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Chet drops to his knees by my bedside and, with a prayer for protection from my noncontagious disease, takes my hand in his massive gloved one, which is, holy shit, like some kind of freaking paw. How come I don’t have manly hands like that? If there is reincarnation on tap somewhere, I’m putting in for big hands.
“Lord, I pray that you will lift the fear from Cameron’s mind and forgive him his sins. In the name of your son, our savior, Jesus Christ, Amen. Cam,” Chet says in a low church voice. “You have anything you wanna add?”
“No, I think you covered all the bases.”
“Don’t you want to confess your sins and ask Jesus to forgive you?”
I don’t know why this is the thing that pushes me over the edge. I wish I could rip out every tube and wire and punch Chet King for real this time instead of by accident.
“Shouldn’t Jesus ask my forgiveness? I mean, seeing as he’s taking me out of the game at sixteen without even letting me get laid first.”
Chet shakes his head. “Cameron, I know that anger’s just a front.”
“No, it’s not. I’m actually very pissed off.”
“It’s just a front for all the hurt in your soul. I can see it. So can God.”
The TV is an enticing carnival barker of color and form. I want to scream, If God can see my hurt then why the hell doesn’t he take it away? If God really exists, why would he allow all the terrible, unfair things to happen? I mean, what kind of sadistic creep is he?
“You think I don’t know what it’s like to lie in a bed feeling sorry for yourself, wondering why something terrible is happening to you?” Chet says. “I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to walk. Football was my life, and I’ll never play the game ever again. But it’s okay with me now, Cameron. And you know why it’s okay?”
“Because you’ve realized it’s a retarded sport?”
Those gloved hands of Chet’s ball into fists at his side for a second before going limp. “Because I’ve accepted Jesus Christ into my heart and my life. And I know that what happened to me happened for a reason. God has a bigger plan for me, and I have to trust in that.”
The question’s out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think it. “What if it’s not God’s will, Chet?”
“But it is. I know that.”
“No, Chet, what if it’s just a shitty thing that happened? What if it’s just bad luck, some random thing like a butterfly flapped his wings in South America and you broke your neck? What if there is no divine plan at all and we are totally on our own?” I don’t know what kind of answer I want or if there even is an answer. “You ever think about that, Chet?”
“No. No, I don’t,” he says with assurance. “And I feel sorry for you if that’s how you feel.”
Yeah, I think, closing my eyes to the Chet Kings of the world. I feel sorry for me, too.
DAY SOMETHING
The coughing across the hall has stopped.
SOMETIME LATER
Hey, Cameron. Pssst. Wake up.
No. No wakey. Sleep. Tired.
Caaaammerrrronnnn! Come on. We’ve got to talk. We’ve got lots to do, okay?
She’s taking shape in my mind. A small, pixieish face with that wide, full mouth. The hair’s short, spiky. Pink. And yep, those wings are spread out. They’ve been spray-painted with stencils of the Buddha Cow.
Watch this, she says.
She flips a switch on her breastplate, and the Buddha Cows on her wings float up, over and over, like a crazy digital billboard.
Cool, huh?
Who are you? I ask.
Why don’t you find out?
