Double on Call and Other Stories - John Green

Double On Call and Other Stories By John Green

Double on Call..........................................................................5  The Odd at Sea................ Sea................ .................. .................. ................... .19  The Sequel................ Sequel................ ................... .................. .................. ........35  Afterword....... ......... ......... ......... ......... ......... ......... ......... ........61

Double on Call God is weak and powerless in the world and that is precisely the way, the only way in which he is with us to help us. —Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Double On Call and Other Stories By John Green

Double on Call..........................................................................5  The Odd at Sea................ Sea................ .................. .................. ................... .19  The Sequel................ Sequel................ ................... .................. .................. ........35  Afterword....... ......... ......... ......... ......... ......... ......... ......... ........61

Double on Call God is weak and powerless in the world and that is precisely the way, the only way in which he is with us to help us. —Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Double on Call God is weak and powerless in the world and that is precisely the way, the only way in which he is with us to help us. —Dietrich Bonhoeffer

 The chaplain is just a boy, just a shock of unwashed hair and a pair of glasses and an ill-tied tie. He’s been awake for twenty-seven hours. If the door to the meditation room were not glass, then he would lie on the carpet and sleep. He would lie across the diagonal qibla, a yellow arrow dyed into the thick shag of the carpet, pointing towards Mecca. Mecca is mostly east, a tad South. He would lie in the direction of Mecca and leave the pagers outside somewhere and sleep. With longing, he gazes across the chapel at that glass door, praying fervently that the force of his stare will render it opaque. But the door is glass, and besides, the chaplain has company.  The man across from him is all biceps, rippling as he clenches his fists, all clear tears dribbling down the clear skin of his face. He hunches forward in a chair, facing the chaplain. The chaplain’s best attempts to correct his bad posture in pastoral situations are failing with the onslaught of fatigue. The man is  whispering, praying.  The chaplain tries to remember what to do. He sees his supervisor, a Unitarian who believes deeply in absolutely everything. He sees her in the way that people see things that are not there, the way that they see the faint reflection 7

 The chaplain is just a boy, just a shock of unwashed hair and a pair of glasses and an ill-tied tie. He’s been awake for twenty-seven hours. If the door to the meditation room were not glass, then he would lie on the carpet and sleep. He would lie across the diagonal qibla, a yellow arrow dyed into the thick shag of the carpet, pointing towards Mecca. Mecca is mostly east, a tad South. He would lie in the direction of Mecca and leave the pagers outside somewhere and sleep. With longing, he gazes across the chapel at that glass door, praying fervently that the force of his stare will render it opaque. But the door is glass, and besides, the chaplain has company.  The man across from him is all biceps, rippling as he clenches his fists, all clear tears dribbling down the clear skin of his face. He hunches forward in a chair, facing the chaplain. The chaplain’s best attempts to correct his bad posture in pastoral situations are failing with the onslaught of fatigue. The man is  whispering, praying.  The chaplain tries to remember what to do. He sees his supervisor, a Unitarian who believes deeply in absolutely everything. He sees her in the way that people see things that are not there, the way that they see the faint reflection 7

of the Virgin Mother in a parking lot pool of motor oil. The chaplain is well

 what the person is feeling, validate it, and allow them to feel it. It has shit to do

acquainted with visionary hallucinations. He has studied their importance, from

 with Jesus. Good thing, too, because the chaplain is not much for his Lord. He studies Islam, specifically Islamic conversion narratives, how people came

peyote-induced vision quests to Paul’s vision on the road. It’s just fatigue, he knows. When people see things, they are tired. No. That’s not right. When people

to understand their communities as Muslim. His specificity within a specificity

are tired, they see things. The chaplain does not really see his supervisor, because

is the former Soviet republics of Central Asia. While most people presume that

she is not really there.

Islam spread entirely by the sword, he would say, Islam grew in many parts of

“She didn’t fall,” the man says. His name is Joseph, and his fists clench and unclench, his biceps undulating like pond water in an earthquake.  The chaplain lived the previous summer, the last summer of college, in Alaska

the world completely independent of military force. And then he would tell you about conversion narratives, about Sufi saints and their magic before kings, about stunned emperors who accepted the Prophecy of Muhammad and the

 with a girl. He had seen pond water ripple in an earthquake, as if a sudden gust

legitimacy of the Qu’ran. For good measure, to prove that he’s not one of those

of wind came from beneath the water’s surface, and then – in milliseconds – the

Christians, he would bring his diatribe home to the true religion of the sword, to

ground shook lightly beneath the A-frame gift shop where he worked alone. It

Constantine, who encouraged Christianity because it seemed to help his soldiers

 was the chaplain’s first earthquake, and he ran for a doorframe, but it was over

in battle. One good thing about monotheistic peasants, the chaplain would say.

before he got anywhere. A woman came into the gift shop a minute later, and the

 They love a good suicide mission.

chaplain said, “Did you feel that earthquake?” “Is that what it was?” the woman replied. “I thought it was something.”

 Joseph begins to cry very hard, and the chaplain knows he has nailed it.  Joseph is letting the grief in, acknowledging his fear with tears. He killed his little girl. Two years old, with beautiful brown skin as clear and

“I know she didn’t fall, Joseph.”  The baby, Joseph’s daughter Z, had a fractured skull. It was fractured in three places, a triangle of fault lines that came together in the upper left part of her

perfect as her nineteen-year-old daddy’s. The women – mother and grandmother — had gone off to Church, and he had stayed home to look after the baby. He was not much for Church, Joseph. Never made him feel any better.

head, just behind the temple. The area of the triangle – that pie ce of skull was gone. When she came in, alone, ahead of her family, red-gray matter was visible,

 The story comes out from Joseph in bits and pieces, staccato gunfire. He told

bulging from her skull. Her brain leaked out of her little head. It pulsed like a tiny

the paramedics that she fell out of the high chair. He told the Mom that she fell

heartbeat, like hummingbird wings. The chaplain thought, for some reason, that

out of the high chair. But everyone knew that she had not fallen. Clearly, he is

it might explode, that it might blow onto his powder blue chaplain jacket and that

fucked.

he would go home the next morning and hang up his jacket and crawl i nto his

He cooked breakfast. An omelet with just c heese. And the baby would not

girlfriend’s bed and she would say, “Is that blood?” and he would say, “no sweetie.

stop crying, screaming for her Mommy. The baby never wanted anything but the

 That’s brain.” But it didn’t happen like that. It never did.

mother. She had breast fed the baby for too long. She had never given Joseph

8

“We’re really fucked,” Joseph says. “I mean, we are really fucked.”

enough time with the baby, and the baby didn’t like him, didn’t give a shit about

“You must be feeling pretty scared.” That is his job, to name the feeling. Say

him.

