Trading Leather Chapter 43
"You let him go without me?" Foggy snaps, shoving his feet into his shoes and grabbing his wallet off the bedside table, all while glaring at me. I'm leaning on the doorframe. My gaze switches from Foggy's face to his tapping fingers. He's doing three-tap clusters against his thigh with his left hand.
Foggy sees me looking. His face gets even more defiant, but he can't keep the tremor out of his voice. "I'm up. I'm going."
He is on his feet, but he's not walking. He takes a step and freezes.
"Fuck."
A flush rises up his neck. His eyes start to look broken.
"Hey—"
I walk over fast—it takes two strides—and put my hand on his hot neck. He's already shaking like a weightlifter. The clusters of three have changed location. Now he's tapping his throat. [One-two-three], [one-two-three].
"Hey," I say, softer. "Jack's with him. "This is more a father-son thing, I think."
"He hates hospitals."
He says "hate" the same way he said "fuck" earlier.
More tapping. Now his cheeks are flushed.
"Sit down."
I say this gently but push on his shoulders in a way he can't resist. A sound comes out of him that, again, makes me think of weightlifting. Viola, bless her, was ready with new meds, but the switch takes time. Foggy's gonna be a mess for a while. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a red balloon. He stares at it.
"Blow this up for Dani."
His eyes go hot. He knows what I'm doing and that the "for Dani" part was kindaƒ˙dow underhanded. But it'll force him to breathe and forget about tapping for a minute. He likes the smooth way it inflates. His doctor keeps saying: "delay the urge". This is a good way to do that.
It's with defeat that he takes the balloon. I start rubbing his back as he blows into it. The kid's still shaking, but each blow helps, and I got a whole package of balloons.
"She likes to play that "keep it up" game. It's a good way to burn off energy. Jess wants you to watch her while she does some office work."
Still blowing, Foggy looks at me, and I see a hint of gratitude. He keeps thinking—deep down—that we're gonna stop trusting him with Dani. But we won't. Foggy would—and does—face his worst fears for that child. He'd jump in front of a bus for her. And watching her helps them both. Bigtime. She's way better than SSRIs and Exposure Response Therapy.
"Matty's gonna be fine," I say, giving his neck a squeeze. "And we need you here."
Sometimes he looks like the little kid I remember.
The balloon. The eyes. The doubt.
A room away, I hear Dani start to chatter. Jess's low, husky "Jeez, hold your horses, kid" makes me smile.
"Good thing I made coffee already," I say, glad when Foggy gives me a barely perceptible nod and then hands me the blown-up balloon. He can't tie it. His fingers aren't steady enough
In the kitchen, Vi tells me I've put my shirt on backwards. While I'm turning it around, I feel Dad's foot-pulses. He's not wearing steel-toed boots today. There's less of a heavy clomp. I flinch when he touches me. Why?
Vi is doing something nearby. I'm confused when she takes my hand without signing. It takes me too long to figure out that she's trying to pass me a cup of coffee.
I don't want it.
My stomach feels like something died inside it and now the dead, furry thing is getting eaten by a swarm of ants.
Sun-heat is on me at a morning angle. The vent fan above the stove is on. Sammy's walking around kinda aimlessly. Dad says something out loud to Vi. She says something back. I'm just standing still like a wax figure. My thoughts keep dumping out of the flushed toilet of my brain.
Another touch from Dad. Another flinch. I don't mean to keep acting like a skin-twitchy horse.
Ready to go?
I'd rather walk.
Last night, Dad mentioned hailing a cab to get us to the clinic faster. That's too expensive, and the thought of getting whisked into Hell is making the ants chew faster.
Dad hesitates.
You're sure?
Last night, in bed, I reminded myself to do the visual stuff more often: nod and smile, "look" at people. Whenever Dad, or Vi, or Foggy says, "you don't have to pretend to be 'normal'" I say, "then tell them not to forget I'm human."
I'm nodding now. Dad gives my shoulder a squeeze and, touching him, I'm surprised to feel that he's wearing a button-down shirt. This seems like his version of nodding and smiling.
OK. Let's go.
Vi gives me a kiss on the cheek, and Sammy starts tap-dancing. I feel bad that we're going to have to leave him behind.
It's not Mount Sinai, I remind myself as the automatic doors slide open. Matty's not nine years old and screaming on a gurney. He's not getting hooked up to IVs and screaming worse because he doesn't know who's touching him. He's not making my head explode or my heart cramp, while I flash hot and cold. Still, the smell hits me. Canned air (icy against summer sweat), white walls, tile floors that gleam under fluorescent lights.
Matty's grip tightens on my arm, and when I look back, I don't like what I see. His eyes are clamped shut, a bead of sweat runs down from his temple, and he moves in a too-loose way when I turn, take hold of his arms, and prop him against the nearest wall.
