Authors: Neal Shusterman
I wasn’t the one who found Hal. Angry Arms of Death did. I caught a glimpse of the bathroom when they hurried Hal away, though. It looked like someone slaughtered an elephant in there.
And now it’s back to business as usual. The staff puts on cheery faces and won’t talk about it. Best not to upset the patients. Pretend like it never happened. Like he never existed.
Only Carlyle is human enough to talk about it in group.
“The good news,” Carlyle tells us, “is that it happened in a hospital. They rushed him straight to emergency.”
“Is Hal dead?” asks Skye.
“He lost a lot of blood,” Carlyle tells us. “He’s in intensive care.”
“Would you even tell us if he died?” I challenge.
Carlyle doesn’t answer right away. “It wouldn’t be my place,” he finally says.
And then Alexa touches her neck and compares and contrasts this to her own suicide attempt, as usual, making it all about her.
142. Are You Now, or Have You Ever Been?
My parents have wondered if I am, or have ever been, suicidal. My doctors wonder. The insurance questionnaires wonder. It’s not like I haven’t idly thought about it—especially when depression digs in its nasty claws—but have I ever actually crossed the line and been suicidal? I don’t think so. Whenever those thoughts spring up, my sister is the fail-safe. Mackenzie would be screwed up for the rest of her life if she had a brother who killed himself. True, my continued existence could make her life miserable, but misery is the lesser of two evils. A brother who
is
a problem is easier to deal with than a brother who
was
a problem.
I still can’t figure out if it’s bravery or cowardice to take your own life. I can’t figure out whether it’s being selfish, or selfless. Is it the ultimate act of letting go of oneself, or a cheap act of self-possession? People say a failed attempt is a cry for help. I guess that’s true if the person meant it to be unsuccessful. But then, I guess most failed attempts aren’t entirely sincere, because, let’s face it, if you want to off yourself, there are plenty of ways to make sure it works.
Still, if you’ve got to bring yourself within inches of your life just to cry for help, something’s wrong somewhere. Either you weren’t yelling loud enough to begin with, or the people around you are deaf, dumb, and blind. Which makes me think it isn’t just a cry for help—it’s more a cry to be taken seriously. A cry that says “I’m hurting so badly, the world must, for once, come
to a grinding halt for me.”
The question is, what do you do next? The world stops, and looks at you lying there with your wounds bandaged, or your stomach pumped, and says, “Okay, you have my attention.” Most people don’t know what to do with that moment if they get it. Which makes it definitely not worth the cost of getting there. Especially if that failed attempt accidentally succeeds.
Hal’s pencil-sharpening happened on Saturday. Dr. Poirot comes to see me first thing Monday morning. He would have come sooner but he was away at a conference taking care of business while Hal was taking care of his own business.
I am alone in my room when Poirot arrives. Hal’s bed is stripped, his belongings removed by the pastels. The emptiness on Hal’s side of the room is like a living void. During the night I could hear it breathing.
“I’m very sorry about what happened. Very sorry,” Poirot says. His bright Hawaiian shirt mocks the somberness of the day. I’m lying flat on my back, and I do my best not to look at him, or acknowledge him in any way.
“I know you developed a friendship with Harold. It must be particularly painful.”
I still don’t say a word.
“A thing like this . . . it should never have happened.”
In spite of myself, I have to respond to such an accusation. “So you’re blaming me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t you just?”
Poirot sighs, pulls up a chair, and sits down. “You’ll be getting a new roommate today.”
“I don’t want one.”
“Can’t be helped. Bed space here is limited. Another boy is coming in, and it’s the only bed available.”
I still won’t look at him. “It was YOUR job to take care of Hal. To keep him safe from everything—including himself!”
“I know. We failed. I’m sorry.” Poirot looks over to the void on the other side of the room. “Had I been here at the time—”
“What? Would you have flown in and stopped him?”
“I would like to think that I might have sensed the level of Harold’s despair. But maybe not. Maybe it would have happened anyway.”
Now I finally look at Poirot. “Did he die?”