DOUBLE ON CALL

9

of the Virgin Mother in a parking lot pool of motor oil. The chaplain is well

 what the person is feeling, validate it, and allow them to feel it. It has shit to do

acquainted with visionary hallucinations. He has studied their importance, from

 with Jesus. Good thing, too, because the chaplain is not much for his Lord. He studies Islam, specifically Islamic conversion narratives, how people came

peyote-induced vision quests to Paul’s vision on the road. It’s just fatigue, he knows. When people see things, they are tired. No. That’s not right. When people

to understand their communities as Muslim. His specificity within a specificity

are tired, they see things. The chaplain does not really see his supervisor, because

is the former Soviet republics of Central Asia. While most people presume that

she is not really there.

Islam spread entirely by the sword, he would say, Islam grew in many parts of

“She didn’t fall,” the man says. His name is Joseph, and his fists clench and unclench, his biceps undulating like pond water in an earthquake.  The chaplain lived the previous summer, the last summer of college, in Alaska

the world completely independent of military force. And then he would tell you about conversion narratives, about Sufi saints and their magic before kings, about stunned emperors who accepted the Prophecy of Muhammad and the

 with a girl. He had seen pond water ripple in an earthquake, as if a sudden gust

legitimacy of the Qu’ran. For good measure, to prove that he’s not one of those

of wind came from beneath the water’s surface, and then – in milliseconds – the

Christians, he would bring his diatribe home to the true religion of the sword, to

ground shook lightly beneath the A-frame gift shop where he worked alone. It

Constantine, who encouraged Christianity because it seemed to help his soldiers

 was the chaplain’s first earthquake, and he ran for a doorframe, but it was over

in battle. One good thing about monotheistic peasants, the chaplain would say.

before he got anywhere. A woman came into the gift shop a minute later, and the

 They love a good suicide mission.

chaplain said, “Did you feel that earthquake?” “Is that what it was?” the woman replied. “I thought it was something.”

 Joseph begins to cry very hard, and the chaplain knows he has nailed it.  Joseph is letting the grief in, acknowledging his fear with tears. He killed his little girl. Two years old, with beautiful brown skin as clear and

“I know she didn’t fall, Joseph.”  The baby, Joseph’s daughter Z, had a fractured skull. It was fractured in three places, a triangle of fault lines that came together in the upper left part of her

perfect as her nineteen-year-old daddy’s. The women – mother and grandmother — had gone off to Church, and he had stayed home to look after the baby.

head, just behind the temple. The area of the triangle – that pie ce of skull was

He was not much for Church, Joseph. Never made him feel any better.

gone. When she came in, alone, ahead of her family, red-gray matter was visible,

 The story comes out from Joseph in bits and pieces, staccato gunfire. He told

bulging from her skull. Her brain leaked out of her little head. It pulsed like a tiny

the paramedics that she fell out of the high chair. He told the Mom that she fell

heartbeat, like hummingbird wings. The chaplain thought, for some reason, that

out of the high chair. But everyone knew that she had not fallen. Clearly, he is

it might explode, that it might blow onto his powder blue chaplain jacket and that

fucked.

he would go home the next morning and hang up his jacket and crawl i nto his

He cooked breakfast. An omelet with just c heese. And the baby would not

girlfriend’s bed and she would say, “Is that blood?” and he would say, “no sweetie.

stop crying, screaming for her Mommy. The baby never wanted anything but the

 That’s brain.” But it didn’t happen like that. It never did.

mother. She had breast fed the baby for too long. She had never given Joseph

8

“We’re really fucked,” Joseph says. “I mean, we are really fucked.”

enough time with the baby, and the baby didn’t like him, didn’t give a shit about

“You must be feeling pretty scared.” That is his job, to name the feeling. Say

him.

DOUBLE ON CALL

He picked the baby up. He sang to it. To her . He put the baby back in her high chair. Still, she cried. “Fine, Z,” he said, “Fine. Just sit there and fuckin’ cry.

9

they’ve been married) to a life sentence. A live-in grandmother, the baby’s primary caretaker. Aunts. Great-Aunts. Cousins. All women, and all wearing large hats,

See if I give a shit.” He left the room, watched TV, came back, held her, played

having come to the hospital directly from a Saturday morning Church breakfast.

horsey with her, bouncing her up and down in his immensely safe arms. She cried.

 Their vigil is now sixteen hours old. When the mother came in, the chaplain

He sat her down, and she wai led. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. And so he picked

had to restrain her, because security was elsewhere and the woman was trying

up the frying pan — still hot — and he smacked her across the side of her face.

to get at the bed i n the trauma room. He pulled her back to the doorway. The

 And she became very quiet and, in slow motion, fell out of the high chair and bled

hospital believes it is important for parents to be present for all phases of a child’s

onto the linoleum.

treatment, but not too present.

 These things, for reasons the chaplain suspects involve television, are invariably described to him as having happened “in slow motion.”

 The mother asked, “Is she going to have to spend the night?”  And though he was not supposed to give medical information or advice of any sort, he said, “yes,” because he had seen the little girl’s brain.

 The cops come, as they always do. It takes them a bit, even after all this practice,

“Is she going to die?”

to find the interfaith chapel on an administrative wing of the hospital’s third floor.

He copped out on that one. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to interrupt,” one of the two says, interrupting. “But we need him as soon as you’re done. We’ll be outside.”  They stand a foot outside the chapel’s door, effectively ending confidentiality.  The chaplain whispers, “I don’t suggest you talk to them without a lawyer.”  There is a brief prayer. The prayer part is not the chaplain’s specialty, and

Before his cigarette, the chaplain drops by the PICU to check on the nurse caring for the baby. “Hey,” he says. She is Irma, married to a ma n who used to have erectile dysfunction something serious but now pops an effective, if expensive, blue pill

he only does it when asked, or when compelled by the drama of a situation. He

twice a week. She recently had breast reduction surgery and you can not i magine

is Episcopalian, and Episcopalians pray from the Book of Common Prayer. They

how painful it is, how long it takes to recover to the point where you can raise

do not extemporize. Still, he comes up with something. He says, “we” a lot, and

 your arms over your head to hook an IV bag. She is very talkative, and his job is

“Joseph” a lot, as he’s been taught to do. Make your presence felt, Lord. Bring

to listen, so he has learned a lot about Irma.

