Authors: Brent Runyon
“Let's go pick up our ice cream.”
“Yeah.”
Back in the car and we're driving. I look down at my Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt.
I say, “Hey, Tina, did I ever tell you about the time when I got lost in D.C. by myself?”
“I don't think so.”
“It was my brother's birthday and we were all supposed to go into D.C. to go to the Hard Rock Cafe for a celebration. We took the Metro in and we were supposed to meet my dad there, 'cause he works in the city, you know. I remember I was mad at my mom and my brother and I just wanted to be alone, so I walked up to the very end of the track, up where all the electrical equipment is, like the fuse boxes and all this other stuff.
“And I started thinking about how if I wanted to blow up the Metro station, a good place to put a bomb would be right there on the power supply. It would probably blow the whole thing up.” She's not going to think this is weird, is she? I should laugh to make the story sound less scary. I laugh, but she doesn't, she's just listening.
“Anyway, while I was up there, the train came, and I didn't hear it, and my mom and brother got on, but I didn't.
“So, I got on the next one and rode it all the way into D.C.”
“Yeah?”
“And so”—I'm laughing again, and I think I hear Tina chuckle too—“I walked all the way across D.C. trying to find the Hard Rock Cafe. All the way from Foggy Bottom to Metro Center, which is like four miles, and I still couldn't find it. I did find the Louis Farrakhan rally, though. And the funniest part is that just when I gave up and got back on the Metro to go home, I was within one block of the Hard Rock Cafe.”
“I bet your parents were worried.”
“Yeah, they totally freaked out. I thought I was just doing what anybody else would do.”
She shakes her head and looks at me out of the corner of her eye. We're back at Ben & Jerry's. Tina says I should just wait in the car while she goes and gets the Vermonster, then we'll go back to the Burn Unit and share it with everyone else. Sounds good.
Here she is. She opens the door and puts a giant bucket in my lap. “Doesn't it look good?” says Tina.
It looks like the best thing in the world.
“We'd better hurry back before it melts.”
“Yeah, let's go home,” I say.
“Home?”
“I mean the Unit.”
That's weird. I wonder why I said that. I'm glad there aren't any psychologists here. They're always trying to make it seem like when you say something, that you actually mean it, instead of it just being a mistake.
Here we are. I can't wait to go and tell everybody about how good it smelled in the ice cream place and how fun it was to sit in the movie theater. I'll tell them I really liked the movie, but I'm not going to say anything about the fire part.
I'm kind of tired and we have to take the wheelchair up with us anyway, so I sit in it and Tina wheels me over to the elevator. It's so quiet and peaceful in here after eight o'clock, when visiting hours are over. We're in the elevator alone, Tina and I. I should say something about how grateful I am and about how I'm so happy that she was the one that took me out into the world. I want to thank her for everything she's done for me. For all the times she helped me when I was hurting. I want to tell her about how much she meant to me even before I could talk and how she made me feel better just by looking at me.
“Tina?”
“Yes, Brent.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.” I don't think she knows what I'm thanking her for.
“Thank you for everything.”
“You're welcome.”
We've got family therapy today. Dr. Rubinstein thinks it's important that we get together as a family and talk about the effect my hospitalization has had on everyone. So we're meeting in her office at two, which is in three minutes.
Mom is wheeling me down and Dad and Craig are going to meet us there. I can't wait to get back upstairs and eat some more of the Vermonster. A lot of the ice cream has melted and now it's just a big mush, but it's still good. I'm going to eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner from now on.
Here we are. Dr. Rubinstein's office reminds me of her, small and cold, with lots of diplomas on the wall. She says hello to me and my mom and points to where Mom should put me and the wheelchair, right in the middle between three other chairs.
Dad and Craig come in. They both look a little nervous, but they say hi and try to act like they want to be here. Everybody is very serious. I can tell right away, this is not going to be fun.
Dr. Rubinstein starts. God, I hate her voice. “Thank you all for coming, and I'm glad that you were willing to sit down together and discuss what has happened in your family in the last few months. I think it is vital that you as a family express your feelings to each other and begin the healing process.”
Mom is smiling with her head tilted sideways. Dad looks gruff and uncomfortable. Craig is looking straight at Dr. Rubinstein. He looks so angry.
She's still talking. “Let's begin with you, Brent. Why don't you tell your family about how you were feeling before your accident.”
What? I can't even believe she just said that to me. What did she say? I'm not going to answer that. I don't even know what she's talking about.