Poirot keeps a practiced poker face. “His wounds are extensive. He’s receiving the best possible care.”
“Would you tell me if he died?”
“Yes. If I felt you could handle it.”
“And if you felt I couldn’t handle it?”
Poirot hesitates, and for the life of me, I can’t tell whether or not he’s covering up a lie. “You’ll just have to trust me,” he says.
But I don’t. And I don’t tell him that Hal stopped taking his meds. Hal swore me to secrecy. Whether he’s dead or alive, I won’t betray that trust. Of course, if I had squealed on him, I know he might have been too medicated to do what he did. I guess that moves the finger of blame even more in my direction. It makes me more determined to push it away.
“You should have saved him,” I tell Poirot. “You’re right; you failed.”
Poirot takes it like a slap, but turns the other cheek. “Busy day, busy day. There are other patients I need to see.” He gets up to go. “I promise to check in on you later, all right?”
But I don’t answer him and resolve never to speak to him again. From this moment on, Poirot is dead to me.
“Caden, we’ve been thinking,” says my mom the following day. She glances at my dad to make sure he’s on the same page. “With what’s happened here, maybe you’d rather be elsewhere.”
“I can go home?”
My dad reaches out to grab my upper arm with firm reassurance. “Not yet,” he says. “Soon, though. But in the meantime, there are other places.”
It takes a moment for me to understand what he’s suggesting. “Another hospital?”
“Where this sort of thing doesn’t happen,” my mom adds.
That makes me cough out a single guffaw. Because “this sort of thing” can happen anywhere. Even if Hal was given his own personal bodyguard, it wouldn’t have protected him from himself. I know there are other “facilities” like this one. The other kids tell stories about hospitals they’ve been in. They all sound worse than this. As much as I hate to admit it, my parents chose this place because it was the best one around. So maybe it is.
“No, I’ll stay,” I tell them.
“Are you sure, Caden?” My father tries to read me with eyes that make me look away.
“Yeah, I like it here.”
That surprises both of them. It surprises me. “You do?”
“Yes,” I say. “No,” I say. “But yes.”
“Well, why don’t you think about it?” my mom says, maybe disappointed by my decision—but I don’t want to think about it any more than I want to think about Hal. This place is a hell that I’m familiar with. What is it they say? The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.
“No, I’m sure,” I tell them.
They accept my decision, but there’s a kind of longing in them that remains unsatisfied.
“Well, we just wanted to give you the option,” my dad says. They go on to talk about Mackenzie, and how she misses me, and how they might bring her to visit again, but they seem to be getting further away. And suddenly I realize something terrible about my parents. They are not poisoners. They are not the enemy . . .
. . . but they are helpless.
They want to
do
something—anything—to help me. Anything to change my situation. But they are as powerless as I am. The two of them are in a lifeboat, together, but so alone. Miles from shore, yet miles from me. The boat leaks, and they must bail in tandem to keep themselves afloat. It must be exhausting.
The terrible truth of their helplessness is almost too much to bear. I wish I could take them on board, but even if they could reach us, the captain would never allow it.
Right now it sucks to be me—but until now, it never occurred to me that it also sucks to be them.
I have a new cabinmate who I don’t know, and who I don’t wish to know. He’s just another member of the faceless crew. Now
I’m
the old-timer—the one who knows the ropes—the way the navigator was when I arrived. As much as I don’t like being the newbie, I don’t like being the salty sea dog either.
The captain comes to visit a few nights after the navigator unraveled into the sea. He sits on the end of my bed and regards me with his seeing eye. I think his weight should buckle the flimsy cot, but it doesn’t. It’s as if he’s weightless. Insubstantial, like a ghost.
“I’ll tell you this, boy,” the captain says gently, “but I’ll deny it in the light of day.” He pauses to make sure he has my full attention.
“You are the most important crewman on this vessel. You are the soul of our mission, and if you succeed—and I know you will—there will be much glory to be had. I foresee many voyages together, you and I. Until one day you’ll find yourself a captain.”