comfort where there is fear. Bring hope where there is despair. Nothing new. He should offer to sit with Joseph for the questioning. He should give unqualified love and support to this suffering man. But the poor chaplain is tired. He thinks that perhaps it would be nice to have a cigarette before anyone dies. Baby Z has other family members i n the hospital as well. There is a mother  who stands to lose a daughter to brain trauma and a husband (three months 10

DOUBLE ON CALL

“You wouldn’t believe these people. These — I’m not being racist, of course — these black people with their screaming and crying and falling out.” “It must be pretty horrifying for them, to be losing a baby girl.” “Oh, of course. Of course. I don’t mean…” He shouldn’t have said that. He is tired and careless. He has put poor Irma on the defensive. Or maybe he should’ve said it. Maybe he should’ve said more. He stumbles toward common ground. “People grieve differently.” 11

He picked the baby up. He sang to it. To her . He put the baby back in her

they’ve been married) to a life sentence. A live-in grandmother, the baby’s primary

high chair. Still, she cried. “Fine, Z,” he said, “Fine. Just sit there and fuckin’ cry.

caretaker. Aunts. Great-Aunts. Cousins. All women, and all wearing large hats,

See if I give a shit.” He left the room, watched TV, came back, held her, played

having come to the hospital directly from a Saturday morning Church breakfast.

horsey with her, bouncing her up and down in his immensely safe arms. She cried.

 Their vigil is now sixteen hours old. When the mother came in, the chaplain

He sat her down, and she wai led. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. And so he picked

had to restrain her, because security was elsewhere and the woman was trying

up the frying pan — still hot — and he smacked her across the side of her face.

to get at the bed i n the trauma room. He pulled her back to the doorway. The

 And she became very quiet and, in slow motion, fell out of the high chair and bled

hospital believes it is important for parents to be present for all phases of a child’s

onto the linoleum.

treatment, but not too present.

 These things, for reasons the chaplain suspects involve television, are invariably described to him as having happened “in slow motion.”

 The mother asked, “Is she going to have to spend the night?”  And though he was not supposed to give medical information or advice of any sort, he said, “yes,” because he had seen the little girl’s brain.

 The cops come, as they always do. It takes them a bit, even after all this practice,

“Is she going to die?”

to find the interfaith chapel on an administrative wing of the hospital’s third floor.

He copped out on that one. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to interrupt,” one of the two says, interrupting. “But we need him as soon as you’re done. We’ll be outside.”  They stand a foot outside the chapel’s door, effectively ending confidentiality.  The chaplain whispers, “I don’t suggest you talk to them without a lawyer.”  There is a brief prayer. The prayer part is not the chaplain’s specialty, and he only does it when asked, or when compelled by the drama of a situation. He

Before his cigarette, the chaplain drops by the PICU to check on the nurse caring for the baby. “Hey,” he says. She is Irma, married to a ma n who used to have erectile dysfunction something serious but now pops an effective, if expensive, blue pill twice a week. She recently had breast reduction surgery and you can not i magine

is Episcopalian, and Episcopalians pray from the Book of Common Prayer. They

how painful it is, how long it takes to recover to the point where you can raise

do not extemporize. Still, he comes up with something. He says, “we” a lot, and

 your arms over your head to hook an IV bag. She is very talkative, and his job is

“Joseph” a lot, as he’s been taught to do. Make your presence felt, Lord. Bring

to listen, so he has learned a lot about Irma.

comfort where there is fear. Bring hope where there is despair. Nothing new. He should offer to sit with Joseph for the questioning. He should give unqualified love and support to this suffering man. But the poor chaplain is tired. He thinks that perhaps it would be nice to have a cigarette before anyone dies. Baby Z has other family members i n the hospital as well. There is a mother  who stands to lose a daughter to brain trauma and a husband (three months 10

“You wouldn’t believe these people. These — I’m not being racist, of course — these black people with their screaming and crying and falling out.” “It must be pretty horrifying for them, to be losing a baby girl.” “Oh, of course. Of course. I don’t mean…” He shouldn’t have said that. He is tired and careless. He has put poor Irma on the defensive. Or maybe he should’ve said it. Maybe he should’ve said more. He stumbles toward common ground. “People grieve differently.”

DOUBLE ON CALL

11

“Yes!” Irma says, relieved. “Exactly. Just different.”

“Call me if I can be helpful.”

“Not better. Not worse.”

“Sleep.”

“Right!”

“Yes,m,” he says.

“How is she doing?”

He turns, so his back is to Irma when she says, “Oh. Hey. Happy Easter.”

“Z?” “Yeah.” “Oh, you know. She may die before they do the brain function tomorrow.” “Mmm.” “Her heart rate is dropping. Drops like this—hmm—keeps dropping like this I’d say maybe seven thirty?”

He swivels back toward her. “Oh, right. Yeah. Well, officially I guess, it is. Happy Easter.” He slams his fist against a blue button. The doors open, and he jogs down the hall, forgetting his cigarette break. There is no stopping him now. A minute later, he sits in a small room, the sleep room. The bed, sheets, and blanket are all hospital issue. The alarm is set for seven forty two. Four hours. Eighteen minutes.

“Okay. And the brain function test tomorrow?” the chaplain asks.

He throws jacket, shoes, and pagers on the ground. He lies down over the sheets,

“They’ll come in the morning. They’ll see what I see. Fixed, dilated. Dead.

so he will not have to remake the entire bed, and pulls the blanket over his head.

 They’ll take her off the pipe, then. In the morning. If she gets there.” “Right. Okay. Thanks, Irma.”

He is thinking that he should perhaps loosen his tie when he falls asleep.  There are two pagers. The trauma pager goes off when a child is coming to

“What time you get off?” she asks.

the hospital with serious injuries. The chaplain and the social worker take care of

“Eight,” the chaplain says.

the families while paramedics, nurses, and doctors work to stabilize the patient.

“Hope she makes it for ya.” Irma makes a thin lipped expression. A smile of

Down there, in the Emergency Department, the name of the game, for chaplains

some kind.

and neurosurgeons alike, is stabilization. The chaplain pager goes off when

“Me too,” the chaplain confesses.

someone wants him specifically, for a baptism or a prayer or a death. All things

“Long night?”

being equal, he prefers the trauma pager, because it is more melodious, playing a

“No. Well. Yes. Yes, really. Yours?”

song that sounds an awful lot like “Dixie.” Also, the trauma pager is some sort of

“Not so bad,” Irma says. “Just this one. I have two others, but both very

 walkie talkie, so he gets information on the situation. The chaplain pager usually

stable. So it’s just this one. But this family—”

 just has a phone or room number. Neither pager portends particularly good news.

