NaNoWriMo!
Whew! I now have 5017 words Oh yeah, and to anyone else on www.nanowrimo.org, I'm there as Seedy_Bea. Here's the latest instalment, and then I'll go to bed. Warning, the language is still pretty bad.
Mrs. Jane goes as soon as he says that. Muttering. Joan wolf-whistles after her.
“Right nasty one there, mate. She could send someone to Bridge Kanulu, easy.”
* * *
Three hours later, I’m still at the hospital. Mrs. Jane’s gone, but Dad’s here now. We’re sitting in a room with red walls, and dark green carpet. The chairs are the same colour as the floor. There’s a little table in the middle of the room with Woman’s Day magazines on it. I’ve pulled a couple of chairs over to it and I’m making a fort. Dad’s reading a book with a massive bumblebee on the cover.
He hasn’t said anything since he got here.
After Dad showed up another doctor had come, and he was called Juanito. He was Mexican, Like José, so I didn’t like him. He told us what the x-rays had said and showed us some of them.
“Joan’s left leg is broken in twelve places. It looks like someone was jumping up and down on it for quite a while. Patella’s absolutely shattered, I don’t know if there’s any chance of it knitting back together. Even with immediate surgery, which I recommend, there is still a chance the leg could heal crooked. Joan, you may never walk again.” He showed us a picture of Joan’s bone. It didn’t look like a bone; it looked like lots of white blotches with black in between them.
Joan had just nodded. His face was empty. I hated it when his face was empty. Once I’d asked him why he made his face empty and he’d told me it was because inside his head he was really, really sad or really, really angry, or really, really scared, which is almost the same thing for Joan, and when he makes his face empty it’s to keep from crying or hurting someone. The doctor had kept talking, and shown us another photo. This one looked like a bone, with a couple of black lines through it.
“His right leg fared little better. It’s broken in only three places, but they’re very close together, and there are hairline cracks all over the femur. Surgery can probably put these ones right, though.”
Next he showed us a picture of his ribs. I couldn’t see anything wrong with them.
“This won’t need surgery, but there are a few nicks out of your ribs. Looks like someone slashed you with a knife. Does that sound right?” Joan had nodded. I’d stared. The doctor showed us one more photo. It was of Joan’s arm bone.
“Smashed. From shoulder to fingertips. I’d guess there are about fifty breaks in your arm alone, and your hand’s got another twenty-six bones in it. Maybe, with extensive rehab, you’ll be able to hold a pencil, but it’s likely you’ll lose the arm altogether. We can operate, or… we can chop it off.”
Joan’s face went even emptier.
“I’ll leave you to think about it. A nurse will be along shortly,” said Juanito, and moved on to the next person in the corridor.
“Are you gonna have your arm chopped off, Joan?”
Joan didn’t say anything. His face was still empty. When the nurse came, he said “Surgery.” She asked what he meant, and he didn’t answer, so I did. “That Mexican doctor said that he recommended immediate surgery. So he wants surgery.” The nurse nodded and walked away. Joan’s face was still empty, but he looked at me and almost smiled.
Another nurse had come and asked if he was Joan. I’d nodded for him. She’d said the doctors were ready to operate on him now. I’d nodded, and she’d started wheeling his bed down the hallway. We’d followed him. She’d pushed him into an elevator, then down a long, white corridor that smelt of nothing, and then she’d asked us to wait in this room. I’d sat. I’d napped. And now I’m building a fort.
A doctor walks into the room. There’s a little bit of pink on his white coat and he doesn’t have a nametag. “Mr. Jett?” Dad looks up, and then carefully marks his place in the book and stands up, still not saying anything. I feel like I’m the only person in the family who can talk.
“Your son’s surgery was a success, Mr. Jett. He’s still under anesthetic, and probably won’t wake until sometime tomorrow. He wouldn’t tell us what he wants done to his arm, so for now we’ve bandaged it up, so it can’t get worse. You can go home now, and we’ll call you, but you’ll need to leave your details.”
Dad pulls his business card out of his pocket and hands it over. Doctor Nobody takes it. “Alright, then. You know your way out?” Dad nods.
We walk out to the carpark, and dad revs up the car. On the way home, he doesn’t say anything. I stare out the window. All I can see is Joan.
