The Accidental Siren

12.3 Happily Ever After

It was my idea to visit Ryan Brosh at his home. Maybe I thought Ryan was the key to my unanswered questions. Maybe I longed to connect with the only living boy who understood the sickness caught between my ribs and my spine. Maybe I wanted to witness my enemy’s pain.

Rumors had been flying like spit wads through the hallways of junior high; jokes about the jock who turned retarded because of a crush on a girl.

“I heard his parents lock his door from the outside so he can never come out,” said Jeffery Spitler as Whit and I eavesdropped from a nearby lunch table.

“That’s not half of it!” said his friend. “Jodi’s sister Tori brings him homework after school. Said he’s strapped to his bed and his parents slip food through a special crack in his door.”

“If he’s strapped to the bed, how does he eat?”

“How the hell should I know? Maybe they hire somebody to feed him.”

For the first time in the history of seventh grade, the rumors weren’t far from reality. Ryan’s mother greeted me at the front door with a hug and a shower of gratitude. “You’re the first person to visit Ryan since... the incident,” she said. Her face reminded me of warm wax. Eyeliner was the only makeup she wore, giving her face a distorted, top-heavy quality, and drawing attention to her pink eyes. “I know you and Ryan had a falling out after the incident with your sister. But Don and I... we really appreciate your effort to rekindle a friendship.”

Friendship was hardly my goal. “It’s not a problem, Ma’am.”

“Does blood bother you?” she asked as she led me through a corridor of black-and-white family photos in uniform frames. “Ryan refuses to wear a bandage on his neck. The nurse comes every two days to dress the wound, but the gauze is off before she leaves the room. Do you know how to play Mad Libs?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“He likes filling out Mad Libs. Connect Four is another favorite. It’s on the bookshelf if you want to play.” She knocked lightly on the last door on the left. “Ryan? Sweetheart? You have company.”

At the foot of Ryan’s bed, a television balanced on a glass coffee table that matched the living-room set I passed only moments ago. On the screen, an operator was explaining the benefits of ordering The Disney Channel. Then a burst of static, followed by a political advertisement condemning Clinton’s healthcare plan. More static, another commercial.

Ryan’s eyes were blue without the charm. His summer tan had dissolved weeks ago into the off-white hue of kindergarden paste. His bangs hung past his eyes, but he was too enthralled by the TV to care.

A vanity was partially obstructed by an open closet door. Its mirror was missing, leaving an empty, oval frame. A stack of textbooks sat on the floor with crisp covers and unbroken spines. Heaps of magazines littered the nightstand forcing a lamp to the edge. The pages were crinkled and torn. The top magazine was an issue of TIME with a close-up of a woman’s face. The eyes and lips had been meticulously removed. The carpet was vacuumed with checker-board precision and I felt rude for not removing my sneakers at the front door.

Mrs. Brosh stepped inside just long enough to remove the remote from her son’s meager grip. She flipped off the TV and said, “Why don’t you two talk for a bit?” Remote in hand, she left us alone in the room.

Ryan’s head rolled to face me and it smiled. “They keep me from sleepwalking,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The straps.” He nodded to a velcro loop at the top bed post. “Not ‘cause I’m crazy, just ‘cause I dream.”

I nodded.