“Good people,” the chaplain says. Should he say that? He’s tired.

 They never call him to have a look at a beautiful, healthy baby growing up in a

“Yes. Very good folks.”

deeply communicative and functional family with an abiding religious faith that

“Good people,” the chaplain mumbles. “Bad things. Keep happening.” He

sustains them in times of trial, none of which are particularly trying. One night

should never say that. He should save it for his counseling session on Wednesday.

out of seven, usually, he spends 24 hours in the hospital with the pagers. But this

 There are appropriate outlets.

night is his second in a row. The dreaded double on-call.

“I don’t envy your job,” she says. “Get some sleep.” 12

DOUBLE ON CALL

It’s beeping. Well I wish I was in the land of cotton, and he is awake. “Level 2. 13

“Yes!” Irma says, relieved. “Exactly. Just different.”

“Call me if I can be helpful.”

“Not better. Not worse.”

“Sleep.”

“Right!”

“Yes,m,” he says.

“How is she doing?”

He turns, so his back is to Irma when she says, “Oh. Hey. Happy Easter.”

“Z?”

He swivels back toward her. “Oh, right. Yeah. Well, officially I guess, it is.

“Yeah.” “Oh, you know. She may die before they do the brain function tomorrow.” “Mmm.” “Her heart rate is dropping. Drops like this—hmm—keeps dropping like this I’d say maybe seven thirty?”

Happy Easter.” He slams his fist against a blue button. The doors open, and he jogs down the hall, forgetting his cigarette break. There is no stopping him now. A minute later, he sits in a small room, the sleep room. The bed, sheets, and blanket are all hospital issue. The alarm is set for seven forty two. Four hours. Eighteen minutes.

“Okay. And the brain function test tomorrow?” the chaplain asks.

He throws jacket, shoes, and pagers on the ground. He lies down over the sheets,

“They’ll come in the morning. They’ll see what I see. Fixed, dilated. Dead.

so he will not have to remake the entire bed, and pulls the blanket over his head.

 They’ll take her off the pipe, then. In the morning. If she gets there.” “Right. Okay. Thanks, Irma.”

He is thinking that he should perhaps loosen his tie when he falls asleep.  There are two pagers. The trauma pager goes off when a child is coming to

“What time you get off?” she asks.

the hospital with serious injuries. The chaplain and the social worker take care of

“Eight,” the chaplain says.

the families while paramedics, nurses, and doctors work to stabilize the patient.

“Hope she makes it for ya.” Irma makes a thin lipped expression. A smile of

Down there, in the Emergency Department, the name of the game, for chaplains

some kind.

and neurosurgeons alike, is stabilization. The chaplain pager goes off when

“Me too,” the chaplain confesses.

someone wants him specifically, for a baptism or a prayer or a death. All things

“Long night?”

being equal, he prefers the trauma pager, because it is more melodious, playing a

“No. Well. Yes. Yes, really. Yours?”

song that sounds an awful lot like “Dixie.” Also, the trauma pager is some sort of

“Not so bad,” Irma says. “Just this one. I have two others, but both very

 walkie talkie, so he gets information on the situation. The chaplain pager usually

stable. So it’s just this one. But this family—”

 just has a phone or room number. Neither pager portends particularly good news.

“Good people,” the chaplain says. Should he say that? He’s tired.

 They never call him to have a look at a beautiful, healthy baby growing up in a

“Yes. Very good folks.”

deeply communicative and functional family with an abiding religious faith that

“Good people,” the chaplain mumbles. “Bad things. Keep happening.” He

sustains them in times of trial, none of which are particularly trying. One night

should never say that. He should save it for his counseling session on Wednesday.

out of seven, usually, he spends 24 hours in the hospital with the pagers. But this

 There are appropriate outlets.

night is his second in a row. The dreaded double on-call.

“I don’t envy your job,” she says. “Get some sleep.” 12

It’s beeping. Well I wish I was in the land of cotton, and he is awake. “Level 2.

DOUBLE ON CALL

13

Fourteen year old male. Nine mi nutes.” Three fifty six. Asleep for half an hour

“They couldn’t find anyone else?”

and, if anything, more tired. Nine minutes. If he hurries, he can smoke that

“There’s never anyone else on weekends.” Everyone else has families. And

cigarette he’s been meaning to bum, and he will smell like smoke, but they won’t

Churches.

notice. They never notice. Jacket, pagers, shoes back on and a quick glance in

“How’s your girl?”

the mirror to diagnose and treat a wicked case of bedhead. Down stairs, two at a

“She’s good. Good. Her eyes are getting bluer. How’s yours?”

time. I am still so young, he thinks. My knees are still so good. These knees can

“She’s okay. She wants to move in. Bluer eyes?”

take anything. “Doog!” Lynn cries out. The social worker. Lynn, the late 20s, pre-burnout

“Yeah. They’re green. I mean, they’ve always been green. But they’re starting to turn blue. Very strange. You want her to move in?”

social worker with hair in tiny tight dreadlocks. Lynn, who hates chaplains but

“Dunno. I’ve never had a live-in…whatever. Partner.”

likes him, because the chaplain himself hates chaplains. With Lynn, he acts as he

“Me neither.”

does outside of the hospital, like a recent college graduate who sometimes has

“Either.”

unprotected sex with his girlfriend, to whom he is neither married nor engaged.

“Right. The grammar. It slips.”

 There is no pretense of ministry, of pastoral care.

“Go to bed, Doogie. I’ll get this one. The kid is fine. He’s fourteen. He’ll cuss

“Hey, Lynn. Do you have a cigarette?” “Of course. Doogie Howser, boy chaplain, smokes?” “Tonight he does.”

“Sold! Call me if you want me.”  The chaplain lets his cigarette fall to the concrete and steps on it to put it

“Rough with the high chair kid?”

out. He steps on like he im agines James Dean doing it, a lthough he has never

“Yeah.”

personally seen a James Dean movie.

“Chillin’ with the Dad?”

Back in the sleep room, he realizes why the pager went off. In his rush

’Till the cops found us.”

to bed, he had failed to take the necessary precautions. This time, instead of

“Shame about how he’s gonna die in jail,” she says gleefully.

throwing his jacket and shoes and pagers willy-nilly around the room, he is

“So what’s this Level II?”

careful.

“Oh, whatever. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, losing consciousness only briefly. God, Doog, you look like a train wreck.”

 The shoes go perpendicular to the bed, the left one on the right and the right one on the left. The jacket i s folded into quarters, and laid on the small end table.

“I’m on a double.”