I look down at my hands. My hands. My hands.
Look how the fabric of the Jobst garment is like a layer of skin on top of my skin, the color of my skin, but it's elastic. Elastic and fantastic.
It's interesting that my hands only got burnt up to the first knuckle. And the fire didn't get to my palms. I must have been making fists. Let's see, if I make a fist, it almost perfectly covers the part of my fingers that isn't burned. That's very interesting. There's also the little circle of normal skin on my right elbow. I wonder how that got there.
And my armpits, those are normal, and most of my stomach, and the insides of my thighs, and my penis. I must have curled up like a potato bug after I lit the match.
“Brent, what are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope.” I wonder if they can hear it in my voice, what I was actually thinking about.
“Do you want to say anything to your family?”
“Not especially. Not right now, thanks.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Great, how are you?” Everyone loves sarcasm.
“I'm fine, Brent. Your parents and your brother want to know what was happening with you before your accident.”
“So?”
“Do you have anything you'd like to tell them about that?”
“No.” If you ask a stupid question, you'll get a stupid answer.
“Do you think there's anything they should know?”
“No.”
“What were you thinking about? What was making you so unhappy in those days?”
“I don't remember.” That's true. I don't remember. I don't remember anything about myself back then.
“You don't remember?”
“No.”
“Why do you think that you don't remember?”
“I don't know.” I really don't know.
Mom says, “We'll love you no matter what, honey.”
“I know.”
“We want to know whatever you want to tell us.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to think about it for a few minutes?”
“Sure.” I'll think about it. And I'll think about how my fingernails got so thick when I was on all those vitamins and how now, since I've been off them, they've gone back to normal thickness, so that there's a ledge on my fingernails. What's the word for that stuff at the end of your nails? Cuticle. Cuticle. I have cute cuticles. That's funny. I'll remember that.
“Brent?” That's my mom's voice, but I'm not going to look up.
“Yes.”
“Have you thought of anything you want to tell us?”
“No.”
“It's been five minutes.”
“No, it hasn't. It's been more like one minute.”
“No, honey, it's been five.”
“Well, what time did you ask me?”
“Twelve-thirty-five.”
“And what time is it now?”
“Twelve-forty.”
“So that's five minutes.”
“I know it is, honey.”
“But you said it was ten minutes.”
“No, I didn't, honey, I said five.”
“Well, if you said five, then you would have been right, but you said ten.”
“I didn't say ten, honey, I said five.” I can hear her getting annoyed at me, but I can tell she doesn't want to yell.
“Goddamn it, Brent!” Oh God, I forgot my dad could yell like that. He sounds like a lion when he yells like that. I'm not going to look at him. I'm not going to say anything.
“Brent! Answer the question!” He's calmed down a little. I think he remembered where he was.
No one can make me say anything. No one can make me talk. I think I'd do well in one of those prison camps where they tie you down and torture you. I can't imagine that they could come up with anything more painful than this. I think it would be kind of relaxing, actually.
“Well,” Dr. Idiotstein says in Idiot, the native language of Idiots from the island of Idioticus, “our time is up for today, but I'd like to thank you all for coming and I think that we've made some progress today.” If that's progress, I'd like to see regress, or egress, which means exit. Remember what P. T. Barnum said, This way to the egress. That's where I'm going.
Mom pushes me back to my room. We're silent the whole way.
Last day. Last night. Last night in the Burn Unit. We're going to have a party so that everyone can come and say good-bye, all my friends that I've made over the last four months. It's June 11th, and I was admitted on February 4th. God. I don't know, I got so used to everything and everyone, it seems like my home here now. I know this sounds crazy, but I don't really want to leave, I really don't. I don't understand why I can't just stay and live here with the nurses and do my rehab here.
So, here we go, the party's all ready. They made a poster that says GOOD LUCK, BRENT. All the letters look like they're made of balloons. It's kind of like the poster I made for Mom on her birthday, but this one is a lot better.
There's ice cream and cake and everyone is here and they're all smiling at me. I don't know how to thank them all. I can't thank them enough. I can't say thank you enough times.
I don't know how to tell them all how much they mean to me. Becky: helped me learn how to use my arms again. Dawn: taught me how to walk. Dr. Rudolph: put my skin back together. Barbara: cleaned my wounds and called me Gorgeous. Lisa: helped me go to sleep at night. And Tina. Tina, you did everything for me. You held my hand and you told me I was going to be all right and made me laugh and took me outside the hospital and made me feel normal.