When we get home I run to the backyard. I climb the big tree right to the top and stare over the houses. From up here, I can see all the way to the hospital. I wonder which room Joan’s in, which window he’s sleeping behind.
I turn around in the tree. The same distance as the hospital, I see Bridge Kanulu.
* * *
I don’t go to school the next day. At bout lunch time, the phone rings, and it’s the hospital, and they say Joan’s awake and wants to see us. We drive back to the hospital. Dad doesn’t say anything. I stare in the direction of the hospital. We have to wait in a line at the front desk, and when we get there, dad still doesn’t say anything, so I have to. “We want to see Joan Jett, please.” Janet looks him up, and this time he’s on the computer.
“He’s in ward six, room twenty-eight. That’s on the fourth floor. That way.” She points the other way to yesterday. I say thank you, Janet, and we walk away. We take the elevator to the fourth floor, and when we get out there’s a sign with an arrow pointing right to ward six. We follow the little arrows until we get to a door saying “WARD SIX - PATIENTS AND FAMILY MEMBERS ONLY” When we go through it, there’s another desk. I go up and ask where room twenty-eight is. They don’t even say anything, just point, and Dad walks off so fast I don’t have time to say thank you. But I don’t really mind.
Room twenty-eight’s at the end of the row. Joan’s in a corner, by the window, and there’s three other people in the room with him. He’s reading a book, but he puts it down when we come in. His face isn’t empty anymore. His arm’s still there. He smiles at me.
“How you goin’ little bro? Lost your woman already? Ah well, find another one soon enough.” I sit down in a chair by his bed and grab his hand again. I’m not talking for some reason, now that Joan is again. Dad stands at the end of the bed.
“And how’re you doin’, Dad?”
Dad doesn’t say anything. Joan sighs.
“Look, Dad, it wasn’t anything I did this time. I just went down to fix my bike up, and he jumped me. He had a knife. He slashed me across the ribs first thing. It hurt so bad I couldn’t breathe. He didn’t kill me; he just wanted to hurt me. I dunno why. But Dad, it wasn’t anything I did. You can’t be angry with me for this.”
“Yes I can,” Dad hisses. He scares me. “I can, because you’re wrong, it was something you did. Or, something you are. Can you honestly tell me that it you weren’t the enforcer for your stupid little gang, you’d be here, now, with half the bones in your body shot to fucking hell?”
“I might be.” Joan’s really calm, but his really calm voice is like his empty face. He wants to shout.
“You might be. You might be. But it’s not certain that you would be. But since you decided that you’re gonna be an enforcer for a bunch of crooks, you’re here. That’s it. A simple matter of cause and effect. If, then. Son, don’t you see?” Suddenly dad’s not angry anymore. His voice has gone kind of muffled, and his eyes are big and wet. “This is what I’ve been afraid of. You’re so lucky you’re alive. And it’s all because of your stupid, FUCKING gang!”
Dad’s angry again. He’s starting to shout. Joan’s going to as well. I don’t want them to shout. I try to shrink. They don’t notice.
“Dad, the gang’s what’s been keeping me going all this time. Can you honestly say I would be here if it weren’t for the gang? Before I joined I was going to hang myself, Dad. If it weren’t for my gang, you would only have one son, Dad. Wife and eldest gone within a year. How would that have felt, DAD?” I shrink a little more. They still don’t notice. Joan’s hand is holding mine really tightly.
“It would have fucking killed me. But would it have been better than this? We’re talking about five years of fear, boy! FIVE YEARS of sleepless nights! FIVE YEARS of wondering if some rival gang is going to charge into the house, and kill all of us, BECAUSE OF YOU!” I pull my hand away and curl into a ball. Finally, Joan notices. Dad doesn’t.
“For some reason, you don’t seem to care! Why, Joan, why don’t you care? WHY DON’T YOU FUCKING CARE?”
“SHUT UP!”
Joan’s voice is so big I think the roof is going to come off. But it shuts Dad up. And there’s quiet. I hug my legs.
“Hey, James, it’s alright, bro. We’ve stopped shouting. We’re sorry. I’m sorry, bro.” He touches my knee. I don’t move, so he puts his arm round my shoulders. I put my face into his arm and hug it. His arm is big and strong. It feels like he could push a truck over backwards with that arm. It feels safe.
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