Althea and Oliver Read online

  But every couple of days an orderly comes in to change the paper-thin sheets and wipe down the walls of the shower, and Oliver slips out to let him work. Then he has no choice but to join the others in their makeshift living room, unless he wants to mill around the nurses’ station, which they’ve made clear they don’t particularly like, or sit on the floor outside his room waiting for the orderly to finish, which makes Oliver feel like he’s rushing the guy unfairly.

  So when the knock on the door comes one afternoon as Oliver is about to start a history assignment, he gathers his books and pencils and walks down the luminous white hallway toward the sound of adolescent boys competing to be heard over the television.

  Oliver sinks into an institutional blue chair by the dirt-streaked window with a decent view of the busy avenue below. The other guys are draped across the furniture in flip-flops and track pants, jeans and heather-gray sweatshirts with the names of their high school football teams or concert shirts from stadium tours, major American cities listed on the back. As he always does, Oliver looks around for a Minty Fresh or even a Coby, someone with a Mohawk or a homemade shirt or too many zippers on his pants, someone with bloodshot eyes, generally looking not entirely aboveboard. The lounge has the unpleasant feel of a locker room before gym class. Oliver opens his book across his lap and tries to concentrate. A dozen stories down he can see two women huddled together against the wind, one with bright pink hair, the other holding her IV stand close to keep it from rolling away. Oliver wonders if this is standard practice at hospitals in New York City, to let the patients outside for regular cigarette breaks.

  “Anybody seen CT?” one kid asks. In the manner of a traveling carnival that has picked up misfits across the country as employees, the boys in the study refer to one another by their state names and abbreviations. This works out better for some than others. The boy from Alaska is known affectionately as AK-47; poor Kentucky is mocked ruthlessly for carrying the name of a popular lubricant.

  “Where the hell have you been? CT went down yesterday morning.” AK-47 seems to have prevailed as the unexpected alpha male. He has the best seat on the couch as well as control of the remote.

  Surreptitiously surveying the group, Oliver confirms their ranks have dwindled. There are only about eight boys left; the rest have succumbed to KLS sleep episodes. Confined to their rooms, they are under constant surveillance by the cameras mounted everywhere, and rumors circulate constantly about who did what in the semipsychotic state familiar to them all. The only boy actually from New York fell out practically as soon as they first took his blood pressure; for this he was dubbed a “pussy” by the rest of the crew. The remaining eight have proved to be hardier than anticipated.

  “He was going to lend me his Sega,” the first boy says.

  “Go in there and take it,” AK-47 says, shrugging. “He can’t use it now.”

  Whoever organized the study had the foresight to ensure the television would get ESPN. The Winston Cup Series is airing live from Atlanta. Garth has a secret love of NASCAR; Althea and Oliver had sometimes found him standing at the end of a neighbor’s driveway, having an animated conversation with someone he barely knew about the Bodine Brothers or the controversial finish at the 1991 Banquet Frozen Foods 300. Althea speculated that Garth couldn’t find other professors willing to proclaim their allegiance to this proud Southern tradition, so he resorted to pacing up and down Magnolia Street waiting for his male neighbors to come outside and check their mail, and then he would pounce.

  “What is this shit?” NJ asks. “I want to watch football.”

  “It’s the NAPA 500,” Oliver says. “It’s the final competition of the NASCAR season.”

  “Like the Super Bowl?”

  “Sure.”

  “You from NC, right?” Kentucky asks hopefully, perhaps seeking a kindred spirit in a fellow Southerner. He’s wearing a Browning baseball cap; if they were to team up, Oliver gives it about two hours until New Jersey starts cracking jokes about KY and NC polishing their rifles together.

  “Wilmington,” Oliver says, going back to his history book.

  A willowy nurse walks into the lounge. She has curly blonde hair and slim hands, and Oliver loves her simply because she is the only nurse, male or female, who isn’t wearing orthopedic shoes. Pointing her digital thermometer at the boys like a weapon, she orders them to line up against the wall.

  “Again?” New Jersey says.

  “Just do it,” says the nurse.

  No one’s temperature has spiked enough to indicate he might be getting close to having a KLS episode. The nurse’s eyebrows furrow slightly with poorly hidden consternation.

  “Maybe we’re just not trying hard enough,” AK-47 says. “Maybe we should all go back to our rooms and count sheep.”

  Oliver smiles at the nurse when she inserts the plastic tip into his ear. He does not envy her this job; over her shoulder, he can see the rest of the boys ogling her admittedly perfect ass. “You should really be handing out poisoned apples. I hear they work every time.”

  “Sooner or later,” she says, not without some glee. “Sooner or later.”

  Predictably, she has barely left the room when the others begin talking about what they would like to do to her, given ten minutes and access to the broom closet.

  “I’m telling you,” says another boy—Minnesota, perhaps, based on the accent—“if she comes into my room after I go down, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

  “Dude, you told us you came on to your sister once when you were sick. Do you want to be held responsible for that action?” AK-47 says.

