his fingers?”
“Oh man … that many?”
“Two on the left hand, three on the right.”
My first thought was, How will Charlie ever play video games again? And while that may seem shallow, it had probably been Charlie’s first thought as well.
“I should have been there with you,” I said. “To stop it.”
Charlie shook his head. “You were busy.”
“I guess.”
“Did you tape all of yesterday’s shows?”
“I … no.” This was a big difference between us. Had I been the one in the hospital, he would have been presenting me with a VHS of all the television I’d missed during my hours of surgery and recovery. Instead, I brought him a bag of gummy bears. I set it on his tray next to his barely touched breakfast.
“Oh well,” Charlie said. “I guess there’s always summer reruns.” Gummy bears were his favorite, but they couldn’t make up for missing a day of television.
“Want me to open them?”
He raised the wrapped remains of his hands, and with a grin he said, “What do you think?”
Shortly after that, a nurse whisked into the room to change the bandages, and I used it as my cue to escape. Down the hall, I found my dad sitting on the edge of the reception desk, cradling a cup of coffee to his chest. Standing next to him, Charlie’s dad held the ribbon of a Mylar balloon that was shaped like a cat’s head.
They seemed an odd pair. My dad—clean-shaven, athletic, a polo shirt and khakis. Charlie’s dad—bearded and balding, paunchy, tinted glasses, a red nylon jacket and dark corduroys. Yet their conversation had a natural sweep to it.
“… and they both had about a billion wasp stings. Remember that?” Charlie’s dad mused.
“How could I not?” my dad replied. “We were putting calamine lotion on him for over a week. Man, those boys were so tiny back then.”
A gentle punch to my shoulder greeted my arrival, and I tried my best to sound chipper. “How goes it, old man?” I said to my dad. For some reason, he always got a kick out of me calling him old man .
“Mr. Dwyer and I are sharing some old memories of you guys,” he replied.
“Real nice of you to visit,” Mr. Dwyer told me. “You know, Charlie asked to see you almost immediately.”
“Well … thanks.” I wasn’t sure what I was thanking him for, but I didn’t know what else to say.
A blast of air from an oscillating fan on the desk sent the cat balloon into orbit, and the three of us watched it until my dad stuck out a hand. “Hal,” he said. “We’ll have that drink soon.”
Charlie’s dad joined him in a firm handshake. “You bet, Rich. Long overdue.”
* * *
“It’ll be tough,” my dad explained a few minutes later as we walked through the hospital parking lot. “He’ll need you to be sympathetic. You can invite him over for dinners if you want.”
“You don’t like Charlie,” I said. “I know that.”
“Charlie’s a nice kid. Sure, he can be exhausting—”
“I’ll go
Movies had taught me that hospital rooms were terrifying places, with screaming and crying and human vegetables hooked up to wheezing machines. Charlie’s room, while slightly depressing, wasn’t nearly so bad, and Charlie himself—tucked in and mounted on his mechanical bed so he had a perfect view of the TV—looked almost serene.
“Hey,” I said as I stepped around the curtain. My dad waited in the hall, gathering the prognosis from Charlie’s parents.
Charlie gave me a devilish grin as he pulled his hands out from under the blankets. He waved two gauzy lumps.
“Hey, buddy.” The words crawled out from his dry throat. “Missed the grand finale.”
“Jeez,” I replied. I looked at the heart rate monitor. The blips were steady.
“It’s okay,” Charlie said. “Stupid bottle rockets. Wrap twenty together and they pack a wallop.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What? Why? I’m sorry you missed it. How many times do you get to see a kid blow off five of his fingers?”
“Oh man … that many?”
“Two on the left hand, three on the right.”
My first thought was, How will Charlie ever play video games again? And while that may seem shallow, it had probably been Charlie’s first thought as well.
“I should have been there with you,” I said. “To stop it.”
Charlie shook his head. “You were busy.”
“I guess.”
“Did you tape all of yesterday’s shows?”
“I … no.” This was a big difference between us. Had I been the one in the hospital, he would have been presenting me with a VHS of all the television I’d missed during my hours of surgery and recovery. Instead, I brought him a bag of gummy bears. I set it on his tray next to his barely touched breakfast.
“Oh well,” Charlie said. “I guess there’s always summer reruns.” Gummy bears were his favorite, but they couldn’t make up for missing a day of television.
“Want me to open them?”
He raised the wrapped remains of his hands, and with a grin he said, “What do you think?”
Shortly after that, a nurse whisked into the room to change the bandages, and I used it as my cue to escape. Down the hall, I found my dad sitting on the edge of the reception desk, cradling a cup of coffee to his chest. Standing next to him, Charlie’s dad held the ribbon of a Mylar balloon that was shaped like a cat’s head.
They seemed an odd pair. My dad—clean-shaven, athletic, a polo shirt and khakis. Charlie’s dad—bearded and balding, paunchy, tinted glasses, a red nylon jacket and dark corduroys. Yet their conversation had a natural sweep to it.
“… and they both had about a billion wasp stings. Remember that?” Charlie’s dad mused.
“How could I not?” my dad replied. “We were putting calamine lotion on him for over a week. Man, those boys were so tiny back then.”
A gentle punch to my shoulder greeted my arrival, and I tried my best to sound chipper. “How goes it, old man?” I said to my dad. For some reason, he always got a kick out of me calling him old man .
“Mr. Dwyer and I are sharing some old memories of you guys,” he replied.
“Real nice of you to visit,” Mr. Dwyer told me. “You know, Charlie asked to see you almost immediately.”
“Well … thanks.” I wasn’t sure what I was thanking him for, but I didn’t know what else to say.
A blast of air from an oscillating fan on the desk sent the cat balloon into orbit, and the three of us watched it until my dad stuck out a hand. “Hal,” he said. “We’ll have that drink soon.”
Charlie’s dad joined him in a firm handshake. “You bet, Rich. Long overdue.”
* * *
“It’ll be tough,” my dad explained a few minutes later as we walked through the hospital parking lot. “He’ll need you to be sympathetic. You can invite him over for dinners if you want.”
“You don’t like Charlie,” I said. “I know that.”
“Charlie’s a nice kid. Sure, he can be exhausting—”
“I’ll go
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