Mom has little presents, wrapped in bags with tissue paper coming out the top, for Lisa, Barbara, and Tina, my primary nurses. I feel like I should say something.
“You guys, uh, I just wanted to say thanks for helping me, you know, get better. I just wanted to thank you for everything. And everything.” The words aren't good enough. They're all smiling at me. “So, here you go. I just wanted to say thank you. So, thanks.”
They all open them at the same time. They all got the same thing, a little plastic Snoopy dressed up like a nurse with a hypodermic needle. It's perfect. No, it's not. It's dumb. It's so dumb, I can't believe it. It doesn't say what I wanted it to say. It doesn't say, I could never have gotten better without you. It doesn't say anything.
They all say thank you and give me big hugs. Mom gets the Polaroid from the nurses' station and gets us all together. Lisa kisses my left cheek. Barbara kisses my right cheek. Tina kisses the top of my head. I close my eyes, pucker my lips, and kiss the air.
June 12, 1991
Alfred I. duPont Institute
Wilmington, Delaware
Mom is saying something to Dad. The car is slowing down. I open my eyes. We are driving past a huge stone wall that has to be ten feet tall. There's something on top of it. What is that? Is that broken glass? It's got broken glass on the top of the wall. They're taking me to a fucking prison or something.
“What is that broken glass supposed to do?”
“What?”
“There's broken glass on the top of the wall.”
“Oh, I didn't notice it.”
“You didn't? How could you not notice a bunch of broken glass on the top of a huge stone wall?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know? Well, why is it there?”
“I'm sure it's just to keep people out.”
“What? Keep who out?”
“I don't know.”
“Jesus, you're taking me to a prison.”
“We're not taking you to a prison.”
“It looks like a prison. Are there Nazis in a tower somewhere?”
“Brent, it's not that kind of place. It's nice. It has a bowling alley.”
“Great. Does the bowling alley have armed guards too?”
We park the car and get out. It's hot here. Really hot and really humid. This place better be air-conditioned. Oh good, okay, it's air-conditioned. There's the cafeteria, I wonder what kind of Jell-O they have. Probably just green and red. I hope they put whipped cream on it.
We wait for the elevator.
My parents told me there's another burned kid here. He's eight, and he was at school when a senator's plane crashed into a helicopter above his school and he got covered in flaming jet fuel. Compared to me, I mean, compared to the way I got burned, it's like the complete opposite.
Okay, here we are, this is it, this is the new place. For one thing, it's much bigger than the Burn Ward at Children's. And for another thing, Children's has lots of fun stuff on the walls, like cartoon characters and that cute bear with the stethoscope, and it's got green carpet. But this place is awful. It's just white walls and gray linoleum.
Dad introduces himself to the woman behind the nurses' station. God, I hope he doesn't flirt with her.
“Hello, I'm Don Runyon, this is my wife, Lin, and my son Brent. Brent's going to be staying here.” I feel like I'm checking into a hotel.
“Hello, Mr. Runyon, we've been expecting you. This is Brent? Hi, Brent, I'm Rose. I'll be your nurse.” The words she says are fine, but the way she says them is a little harsh, like she's angry inside and just barely keeping it in, but maybe that's because she's a smoker.
She shows us into my room, which is right next to the nurses' station, and leaves us alone so Mom and Dad can say good-bye.
The room is okay. It's got a TV and windows and at least I don't have a roommate, I was nervous about that. I sit on the bed and start looking for the remote control. Wait, maybe I should say good-bye to Mom and Dad first.
“What do you think, Brenner?”
“It's okay.” Actually, the bed isn't as nice as the one I had at Children's, but it's all right. I wonder how many channels we get here.
Mom's already put all my clothes in the drawers and Dad's opened the drapes to let some light in. Mom brought the signed Magic Johnson picture and the Get Well Soon balloon. They both come over and sit on the bed with me, one on each side.
Mom says, “We're going to go, honey.”
“Okay.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah.”
She's starting to cry.
“We love you and we're so proud of you. We're going to miss you so much.”
“Me too.”
“And we'll be back in a few days to see you, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“And we'll call you tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Dad says, “We love you, Brenner.” He slips a couple of folded twenties into my hand. “Don't tell your mother.”
We all laugh and they both kiss and hug me one last time on their way out the door. I can tell Mom is going to break down in about fifteen seconds, probably Dad too.