 The pagers, trauma on the left chaplain on the right, are aligned parallel to the

“Yesterday and today? Do they require that?”

alarm clock, about four inches behind it. The alarm is set to radio, not buzzer.

“No. I’m covering for the Sister.”

 This is the routine, and the routine needs to be followed.

“What the hell does a nun have to do on a Saturday?” “Her mother. Sick or something.” 14

 when they put the catheter in and that’ll be the extent of it.”

DOUBLE ON CALL

 The routine arose the one night that nothing happened. Twenty-four hours on call, and no child died, no child needed an emergency baptism, no one wanted 15

Fourteen year old male. Nine mi nutes.” Three fifty six. Asleep for half an hour and, if anything, more tired. Nine minutes. If he hurries, he can smoke that cigarette he’s been meaning to bum, and he will smell like smoke, but they won’t

“They couldn’t find anyone else?” “There’s never anyone else on weekends.” Everyone else has families. And Churches.

notice. They never notice. Jacket, pagers, shoes back on and a quick glance in

“How’s your girl?”

the mirror to diagnose and treat a wicked case of bedhead. Down stairs, two at a

“She’s good. Good. Her eyes are getting bluer. How’s yours?”

time. I am still so young, he thinks. My knees are still so good. These knees can

“She’s okay. She wants to move in. Bluer eyes?”

take anything.

“Yeah. They’re green. I mean, they’ve always been green. But they’re starting

“Doog!” Lynn cries out. The social worker. Lynn, the late 20s, pre-burnout

to turn blue. Very strange. You want her to move in?”

social worker with hair in tiny tight dreadlocks. Lynn, who hates chaplains but

“Dunno. I’ve never had a live-in…whatever. Partner.”

likes him, because the chaplain himself hates chaplains. With Lynn, he acts as he

“Me neither.”

does outside of the hospital, like a recent college graduate who sometimes has

“Either.”

unprotected sex with his girlfriend, to whom he is neither married nor engaged.

“Right. The grammar. It slips.”

 There is no pretense of ministry, of pastoral care. “Hey, Lynn. Do you have a cigarette?” “Of course. Doogie Howser, boy chaplain, smokes?”

“Sold! Call me if you want me.”

“Tonight he does.”

 The chaplain lets his cigarette fall to the concrete and steps on it to put it

“Rough with the high chair kid?”

out. He steps on like he im agines James Dean doing it, a lthough he has never

“Yeah.”

personally seen a James Dean movie.

“Chillin’ with the Dad?”

Back in the sleep room, he realizes why the pager went off. In his rush

’Till the cops found us.”

to bed, he had failed to take the necessary precautions. This time, instead of

“Shame about how he’s gonna die in jail,” she says gleefully.

throwing his jacket and shoes and pagers willy-nilly around the room, he is

“So what’s this Level II?”

careful.

“Oh, whatever. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, losing consciousness only briefly. God, Doog, you look like a train wreck.” “I’m on a double.”

 The shoes go perpendicular to the bed, the left one on the right and the right one on the left. The jacket i s folded into quarters, and laid on the small end table.  The pagers, trauma on the left chaplain on the right, are aligned parallel to the

“Yesterday and today? Do they require that?”

alarm clock, about four inches behind it. The alarm is set to radio, not buzzer.

“No. I’m covering for the Sister.”

 This is the routine, and the routine needs to be followed.

“What the hell does a nun have to do on a Saturday?” “Her mother. Sick or something.” 14

“Go to bed, Doogie. I’ll get this one. The kid is fine. He’s fourteen. He’ll cuss  when they put the catheter in and that’ll be the extent of it.”

 The routine arose the one night that nothing happened. Twenty-four hours on call, and no child died, no child needed an emergency baptism, no one wanted

DOUBLE ON CALL

prayer or healing. He woke up to the radio at seven forty two in the morning, with

15

He often wishes that he could summon a noble reason for having become a

eighteen minutes to dress and fold the blanket. He looked around the room and

chaplain at so young an age. The vast majority of people do their four hundred

memorized the precise location of everything. A Grief Observed on the nightstand,

hours of clinical pastoral education after their second year of seminary. It is

beneath the chaplain jacket, which was folded into quarters. The shoes, arranged

a requirement in most denominations, a sort of church-sanctioned hazing

backwards, halfway down the bed.

that weeds out the uncommitted. The chaplain had applied to C. P. E. at a

 You are either religious, the chaplain likes to say, or you are superstitious.

small children’s hospital in the Midwest just two weeks after applying to The

It did not work, of course, because neither superstition nor religion works.

Divinity School at the University of Chicago. He was accepted i nto the C. P. E.

 They are not intended to work. But it had worked once, and so the chaplain

program, in spite of his inexperience, because he showcased to his interviewers

honored that night with his every on-call.

a theological sophistication rarely seen in undergraduates. He could quote  Tillich and Barth and Otto and Buber and the other usual suspects, but was

He is not an Easter chaplain. He’s more of an Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, Jesus

passionate mostly about Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German theologian who died in

dead on the Cross resurrected only metaphorically chaplain. For him, the only

a Nazi concentration camp. The chaplain considered Bonhoeffer’s writings from

season is Lent and the only gospel Mark. And not the canonical version either,

Flossenburg to be among the great works of twentieth c entury literature. Not

 with its Hollywood ending tacked on a century after the gospel’s first appearance.

Ulysses, certainly, but perhaps Rabbit, Run.

 The oldest versions of Mark do not end with Jesus’ triumphant ascension into

 And he accepted their offer, although why has never been entirely clear to

heaven. The original gospel ends with three women running from an empty

him. He intends to go to divinity school only because he can see no other way to

tomb, as scared as anyone would be who’s just seen a ghost. The real good news

study Islamic conversion narratives for free. That does not explain the chaplain’s

according to Mark ends with the word “afraid.”

 willingness to dive into C. P. E., particularly at such an awful place as a hospital

 The first gospel in chronology, Mark is an important source for both Luke and Matthew. And John, well John is no gospel at all to the chaplain’s mind, because gospels bring good news, and John brings only Baptists. For him, the last words of Jesus were not “it is finished,” (John) or

devoted solely to sick children.  The chaplain has a good life, an easy life. He is well educated, modestly  well-to-do, and awkwardly handsome. He has faced no particularly compelling struggle, aside from frequently being dumped by women he wished to marry. His

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit,” (Luke) but rather, “eloi eloi lama

friends and family are in good health. And, sometimes, when one is not blessed

 sabachthani,” the only untranslated Aramic in the entire New Testament. For the

 with crisis, one must manufacture it.