  Minnesota pouts. “Whatever.”

  “I wandered into my neighbor’s house and ate everything in their fridge,” Kentucky says.

  “Oh, who hasn’t?” says New Jersey dismissively.

  “Yeah, except on Thunder Road or wherever the fuck you live, people probably don’t sleep with their shotguns and get hard-ons at the prospect of killing an intruder,” Kentucky says. That gets a snicker, and he sits back, temporarily secure in his beta male status.

  “At least here no one will freak out if I take a shit on my bed,” another guy says. “It’s been known to happen.”

  This revelation prompts AK-47 to launch into a protracted tale that combines elements of all the others—a neighbor’s house, fecal matter, and an unwanted sexual advance directed at a wildly inappropriate recipient.

  The orderly who was cleaning Oliver’s room earlier appears in the hallway, diligently circling the floor with a filthy mop and water. Gathering his books, Oliver retreats from the common room.

  “NC, where you going?” Kentucky calls after him.

  Oliver mumbles something about needing to study.

  • • •

  That night, Oliver gets into bed and waits, reading The Big Fat Kill by the light of the gooseneck lamp. There’s a quick rap on the door and a nurse enters. It’s not the blonde nurse, but an older woman with extremely thin eyebrows and graying brown hair pinned into a wispy bun.

  “You ready?” she says. He may not like her shoes, but he appreciates her businesslike approach.

  “Bring it on,” he says. It comes out more serious-sounding than he intended.

  She straps a blue band around his chest and another around his abdomen; these are supposed to monitor his breathing while he sleeps. When she bends over him to glue the electrodes to his temples, he can smell Twizzlers on her breath. From here, he can tell she has no eyebrows at all, that she’s just drawn on these slender lines where her eyebrows should be. The adhesive from the electrodes is cold and sticky in his hair. She wraps an oximeter around his index finger, a strip that looks like a Band-Aid but actually monitors the oxygen levels in his blood.

  He tries to remember if Nicky had a ritual for tucking him in at night when he was small. Did he have a favorite bedtime story? Was there a song he
made her sing? Mostly his childhood memories involve Althea and their two-way radios, her high lilting voice whispering, “Over and out, Ollie.” He always countered with the more reassuring, “Back on the air tomorrow, Al.” Sometimes he’s amazed at things they knew when they were kids that have since been forgotten—Morse code, Esperanto, the ingredients for a good stink bomb. With what has all this useful knowledge been replaced? Precalculus? Althea probably retained the stink bomb recipe; Christ, by now she’s probably obtained a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook, which she’s using to lay siege to all her perceived enemies, whomever she blames for the unfortunate turn her life has taken—Coby, Cape Fear Academy, maybe even her own father.

  “You’re all set,” the nurse says.

  • • •

  In the morning, Oliver is still getting dressed—he refuses to sit around in sweats or pajamas all day; it makes it harder to pretend he isn’t sick and in the hospital—when there’s a quick rapping at the door. At first he doesn’t respond. He’s become accustomed to hospital etiquette, where a knock isn’t a request for permission to enter but rather a heads-up that the door is about to open. After a moment, the knock comes again, louder.

  “Yeah?” he says, hastily zipping up his jeans.

  The willowy blonde walks in. “Hey there. Good morning.”

  “Morning.”

  “You got a few minutes? The doctor would like to see you.”

  Oliver looks around, confused by the intimation he might have conflicting plans. “I think I’m free.”

  “Great. Follow me, handsome.”

  She called me handsome.

  She leads him back to the office where he and Nicky had their consultation with the doctor. He’s there, filling out paperwork, stethoscope slung jauntily around the collar of his white lab coat, his thick black hair finger-styled to perfection. Oliver takes a seat in the slippery leather chair on the other side of the desk, perching cautiously on the edge. The nurse leaves, gently closing the door behind her. Oliver pretends she is leaving reluctantly. The doctor looks up, pushing his papers aside.

  “How are you doing, Oliver? You settling in all right? Making yourself comfortable?”

  “I haven’t redecorated my room or anything, but yeah, I’m comfortable.”

  “You know, if you need anything, you can just tell Stella. We do our best to be accommodating.”

  “Stella?” Oliver nods toward the door. “Was that Stella?”

  “Yes. She’s very good.”

  Oliver doesn’t like the familiar tone Dr. Curls uses here, as if he knows all sorts of things at which Stella is very good. “I’ll do that.”

  “Great. It must be something, finally being around other people who have this condition. Maybe makes you feel less alone, less isolated?”

  “All due respect, sir, but being in the hospital instead of high school is pretty isolating.”

  The doctor laughs. “Now, Oliver, I know you’re from the South, and I appreciate your manners, but you don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ Manuel will be just fine.”

  In their sockets, Oliver’s eyes roll of their own volition. “Sure thing.”

  “I understand that being in the hospital can be an alienating experience, but at least these boys are your peers.”