“Bye, honey. We love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Bye, Brenner.”
They're gone. I turn on the TV and start flipping through the channels. Someone's knocking.
“Come in.” It's Rose. “Hi.”
“Hello, Brent.”
“What's going on?” I hope I don't sound as nervous as I feel.
“Well, I'm going to get you all set up and then Dr. Cawley is going to come in and do a complete physical. How's that sound?”
“Fine.”
“Good because you don't have a choice.” I'm not sure if I should laugh or what. “First, we have to get you undressed.”
“Okay.”
“Can you do it yourself, or do you need my help?”
“Um, I can get my shirt and shorts off, but I need help with my Jobst garments.”
“Is that what those things are called?”
“Yeah.”
“And what do they do?” Shouldn't she know that?
“I guess they keep my scars from swelling up, and they keep my circulation going.”
“Like support stockings.”
“I guess.”
“The kind old ladies wear.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Okay, show me what I need to do.” I pull my shirt over my head and throw it on the bed. I look down at my chest with the Jobst jacket on. And just for a second, I think that it's my actual skin.
“I need you to unzip my arms.” There's a zipper that runs all the way from the back of my wrist to the top of my shoulder, and it's too hard for me to unzip.
“You can't do it yourself?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” There's something about her I don't like.
She unzips the arms and my skinny purple arms start showing through the space.
“Oh my, you really did a number on yourself, didn't you?”
“Yeah.”
“You set yourself on fire.” I can't tell if it's a question or a statement.
“Yeah.”
“Why'd you do that?”
God, I can't believe she's asking me that. “Um . . . I don't know.”
“What do you mean, you don't know? You did it, didn't you?”
“Yeah.”
“So?” She's got my jacket off now and I'm just wearing my Jobst gloves, my shorts, and a bunch of Ace bandages on my legs. “Take your shorts off.”
“Okay.” I pull down my shorts, but I'm kind of embarrassed by my Stars-and-Stripes boxers. I wonder if I should get another pair of those glow-in-the-dark boxers. No, I don't think I want them.
“So, why did you set yourself on fire?” She's unwrapping my legs now.
Not this again. “I don't remember.”
“You don't remember?”
“No.”
“Did your penis get burned?”
God. “No.”
“Lucky guy.”
“Yeah.”
“Were you trying to kill yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“You were?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told you, I don't remember.” I wish she would shut up already.
“Well, don't try anything like that here, or you'll have to deal with me.”
“Okay.”
“How do you get these gloves off?”
“Um, usually they grab them around the wrists and pull them straight off, you know, kind of turning them inside out.”
She grabs the glove around my wrist and pulls. She pulls it so hard that my whole arm comes with it and my hand lands right on her breast.
“Sorry.”
“And don't try anything like that again either.”
“I'm sorry, it was an accident.”
“Sure it was.”
“It was.”
“The other burned kid tried the same thing his first day. Lie down, the doctor will be here in a minute.”
I lie down and look up at the ceiling. I hope the doctor's nicer than Rose. I've never met anyone who's so mean the first time you meet them. Usually people at least pretend to be nice, even if deep inside they're really mean.
When I was little, my brother and I would lie on our backs and imagine what it would be like to walk on the ceiling. We'd have to walk around the chandelier and step over the doorways. It always seemed so cozy to live on the ceiling, up where nobody could bother you.
Here's the doctor, come to inspect me. He's tall and blond. “Hi, Brent, I'm Dr. Cawley. How are you doing today?”
“Fine.”
“How was your drive up from D.C.?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Well, what we're going to do here is a complete physical. We're going to check you inside and out and make sure everything's working all right. How's that sound?”
“Fine.”
“Do you have anything you want to talk about before we begin?”
“Like what?”
“Physical complaints. Concerns. Questions.”
“I itch all over my body all the time and my big right toe is screwed up.”
“Okay, we can give you medication for the itching. What's wrong with the toe?”
“It got screwed up when I had to lie on my stomach and now it's hard to walk.”
“Okay, we'll take a look at that a little later on. Hold on, let me go get Rose.” Great. She comes in carrying a notebook and a pen.
He says, “Okay, Brent, if you could step up on that scale, please. I'm just going to take a few measurements.”
I get up off the bed and stand on the big doctor's scale.
“Height is one hundred fifty-nine point five centimeters.”
What is that in inches?