chaplain, they are the only wholly true a nd accurate words of the historical Jesus. My Father. My Father. Why have you forsaken me?  The chaplain, given over to bouts of excessive narcissism, sometimes

He is no Easter chaplain, and yet it is very nearly Easter morning. The chaplain mourns as he sleeps, grieving the loss of Lent. He wishes that every day might

mumbles the words to himself over schoolwork or girl trouble, although in truth

be Ash Wednesday, that he might walk for the rest of his days with a n ashen

he has known no pain approaching crucifixion.

thumbprint of a priest on his forehead. But as he sleeps, Easter approaches. Peter

16

DOUBLE ON CALL

17

prayer or healing. He woke up to the radio at seven forty two in the morning, with

He often wishes that he could summon a noble reason for having become a

eighteen minutes to dress and fold the blanket. He looked around the room and

chaplain at so young an age. The vast majority of people do their four hundred

memorized the precise location of everything. A Grief Observed on the nightstand,

hours of clinical pastoral education after their second year of seminary. It is

beneath the chaplain jacket, which was folded into quarters. The shoes, arranged

a requirement in most denominations, a sort of church-sanctioned hazing

backwards, halfway down the bed.

that weeds out the uncommitted. The chaplain had applied to C. P. E. at a

 You are either religious, the chaplain likes to say, or you are superstitious.

small children’s hospital in the Midwest just two weeks after applying to The

It did not work, of course, because neither superstition nor religion works.

Divinity School at the University of Chicago. He was accepted i nto the C. P. E.

 They are not intended to work. But it had worked once, and so the chaplain honored that night with his every on-call.

program, in spite of his inexperience, because he showcased to his interviewers a theological sophistication rarely seen in undergraduates. He could quote  Tillich and Barth and Otto and Buber and the other usual suspects, but was

He is not an Easter chaplain. He’s more of an Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, Jesus

passionate mostly about Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German theologian who died in

dead on the Cross resurrected only metaphorically chaplain. For him, the only

a Nazi concentration camp. The chaplain considered Bonhoeffer’s writings from

season is Lent and the only gospel Mark. And not the canonical version either,

Flossenburg to be among the great works of twentieth c entury literature. Not

 with its Hollywood ending tacked on a century after the gospel’s first appearance.

Ulysses, certainly, but perhaps Rabbit, Run.

 The oldest versions of Mark do not end with Jesus’ triumphant ascension into

 And he accepted their offer, although why has never been entirely clear to

heaven. The original gospel ends with three women running from an empty

him. He intends to go to divinity school only because he can see no other way to

tomb, as scared as anyone would be who’s just seen a ghost. The real good news

study Islamic conversion narratives for free. That does not explain the chaplain’s

according to Mark ends with the word “afraid.”

 willingness to dive into C. P. E., particularly at such an awful place as a hospital

 The first gospel in chronology, Mark is an important source for both Luke and Matthew. And John, well John is no gospel at all to the chaplain’s mind, because gospels bring good news, and John brings only Baptists. For him, the last words of Jesus were not “it is finished,” (John) or

devoted solely to sick children.  The chaplain has a good life, an easy life. He is well educated, modestly  well-to-do, and awkwardly handsome. He has faced no particularly compelling struggle, aside from frequently being dumped by women he wished to marry. His

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit,” (Luke) but rather, “eloi eloi lama

friends and family are in good health. And, sometimes, when one is not blessed

 sabachthani,” the only untranslated Aramic in the entire New Testament. For the

 with crisis, one must manufacture it.

chaplain, they are the only wholly true a nd accurate words of the historical Jesus. My Father. My Father. Why have you forsaken me?  The chaplain, given over to bouts of excessive narcissism, sometimes

He is no Easter chaplain, and yet it is very nearly Easter morning. The chaplain mourns as he sleeps, grieving the loss of Lent. He wishes that every day might

mumbles the words to himself over schoolwork or girl trouble, although in truth

be Ash Wednesday, that he might walk for the rest of his days with a n ashen

he has known no pain approaching crucifixion.

thumbprint of a priest on his forehead. But as he sleeps, Easter approaches. Peter

16

DOUBLE ON CALL

17

Cottontail hops down his bunny trail. There is no Easter Sunday service at the

cigarette, and lights it. He pays three dollars to a machine for the privilege of

hospital. They tried one for a fe w years, but they were badly attended.

parking near the Emergency Department, and begins his long drive home east,

Seven forty two, and he wakes to a sweet, soft voice of the American

the risen sun too bright in his ey es.

Midwest introducing some adult contemporary love song. The chaplain folds the blanket, smooths the sheets, and walks to the pastoral care conference room. He brews a pot of coffee, although he does not drink coffee. He wai ts. Gary is coming. It is Easter Sunday and Gary will come and take the pagers and pour himself a cup of coffee, and Gary will be chaplain for a while.  The chaplain will go home and sleep for a long time. He will lay in bed with his girlfriend, a woman who loves him very much but may not love him for very long. He will wake up around noon, and perhaps watch television. He will read, maybe. Check his E-mail. Gary comes at eight oh four. Not bad, for Gary. “The Lord is risen!” Gary greets the c haplain. “There’s a braindead girl in the PICU,” the chaplain says. “Sweet,” Gary responds, sarcastic. He is much older than the chaplain, but tries to speak in the boy’s vernacular. Gary is very concerned for the poor chaplain’s soul. “Her father killed her.” “On purpose?” “Is there another way?” “Lord mercy.” “Yeah.” “Did you pray with him?” “Yeah. I did.” “I don’t think I could do it. With a murderer. I should, but I don’t think I could wish him peace.” “I didn’t have to.”  The chaplain leaves the hospital, gets into his car, finds a single, stale 18

DOUBLE ON CALL

19

Cottontail hops down his bunny trail. There is no Easter Sunday service at the

cigarette, and lights it. He pays three dollars to a machine for the privilege of

hospital. They tried one for a fe w years, but they were badly attended.

parking near the Emergency Department, and begins his long drive home east,

Seven forty two, and he wakes to a sweet, soft voice of the American

the risen sun too bright in his ey es.

