Part 22 (1/2)

I hated the smell of hospitals. They always reeked of the glop of hot food that melted the plastic trays it was served on. St. Mike's smelled exactly the same. Every hospital did, I bet. I sat on a chair beside a part.i.tioned tray with food barely touched, a noodle dish with green beans stuck together.

”You need anything?” I whispered. He didn't answer. I figured he was super-drugged. Walking past the foot of his bed, I tried to figure out the cat's cradle they had him in. I waited for a few minutes. His eyes blinked slowly, watching the opening to The Six Million Dollar Man on the small TV set high above. We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to make the world's first bionic man. Steve Austin will be that man. Better than he was before. I sat quietly, watching along with him, thinking about Manny and how screwed in the head he was. I worried he'd never get better. I watched the whole show with him, and both of us never moved, never said anything. I got up to go, even though my father wouldn't come to pick me up for another hour or so. I figured Manny didn't want me there and I was beginning to feel I was making things worse by sticking around.

”Okay. I'm going now. You need anything?”

”Don't go,” he said, and I could tell it hurt him to talk. I nodded and sat back down. The room was so quiet I could hear him swallow.

”You sure you don't want anything?”

His pillow was wet. He had been crying.

”Tell me how it's going to be,” Manny said, choking on some spit.

”Okay.”

”Use your big words.”

”I don't know what you want.” I heard the desperation in my voice.

”I want Ricky back, and I want my brother home,” Manny said.

I slumped back in the chair and told him how our lives were different now, everything had changed-shooting the s.h.i.+t, he liked to say, using the biggest words I knew. I didn't know if his brother had found Manny before leaving, or if they had spoken. It didn't matter. I told him that the minute his brother found out Manny was in the hospital, he'd drop everything, no matter where he was, and he'd come and visit him. I sat there and talked until he fell asleep.

I decided to wait outside the hospital for my father on University Avenue. Every so often, a car would drive by and slow down. I knew what that meant. I'd turn my back to them and start bouncing up and down to make it look like I was just a kid on the street trying to warm up, anything so I didn't have to see their faces. Finally, I saw my father's truck pulling up. I climbed in.

”You okay?” he said.

”Yeah, I'm fine now.”

Not much was said on the way home. My father let me out, told me to tell my mother he'd likely be a while; he had to scour the neighbourhood to find a parking spot big enough for the truck. I went into the living room, flicking the snow from my hair. Edite held a folded newspaper in her hand and was reading aloud.

” 'Robert Kribs left the University Avenue courtroom yesterday convicted of first-degree murder. Known as Stretcher, the thin man who left his Windsor home at the age of sixteen smiled as he sat down in the prisoner's dock after hearing the verdict.' ” She held on to the couch's armrest with one hand, slurring. ” 'I'm not trying to be maudlin,' Goldman had said, nodding at his bearded client, 'but there's still a human being in there, and I think he should get whatever help he can before going to a penitentiary.' ” Edite flapped the newspaper in the air with her other hand. ”Hold on! Here's the best part. 'Those attending the trial had all looked at Robert Kribs, who had burst into giggles.' ”

”That's awful,” my mother said.

”It's sad, really, that the paper prints that small detail.” Edite motioned my sister over. Terri had just turned away from the liquor cabinet carrying a tray full of shot gla.s.ses. ”There's a human being in there, somewhere.”

My mother looked puzzled. ”I meant the fact he giggled.”

My father came in and went straight to the kitchen, came back with a bottle of wine and some gla.s.ses. He poured himself a large gla.s.s. His coat and boots were still on. He poured Edite a gla.s.s and slid it across the table from where he was about to sit. ”Go ahead,” he said. ”You no drink too much.”

”You should talk.”

Even though spider veins crawled across my father's nose and cheeks as he grinned, I could tell he wasn't drunk.

”It's time to go to bed!” my mother said. ”Come on.”

”Antonio had a nice visit with Manelinho,” my father said. ”Why you no tell us how he is doing.”

”Manuel, they have school tomorrow. I want them to go to bed.”

Terri didn't move and I stood close to her.

”Georgina, why don't you relax?” Edite said, then downed the wine in three gulps. She had left her job with the newspaper over a month ago, shortly before the case started. It had something to do with her having access to files she shouldn't have had. I overheard my parents discussing it one night, my father suggesting she got herself fired for doing things she shouldn't, always sticking her nose in the wrong places. My mother defended her, insisting that sometimes things needed to be done to get the truth out.

”I made some piggies in a blanket,” Edite announced, ”and while the oven was hot I thought I'd throw in some Pillsbury apple turnovers. They're on top of the stove.” Terri and I would plead with our mother to buy the stuff we saw advertised in commercials, but she never did. Now Edite had made them for us, or for me. Maybe it was her way of saying sorry. I went into the kitchen to fetch the tray and brought it back to the coffee table in the living room. I folded back the plastic wrap and grabbed a sausage roll.

”The killers are going to get life, Pai,” I said.

”Now families can have some peace around here,” my mother said.

Edite said, ”Do you really think the problem is going to go away and you can all go back to living your safe little lives?” She tilted the garrafa of wine, let it gurgle into her gla.s.s.

”You talking stupid things,” my father snapped. He got up and walked into the hallway. Edite followed, and we all shuffled into the kitchen.

Terri went straight to the stove and began to make squiggly lines with the icing over the turnovers. She knew if we had any chance of staying up we had to make ourselves look busy.

”What they did was wrong but it doesn't change-” Edite began, almost pleading.

”They kill a boy! They do things with him and they throw him away like garbage.” My father banged on the kitchen table with his knuckles.

”Your lives will never be the same, is all I'm saying,” Edite said quietly.

”You think I no know this? You think you are smarter than everyone here?”

”It will happen again!” Edite shouted.

My mother busied herself opening the fridge, reaching for a carton of eggs and placing them on the counter.

Edite and my father sat there, their faces leaning into each other over the kitchen table. My mother cracked eggs on the side of a Pyrex bowl.

”Are you making a cake?” I asked. My mother did not turn around.

Edite finally broke the spell. She stood up slowly, then raised her cup in the air. ”To you, Manuel, the man of the house,” she said calmly. ”I'm sorry. This is your home and this is not the time.”

”Why you do this?” my father said. He looked crooked at Edite and lowered his voice. ”Why you think you know everything?”

”I don't, Manuel.” Her voice had slowed down and it was clear she was very drunk. ”Listen, let's just-”

”You listen,” my father interrupted. ”You live here for a year now. I can see, you know. I see the way you work your way into our vida, the way you make friends with my family. You is not a judge under my roof!”

My mother turned from the counter. ”Manuel, Edite apologized. Leave it alone.”

”That is not apology!”

”Apology? For what?” Edite spun around to confront my mother. ”For speaking the truth?”