I walk in the opposite direction, toward the windows. The air conditioning is leaving condensation on the window, and the glass feels both cold and wet against my forehead. Outside, the city is running like nothing out of the ordinary is happening, like two families aren’t breaking down inside this hospital. Like our whole future isn’t dependent on Charlotte making it out of surgery in one functional piece.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, but I feel dazed when Dad places his hand on my shoulder.
“We’re going to go home for a bit,” Dad says, drawing me away from the window.
“Don’t want to,” I reply. I want to be here when Charlotte wakes up. She might need me.
“We need to take care of your mom.” Dad squeezes my shoulder. I nod because Dad isn’t asking. His tone is mild but when it comes to taking care of Mom, he’s implacable.
* * *
Home isn’t much better. Mom started crying in the car and hasn’t stopped. Dad carries her into the elevator and then down into their bedroom. Nick trails behind. The other side of the penthouse floor is silent and dark. Empty.
I stand in the entryway, unsure of what I should do.
Five minutes later, Dad comes out looking like he’s aged about ten years in this one day. He drags a hand through his hair.
“Why don’t you go work out some of that energy?” he suggests.
It’s as good of an idea as any. I’m happy for the direction. If he hadn’t said something, I might have stood frozen in the entry until the surgery was over.
After changing into a pair of gym shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, I walk down the stairs into the private workout facility on the floor that separates the penthouse apartments in this building from the rest of the units. My entire body rebels when I see the long padded mat that Charlotte uses to practice her gymnastic moves. The mat she may never use again.
I can’t be here.
Working out in common gym, I text my dad.
OK.
As I am boarding the elevator, the phone pings again.
Love you son.
U2, I respond.
On the way down to the gym that is open for all building residents, the elevator stops on the eleventh floor. Madeline Short steps on. Madeline is a freshman at one of the city colleges. I don’t know her well, but she is definitely in my mental spank bank. My brain screams, “Welcome distraction.” She’s tall for a girl. The top of her head hits me around my mouth. I can rest my chin on the top of Charlotte’s head, something that irritates her to no end.
Madeline has a tight body and a tendency to say outrageous things she thinks might make me blush. Like I’ve never had a girl before. I’ve never said anything to dissuade her because I’ve enjoyed watching her lick her lips and rub the shadowed valley between her big tits.
Madeline stands so close to me you’d think that there were dozens of others in the elevator car instead of just the two of us, but I don’t move away. Her body is warm and, for the first time in hours, I feel like I’m thawing out. When her arm brushes mine, I start getting hot. The look in her eyes is an obvious invitation, so when the elevator stops at the sixth floor, I don’t get off. And I don’t protest when she presses the close door button, and I don’t say anything when she presses the button for her floor.
I follow her silently into her family’s empty apartment. She leads us confidently down the hall toward a bedroom. I don’t say anything when she pulls down my gym shorts or pushes the T-shirt off my head. I’m afraid if I do talk the sounds of Aunt AnnMarie’s cries or my mother’s sobs will come back, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to think at all.
When Madeline leads me to her bed, when she takes off her clothes, when we lie down together, I shut down my brain and just concentrate on the physical feeling of release.
* * *
A chime from my phone wakes me out of a doze. I jerk upright and grab my phone.
She made it. She’s asking for you.
I can’t get dressed fast enough. My motions jostle Madeline, or maybe she was awake all along. I don’t really care. I’ve got to get to the hospital.
“Hey, where are you going? I told you my parents are gone.”
“Gotta run.” My mouth feels dry, and my throat is sore as if all the tears I’ve suppressed are glass shards scraping my insides raw as they travel from my eye sockets into my stomach.
Madeline leans toward me and hooks a finger through the waistband of my shorts. “What’s your rush? I’m ready for round three if you are.”