Midwest introducing some adult contemporary love song. The chaplain folds the blanket, smooths the sheets, and walks to the pastoral care conference room. He brews a pot of coffee, although he does not drink coffee. He wai ts. Gary is coming. It is Easter Sunday and Gary will come and take the pagers and pour himself a cup of coffee, and Gary will be chaplain for a while.  The chaplain will go home and sleep for a long time. He will lay in bed with his girlfriend, a woman who loves him very much but may not love him for very long. He will wake up around noon, and perhaps watch television. He will read, maybe. Check his E-mail. Gary comes at eight oh four. Not bad, for Gary. “The Lord is risen!” Gary greets the c haplain. “There’s a braindead girl in the PICU,” the chaplain says. “Sweet,” Gary responds, sarcastic. He is much older than the chaplain, but tries to speak in the boy’s vernacular. Gary is very concerned for the poor chaplain’s soul. “Her father killed her.” “On purpose?” “Is there another way?” “Lord mercy.” “Yeah.” “Did you pray with him?” “Yeah. I did.” “I don’t think I could do it. With a murderer. I should, but I don’t think I could wish him peace.” “I didn’t have to.”  The chaplain leaves the hospital, gets into his car, finds a single, stale 18

DOUBLE ON CALL

19

The Odd at Sea Generally, people have two questions. They can’t come right out and ask them, because it’s an awkward thing. And so they’ll say, “How are you feeling?” or “What are you hearing from the doctors?” Or, “What’s the good word?” But what they mean is, “Are you going to die? And if so, when?” So let’s dispense with that to begin with. Yes. I am going to die. In a related story, so will  you. My mother feels very strongly about me living until Christmas, which is seven months away. Mom thinks that this will represent some kind of success. She talks about Christmas all the damned time. Just this morning, she was in before work, and she was feeding me this “shake” elixir that contains antioxidants and proteins and shark cartlidge and a bunch of other shit that doesn’t cure cancer, and she’s sitting next to me, the blue vinyl reclining chair pulled up close to my bed, and she says, “I’m looking forward to another Christmas with us all together as a family, and you’ll be home. Won’t that be nice?” She says another. She does not say a last. Because if she somehow gets this Christmas with me, she will then want one more. This is my mom’s whole Cancer Strategy: Set goals, reach them, and then set new goals. 21

The Odd at Sea Generally, people have two questions. They can’t come right out and ask them, because it’s an awkward thing. And so they’ll say, “How are you feeling?” or “What are you hearing from the doctors?” Or, “What’s the good word?” But what they mean is, “Are you going to die? And if so, when?” So let’s dispense with that to begin with. Yes. I am going to die. In a related story, so will  you. My mother feels very strongly about me living until Christmas, which is seven months away. Mom thinks that this will represent some kind of success. She talks about Christmas all the damned time. Just this morning, she was in before work, and she was feeding me this “shake” elixir that contains antioxidants and proteins and shark cartlidge and a bunch of other shit that doesn’t cure cancer, and she’s sitting next to me, the blue vinyl reclining chair pulled up close to my bed, and she says, “I’m looking forward to another Christmas with us all together as a family, and you’ll be home. Won’t that be nice?” She says another. She does not say a last. Because if she somehow gets this Christmas with me, she will then want one more. This is my mom’s whole Cancer Strategy: Set goals, reach them, and then set new goals. 21

I smile and nod and drink the Shake of Poison Chalkiness. But I don’t really see the benefit of Christmas to someone who’s dying. It’s like, “Here are some

financial investment for my mom and my insurance company and my nation and my world. But my time i s more valuable than yours. My time lasts longer.

toys. Enjoy them. For a week. And then you’ll be dead.” I’d rather she just save the money, honestly. I feel bad enough about being such a ridiculous financial

Dr. Karling told me a story about it once. When she first finished school, she

burden on this family.

 worked at some cancer hospital for old people for a few months. And the first

 You might argue, “Well, if you’re very expensive,” and I am very expensive,

time she ever had to tell someone that they hand cancer and they were dying, it

“and you’re dying,” and I am dying, “then maybe you should just off yourself now.

 was this old guy. And she comes in to his hospital room, and he’s lying there by

 What’s the difference between now and a few months from now?” That is very

himself, no TV on or anything. And she gets the big eyes and the pursed lips that

reasonable thinking, at least on the surface, but it fails to incorporate Einstein’s

people get when they tell you bad news. And she says, “Unfortunately, the tumor

theory of relativity.

is a very aggressive malignancy.” She explains it for a while and then says that it i s terminal, and the guy looks at her with empty eyes and says, “How long?”

 The theory of relativity is very complicated and very weird, of course, and honestly I don’t understand it, but it boils down to this: If you take a walk to the bathroom, you are not only walking through your house. You are also walking through time. And the manner in which you travel through space-time changes time itself. And so it is possible for two people to experience time differently. EXAMPLE: Say you and I were born a t the exact same moment 16 years and

She hems and haws for a while about how it could be weeks or months or even a year, but she finally says, “Perhaps one month.”  The guy looks at her quietly for a long time. He’s got the cancer grimace on his face, the pain that comes from cannibalizing yourself. And he just stares at her, his face the picture of cancer pain, and then finally he opens his mouth and  whispers, “A month?” She nods. “An eternity,” he says.

39 days ago. Now, say that you have spent the last 10 years flying in a super-fast spaceship at an average speed of 100,000 miles per hour. Because you have been in the spaceship and I have been on the ground, you will have traveled through

 The social highlight of my week is this meeting with a rotating cast of characters

space-time more slowly than I. You will be about three seconds younger than me.

that happens every Tuesday in the little playground room between the north

Basically, you will have traveled, ve ry slightly, into the future—or, at least into m y

and south wings of Tower 3 of the hospital. The carpet in there i s all yellow and

future. I am not making this shit up.

orange and made in shapes, and there are toys for little kids strewn about, and the wallpaper features such academic challenges as the alphabet and the numbers

Here is the corollary to Einstein’s theory of relativity that I discovered: If you

from 1 to 10. Children’s hospitals are not designed for teenagers.

travel more slowly through time than everyone else, you will age more quickly.

 The meeting is called “Teens for Wellness,” presumably because calling it,

 And this hospital, where I’ve spent 95 of my last 350 days, is like a little world

“Teens for Dying in Four to Six Months” would have been too depressing. It’s

that rotates around the Sun slower than the rest of the world. Time is slowed

like therapy. You go in and you talk about what a bummer it is to die, and other

down in here. And I realize I am expensive, and that I am possibly not the best

people nod their bald heads and talk about what a bummer it is to die, and then

22

THE ODD AT SEA

23

I smile and nod and drink the Shake of Poison Chalkiness. But I don’t really see the benefit of Christmas to someone who’s dying. It’s like, “Here are some

financial investment for my mom and my insurance company and my nation and my world. But my time i s more valuable than yours. My time lasts longer.

toys. Enjoy them. For a week. And then you’ll be dead.” I’d rather she just save the money, honestly. I feel bad enough about being such a ridiculous financial

Dr. Karling told me a story about it once. When she first finished school, she

burden on this family.

 worked at some cancer hospital for old people for a few months. And the first

 You might argue, “Well, if you’re very expensive,” and I am very expensive,

time she ever had to tell someone that they hand cancer and they were dying, it

“and you’re dying,” and I am dying, “then maybe you should just off yourself now.

 was this old guy. And she comes in to his hospital room, and he’s lying there by

 What’s the difference between now and a few months from now?” That is very

himself, no TV on or anything. And she gets the big eyes and the pursed lips that

reasonable thinking, at least on the surface, but it fails to incorporate Einstein’s

people get when they tell you bad news. And she says, “Unfortunately, the tumor

theory of relativity.

is a very aggressive malignancy.” She explains it for a while and then says that it i s terminal, and the guy looks at her with empty eyes and says, “How long?”