His face is flushed and hot in my hands. I smooth his damp hair back. His knees dip a little so I grab his arms. I know it doesn't do much good to start murmuring to him like he's a startled horse, but the words come out anyway. We should have taken a cab. At least, then, he wouldn't be getting the hard shock of the AC, needing a drink of water. I glance around. The place is huge with glass windows everywhere. People move through the expanse like travelers in an airport; voices and hard-soled shoes echo. Me and Matty are unimportant in the grand scheme of this place. The nearest water fountain looks like it's a mile away.
Matty's breathing seems like it's just as loose as his knees are. Everything about him looks dizzy and hot.
Sit, I tell him. We left early for this. We've got time. He can just slide down the wall and park it right here. Nobody's gonna fucking care.
No. I'm OK.
Well, I'm not. Sit down.
I ignore the way he rolls his eyes. His shirt rides up a little as he follows orders. Once he's on his butt, I take his hands.
Rest. Relax.
I'm fine.
Sure you are.
Another glance round. I look up at the tall, domed ceiling. It's like we're plants in a greenhouse. There's a weird metal sculpture on one wall that looks like an entire family got tossed in a tornado and landed up there, high up. Mom, Dad, and two kids, plastered to the wall bug-on-a-windshield style. Is that supposed to be comforting? What the hell?
Matty makes a soft sound, and I look at him again, wishing I'd brought a water bottle. I start comparing the differences between now and then. He's not a little kid, I remind myself again. There's no rolling gurney or shouting EMTs. Matty's not trying to claw his eyes out of his face, and nobody's telling me to hold him down.
You should relax.
He curls a hand around my wrist and tugs me down to sit beside him against the wall. We're a pair, collapsing the instant we set foot in Jacobi. There's a reason I never come inside whenever I meet Vi here to walk her home after late shifts. I wait in the parking lot.
It's the smell, Matty says, and I nod my fist. He's right. It hits you in the gut—a sucker punch. Nothing else like it. This isn't an ER or an exam room. Nobody's bleeding. But still. There's a particular smell.
You with me? I ask.
Getting flashes, he admits.
Me too.
I squeeze his hand. He squeezes mine back.
It was different back when Foggy got hurt. I was too worried about him to think of…everything else.
Yeah. I get that. We both got a jolt, back then, but we didn't dwell. Now, it seems like there's nothing standing in the way of too many memories.
It's been almost a decade, he says.
So? Ten years, or fifty. Time doesn't matter that much.
I blocked a lot of it out, he says, but…I feel it—
He makes a sign that means everywhere, in his whole body, like a sickness. He seems bewildered by the fact that he can lose the specifics and have nothing left over except dread. But it makes sense to me. All that pain, the heavy drugs, being so sick. The chemicals didn't just penetrate his eyes and ears; they got into his bloodstream. There were high fevers that came with seizures. I was told to expect brain damage. I kept begging him to fight. You can't quit, Matty. Murdocks don't quit.
I'm glad you blocked it out, I say now, turning to put a hand on his chest. But whatever's still in you is OK. We'll deal with it.
Stay close.
Damn straight.
He covers my hand with his—the one still resting on his chest—and he doesn't say anything else, but I know what he's asking for. I'm gonna make sure we're touching the whole damn time. He brought his cane—it's folded up against his thigh in one of his big cargo pockets—but he's not gonna need it. No way I'm gonna let a second go by with him not knowing where I am. If some doctor tries to get between him and me, they're gonna regret it.
You call the shots, I tell him. Your way. Your pace. Fuck anybody who says different.
He smiles a little, looking better. His face isn't so flushed. He just seems tired, now, not like someone hit him with a tranquilizer dart.
I don't want their words, he tells me. Just yours. Just tell me what to do, where to sit, nothing else. Keep it simple.
I can do that, I say, relieved. Now, I don't have to pass along all the bullshit or tell Matty that they're talking to me, not him, and telling me—their voices too loud and smarmy—how "brave" he is. I can shield him from all that, for once, and it'll be a gift for me as much as him this time.
Let's go before I chicken out, he says, starting to push up. I get to my feet, every joint creaking. When his hand finds my arm, I walk him across the wide lobby, heading straight for the water fountain, not the front desk. A glance at my watch shows that we've still got time, and no doubt they'll make us wait too long in uncomfortable chairs anyway. No need to rush. That matters.
The water fountain has a high arc which catches Matty off guard as he gets splashed in the face. That's when I remember that I've got a bandana in my pocket. I hand it to him, and it makes total sense to me, after he dries his face, that he lifts the cloth to his nose and smells it.
Keep it, I say when he tries to hand it back to me.
When we're ready, we head to the front desk to get directions.
I glance up one more time. The tornado family is still plastered to the wall.