  Hardly, Oliver thinks.

  “And they can appreciate what you’ve been through in a way no one else ever will.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “You’ve been extremely cooperative over the last week, and we appreciate that. But as we explained, it’s very uncertain that we’ll be able to provide you with any real medical assistance. There’s so much about KLS that we don’t know, and part of this study’s purpose is to learn more. If we can translate some of that new information into an experimental treatment, great. But there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to send you back home in any different condition than you came to us. You need to manage your expectations.”

  Oliver shifts uncomfortably in his chair, already irritated with this conversation. “I’m aware of that, Manuel.”

  “There are symptoms of KLS that have nothing to do with the sleep episodes. You must be aware of that, aren’t you?”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Depression, of course. Anger and hopelessness. Have you ever felt anything like that?”

  Oliver laughs bitterly. “Hopelessness? Is that what that is?”

  Manuel looks at him sympathetically. “Yes. That’s what that is. We’re hoping that the chance to meet some other boys with KLS, spend some time with people who can really understand you, might help you feel better. Maybe feel a little normal for a while. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Oliver, you’ve been keeping yourself somewhat isolated so far. There’s nothing wrong with that; I know this isn’t a resort, it’s a hospital. Socializing isn’t what you came here for, and it’s not at the forefront of your mind. But I want to ask you to consider opening up a little. You don’t have to spill your guts to a bunch of strangers, of course. But think about sharing more of yourself than you have been. I’m pretty sure you’d be surprised how cathartic it can be.”

  The heat register below the window kicks on, exhaling a warm breath of dry, recycled air that instantly sucks the moisture from Oliver’s sinuses. “I’m not much of a bonder.”

  “I realize that. That’s exactly why I’m suggesting you challenge yourself here—”

  “I’m here. That’s the challenge. For both of us.”

  Dr. Curls can’t seem to sigh loud enough. “Oliver, we’re bringing in a counselor to start holding group therapy sessions with all the patients. I’ll expect you to at least attend.”

  Oliver shrugs. “If you want. If it’ll make you feel better.”

  “You don’t think it might make you feel better?”

  “There’s only one thing that could do that,” he says.

  “I’m sorry to say, I’m surprised by your attitude.”

  Oliver thinks of Althea and her bony, beautiful knuckles. “It’s not an attitude.”

  “Then what is it?” For the first time, the doctor sounds annoyed.

  Standing, Oliver makes for the door. “You nailed it. Anger. And hopelessness.”

  chapter seven.

  ALTHEA STAYS IN the basement.

  Pajama-clad, expelled from Cape Fear Academy, she finds the subterranean appealing. Under the old quilt she’s had since childhood, the one Alice made her, she watches the same movies over and over, movies about genetically engineered monsters and apocalyptic weather that threatens the whole world. These movies are soothing, especially the moments before the storm breaks or power is restored to the compound, when rescue seems impossible, complete destruction inevitable. Her interest flags when the helicopter lands and the survivors are ushered to safety, or when the newly sworn-in president makes an optimistic statement about the future. Fuck that shit, she thinks, going back to the beginning, when all signs of impending chaos were there and everyone but the hero chose to ignore them.

  She needs time to figure out what happened that afternoon in the hallway, when she was straddling Coby and doling out punch after punch. Just like something gave in Coby’s face beneath her fist, something had given inside her as well, like the pop and flare of a spent lightbulb. Now there’s just a tiny filament left, rattling around in the muddy glass. She doesn’t mind feeling like a blown fuse. It’s what she wanted all this time. She hopes it lasts.

  The door opens at the top of the stairs and she pulls the quilt over her head. There’s a wooden creak, and then another, and soon she can feel Garth standing over the couch. She smells garlic and noodles and tomato sauce; he’s brought dinner. With Althea refusing to leave the basement, cooking duties have reverted to Garth. She chews the collar of her shirt, the cotton spongy against her tongue. A sliver of ligh
t invades her cocoon as Garth turns down a corner of the quilt. When she doesn’t protest, he peels back a little more, exposing her whole head and shoulders. He holds out a plate.

  “Sit up and eat this.”

  She takes the plate and twirls a fork listlessly through the spaghetti. Garth sits in the recliner.

  “I made some phone calls today to other schools. If you take this semester’s finals, and you pass, you can start at Laney after winter break.”

  Althea shrugs. Under the sauce, she can see the impressions of his fingers in the meatballs.

  “You don’t have to like it there. You just have to graduate from high school.”

  “Can’t you homeschool me?”

  “Wouldn’t that be fun for us,” he says, widening his eyes with sarcastic enthusiasm.

  “Then Laney it is.”

  Garth sighs. “You realize UNC is not the sure thing it was before. You’re going to have to try harder. Act like you actually care about going to college.”

  “What if I don’t care about going to college?”

  “Then start looking at art schools. Lord knows you’ve got the time on your hands.”

  “You’d send me to art school?”

  “We’re rich, remember?”

  “I thought we were comfortable.”