“Weight is, let's see . . .” He moves the little weight to the right with his index finger. “Fifty-two point six kilograms.”
I'm trying to get down to fifty-two point four, but Weight Watchers isn't working for me. That's funny. Should I say that?
He takes my head in his hands and tilts it. “Scalp is clear. Facial features are slightly asymmetrical, with burns to both sides of the face. Ear canals are clear. Tympanic membrane is gray with a good light reflex.” I've always said my tympanic membrane had a good light reflex, really, always said that.
He's shining a flashlight in my eyes. “Pupils react directly and consensually to light. Look to the right. Look to the left. Extraocular eye movements are intact. Acuity is grossly intact.”
Grossly intact. Is that good or bad? I wonder.
“Nasal membranes are pink and noninflamed. Open wide.” He sticks a tongue depressor in my mouth. “Gag is strong. Say ah. Soft palate rises symmetrically. Tongue protrusion is midline.”
Fantastic.
I'm beginning to feel like one of the dead people they cut up in that movie
Gross Anatomy
.
His hands are around my neck. “No lymphadenopathy.” Now he's using the stethoscope on me. “Breathe deeply. Chest is clear bilaterally, with decreased audibility in the
right base. Chest wall excursion is equal bilaterally. Respira-tory rate is twelve. There is no stridor. No retractions.”
This is getting old. He asks me to stand up, sit down, roll over, stand up again, stand on one leg, then the other leg, touch my toes, touch my fingers to my thumb, push down on his hand, touch my head, and on and on and on. I think he can tell I'm getting sick of this because he says, “Only a few more things.”
He asks me to lie down again and starts touching different parts of my body first with his finger and then with a pin to see if I can feel it. I'm pretty good at figuring out where he's touching me, especially in the arms and back, but my legs aren't so good. They told me at Children's that I had lost some feeling in my arms and legs and that was normal, but I can't feel anything at all in my right foot and through most of my right leg. Sometimes I can feel a light pressure when he pushes down on the thick scars, like someone's touching me through a wet suit.
“Okay, Brent, we just have a few more tests and then we'll be all done.”
“Okay.”
“I'm going to say five words and then you repeat them back to me. Crust. Tree. Ball. Scissors. Footprint.”
“Crust. Tree. Ball. Scissors. Footprint.” I've always been good at stuff like this.
“Good. Now count upward from seven by sevens. Okay, you understand?”
“I think so. Seven, fourteen, twenty-one, twenty-eight, thirty-five, forty-two, forty-nine, fifty-six, sixty-three, seventy, seventy-seven, eighty-four, ninety-one, ninety-eight. Want me to keep going?”
“No, that's fine. What's four times five?”
“Twenty.”
“Eight times six?”
“Forty-eight.”
“Okay, great. That's it. You're done. You can relax. Hope you enjoy your time here at duPont. I'll be checking in on you from time to time.”
“Okay.”
“Someone will be in later to show you around and to bring you dinner.”
“Okay.” They leave and shut the door and all of a sudden I feel like having them come back in and do more tests on me. It's not that I really want more tests, I just don't want to be alone in here. This room, this whole place, it all seems so, I don't know, empty, or not empty exactly, but hollow.
I turn on the TV. News, no, too boring. Golf, definitely too boring. Some science-fiction show? Oh,
Quantum Leap,
I've heard about this show. It's the one about the guy that goes back in time to help people who've had problems and he fixes them and then goes somewhere else. This looks good. I'll watch this.
I wonder if it's real, I mean, I wonder if there is someone out there who's figured out how to travel in time and who goes back and fixes people's mistakes that they've made. Someone who could jump into your body just when you were about to make the biggest mistake of your life and keep you from doing it. That would be great. That would be amazing. I wish that was true.
There's someone in my doorway. She says her name is Lisa and she's going to be my nurse for the next couple of hours. “First things first,” she says. “Let's get you in the shower.”
“It's been a long time since I've taken a shower,” I say. I'm not going to tell her about the last time I was in the shower, I think it would freak her out. “I'm not sure I can do it.”
“Well, we've got a shower chair if you want to try that.”
“That sounds good.” She leaves the room to go find the shower chair and I look down at my body. I'm still un-covered from the physical, only wearing my red-white-and-blue boxers. At Children's, I got really used to people seeing me naked, I didn't care who it was, Tina, Lisa, Barbara, even Reggie and Calvin, but here I feel a little self-conscious.