I cannot deny that it is an enticing vision the captain has put forth. To have a purpose is very desirable. And as for future voyages, I’ve grown accustomed to the nature of this ship and these waters. More time before the mast may not be out of the question.
“Only one member of this crew will make the dive,” the captain says, “and I’ve chosen you. You alone will achieve Challenger Deep and discover the riches it holds.”
My feelings on this are as deep and dark as the trench itself. “Without a proper vehicle, I’ll be crushed by the pressure, sir, and—”
He puts up his hand to silence me. “I know what you believe, but things are different here. You already know that; you’ve already seen. The dive is dangerous, I won’t deny that, but not in the way you think.”
Then he clasps me on the shoulder. “Have faith in yourself, Caden, for I have faith in you.”
That’s not the first time I’ve heard it. “The parrot had faith in me, too,” I tell him.
The mention of the bird makes him bristle. “Do you regret ridding us of that traitor?”
“No . . .”
“The parrot would have seen you never complete this journey.” He stands and begins to pace the small space. “The parrot would
have put an end to our adventures forever and ever!” Then he points a crooked finger at me.
“Would you rather be a cripple in his world, or a star in mine?”
Then he storms out, not waiting for an answer—and a moment after he’s gone, there’s a twinge of memory.
You’ve seen the captain before,
the parrot had said. For the first time I realize he was right . . . but that twinge of memory escapes from me, and is sucked into the foul-smelling pitch that holds the ship together.
I can feel the presence of the Abyssal Serpent more and more with each passing day. It trails behind the ship—behind
me
. It matches our pace. It doesn’t attack like the crestmares, or the Nemesi. It just stalks. Which is even worse.
“It’ll never let you be, boy,” the captain tells me as we look aft into our wake. I cannot see the serpent, but I know it’s there, swimming just deep enough to hide from my eyes, but not from my soul.
“No doubt the serpent has plans for you,” the captain says. “Plans that involve digestive juices—but I think it likes to be hungry. It enjoys the pursuit as much as the devouring. That’s its weakness.”
When the captain retires for afternoon tea, or whatever a man like him does with his free time, I climb to the crow’s nest, to get as far away from the Abyssal Serpent as possible.
I have come to despise the crow’s nest almost as much as the captain does. I am never surprised by the odd sights I see up here. Today there are heads rolling about like tumbleweeds with the motion of the sea. One bumps into me as it rolls past. “Sorry,” the head says. “Couldn’t be helped.” I think I recognize the face, but its trajectory takes it underneath a chair, where it gets temporarily stuck, so I can’t be sure.
There is a new bartender today. No one sits at the bar, because there is a chill to her demeanor. She gives off waves of unapproachability like a force field. Still I approach, if only out of spite.
“Where’s Dolly?” I ask.
The new bartender points to one of the rolling heads. I recognize Dolly immediately. “Hello, Caden,” her head says as it tumbles in the aftermath of a sudden swell. “I’d wave if I could.”
“It’s unfortunate,” says the new bartender, “but the unraveling of the navigator made it clear that changes had to be made.”
And then another cranial casualty bounces past. One with short red hair. I hurry to catch it. Picking it up, I look into a pair of familiar eyes.
“Carlyle?”
“Sorry to tell you this, Caden, but I won’t be leading your group anymore.”
I’m speechless. Unable to swallow the news. “But . . . but . . .”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “There’ll be someone new this afternoon.”
“We don’t want someone new!”
There’s no one else in the hall. I stand between him and the exit.
I knew people would get smacked down, and maybe fired for what happened to Hal, but why Carlyle?
“You had nothing to do with it!” I tell him. “You weren’t even there that day!” The chilly new charge nurse eyes me from the central nurses’ station, wondering if my raised voice is a problem.
“They felt my group was . . . psychonoxious. At least for Hal.”
“Do you believe that?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. The hospital’s gotta spank somebody, and I was an easy target. It’s just the way things work.”
He looks around a bit nervously, as if getting caught even talking to me would make it worse for him. “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “It’s not like I don’t have other things to do. I was volunteering here, remember?” He gets past me and heads for the door.