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The elevator shoots to the sixth floor. The doors open to reveal a breathtaking lobby. Marble, glass, steel, tiered fountain. It looks like the Ritz-Carlton my dad used to retreat to when the fights dragged on too long.
I’m wondering when the concierge will show up, and suddenly here she is.
“Baby,” says my mother, “welcome to my world.” Burying me in her perfumed embrace, she lowers her voice to a whisper and adds: “Mommy’s going to fix everything.”
She leads the way through swinging doors, and suddenly we are in a hospital.
A really swank hospital.
Dr. Anderson has a platoon of assistants: specialists, nurses, techs, but, as far as I can tell, only one patient. They are shocked at how well I am doing. Everyone wants to have a look at my mangled arm, swollen like an overcooked hot dog. I learn that my spleen, whatever that is, has been ruptured. Also, I’ve lost a rib.
“You’ll never miss it,” Dr. Anderson assures me.
The star attraction, however, is my reattached leg with its Frankenstein stitches. My mother is especially interested—my mother, who always made my dad apply Band-Aids because the sight of blood made her woozy.
My gown is an oversized napkin, barely covering the essentials. I’d be massively embarrassed if I weren’t so drugged up. Fortunately, Solo seems to have stayed b
ehind in the hall.
“Miraculous,” breathes a nurse.
It looks horrifying to me, all the blood and goo and gauze, but I have to admit I’m not feeling as awful as I was a few hours ago. The pain has gone from blinding to merely throbbing. And when they finally remove the tube from my throat, the first thing I say is “I’m hungry” in a hoarse whisper, which gives rise to appreciative laughter and applause.
One of the nurses, an older guy with a trim gray beard, introduces me to my room appointments like a bellboy sniffing for a tip. Wi-Fi! Flat-screen! Italian marble! Heated towel rack!
“Is there anything you need?” my mother asks. “I’m having your pajamas and robe picked up from the house.”
I try to focus. “My laptop. My Titus Andronicus T-shirt, you know, the blue one? Maybe some Clearasil.”
“You won’t be needing your laptop any time soon.”
“Do you know where my phone is?” I croak. “I should call Aislin. I think that guy—Solo?—I think he said somebody turned it in.”
A tight smile. My mother does not like Aislin. She tolerates her the way she tolerated the pet ferret I could never quite housebreak. I believe this is because Aislin shorted out our seven-thousand-dollar full-body Swedish massage chair with a puked-up Mojito, but Aislin is convinced the tide turned when she suggested a cure for my mother’s chronic headaches. I gather that the phrase “get some” may have been employed.
“Derek, see if Solo has my daughter’s phone.” A tech scurries away, and moments later Solo appears, carrying a plastic bag.
“Someone turned in your cell,” he says. “Also your sketchbook. It’s a little muddy. Nothing too major, though.”
“Thanks,” I say. I sound like my great-grandmother after her nightly Marlboro menthol.
“I’ll take that,” my mother says, but for some reason, Solo refuses to let go of my sketchbook. She yanks and it falls to the floor.
When Solo retrieves the pad, it’s open to a sketch I’ve been working on for several weeks for Life Drawing. We’re supposed to draw a person, either from memory or from our imagination, without referring to a model or a photo.
Easy, I thought.
Turns out: not so easy.
Solo stares at the drawing. It started out as a guy’s face in profile. Not a memory, just something that came to me. Mostly it’s just lines, angles, planes. A preschool Picasso.
It’s deeply lame.
Solo takes it in, meets my eyes.
“Interesting,” my mother says without looking. She snaps the sketchbook shut and hands it to an assistant.
My mother doesn’t like art, mine or anybody else’s, probably because my dad was an artist. “Austin was a failed sculptor,” she’s fond of saying—she always pauses a beat here, raising a professionally waxed brow—“but he was an accomplished failure.”