 The theory of relativity is very complicated and very weird, of course, and honestly I don’t understand it, but it boils down to this: If you take a walk to the bathroom, you are not only walking through your house. You are also walking

She hems and haws for a while about how it could be weeks or months or even a year, but she finally says, “Perhaps one month.”  The guy looks at her quietly for a long time. He’s got the cancer grimace on

through time. And the manner in which you travel through space-time changes

his face, the pain that comes from cannibalizing yourself. And he just stares at

time itself. And so it is possible for two people to experience time differently.

her, his face the picture of cancer pain, and then finally he opens his mouth and

EXAMPLE: Say you and I were born a t the exact same moment 16 years and

 whispers, “A month?” She nods. “An eternity,” he says.

39 days ago. Now, say that you have spent the last 10 years flying in a super-fast spaceship at an average speed of 100,000 miles per hour. Because you have been in the spaceship and I have been on the ground, you will have traveled through

 The social highlight of my week is this meeting with a rotating cast of characters

space-time more slowly than I. You will be about three seconds younger than me.

that happens every Tuesday in the little playground room between the north

Basically, you will have traveled, ve ry slightly, into the future—or, at least into m y

and south wings of Tower 3 of the hospital. The carpet in there i s all yellow and

future. I am not making this shit up.

orange and made in shapes, and there are toys for little kids strewn about, and the wallpaper features such academic challenges as the alphabet and the numbers

Here is the corollary to Einstein’s theory of relativity that I discovered: If you

from 1 to 10. Children’s hospitals are not designed for teenagers.

travel more slowly through time than everyone else, you will age more quickly.

 The meeting is called “Teens for Wellness,” presumably because calling it,

 And this hospital, where I’ve spent 95 of my last 350 days, is like a little world

“Teens for Dying in Four to Six Months” would have been too depressing. It’s

that rotates around the Sun slower than the rest of the world. Time is slowed

like therapy. You go in and you talk about what a bummer it is to die, and other

down in here. And I realize I am expensive, and that I am possibly not the best

people nod their bald heads and talk about what a bummer it is to die, and then

22

THE ODD AT SEA

23

after an hour you hold hands and repeat after the group leader and then you

not going to be any more Teens For Wellness on this Tuesday and then John says,

go back to your room and wash your hands really really well, because you have

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” I half-think he’s going to look at me with big

a compromised immune system, and God only knows what kind of infections

eyes and pursed lips, the way they always do with bad news, and tell me that I am

Snotty McKidneyCancer is carrying around. The group leader is Sister Janice, a

even dying-er than previously believed. But he does not. He looks at the ground

Catholic nun who is 175 years old.

and says, “Sister Janice has passed away. She had a heart attack last Wednesday,

So I drag my IV-ed ass down the hall at three o’clock this afte rnoon to go to  Teens for Wellness, mostly because I know that otherwise Sister Janice will visit

and died on Friday. Her family was with her and her death was very peaceful. I’m sorry.”

me in my room later, and I would rather deal wi th her in group form. But when

“She’s dead?” Pete asks.

I walk up I can see through the glass wall that Sister Janice has been replaced

 The chaplain opened his eyes wide and purses his lips. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

by some skinny guy with big round Harry Potter glasses, but he’s wearing the

“Well,” Pete says, “She was 175 years old.”

same powder blue lab coat Sister Janice does, so I assume he’s a chaplain. He

“At least,” I say. And Pete laughs. He nods his head at me, like I’ve done

is sitting in one of the blue plastic little-kid chairs, leaning forward, talking to Pete, a black guy I know a little. We’ve had chemo next to each other, and were roommates for a night a couple months ago. There’s also a girl I’ve never seen before—well, either a girl or a boy with earrings. It’s hard to tell baldies apart. I open the door—eight chairs have been placed in a circle. I sit a chair away from the chaplain and a chair away from Pete. “Hey—Luke, right?” Pete says. I nod and shake his outstretched hands. “Nice to see you, Pete,” I say. “How’s it going?” he asks. “Okay,” I answer. I’m thinking I should say, “Still dying,” but I never say the things I want to say. “So where’s the good Sister?” Pete asks the new guy. “We’ll talk about that when everyone’s here,” the guy answers, his eyes glancing around the room. He leans forward and says, “Hey, I’m John. I’m a student chaplain on this floor.” “A student?” Pete asks.

24

something cool. “I’m sure it’s a difficult loss for you,” the chaplain says. My stomach is tying itself in knots. I felt like shit all day but now it feels like my stomach and head are engaging in some kind of knot-tying contest. “We know a lot of dead people,” Pete explains, and it occurs to me that this is true. Dead kids from Dying Kid Summer Camp. Dead Kids from Dying Kid Trip to Disney. Dead kids from the hospital. Dead kids from mom’s My Kid Is Dying support group. It is difficult for me to get worked up about a dead kid, let alone a dead old lady. “Well,” the girl pipes up for the first time. She is a little cute when she talks. Something about her mouth. “I think it’s very sad.” The c haplain nods seriously. Shit, I feel bad. I should maybe go. “Did you know Sister Janice well?” he asks. “I never met her. My parents just brought me here from Minnesota,” she says. I laugh in my head. I try to laugh hard in my head. Poor Sister Janice. The only people who miss her never knew her.

“Yeah I’m,” he pauses. He seems not to know what he is. “New,” he finishes.

I should talk. I talk. “So you’re the new Sister Janice,” I say.

 We sat there in silence for a little while until it became clear that there were

“Well, sort of,” he answers. “I—I’ll be leading these meetings for the next

THE ODD AT SEA

25

after an hour you hold hands and repeat after the group leader and then you

not going to be any more Teens For Wellness on this Tuesday and then John says,

go back to your room and wash your hands really really well, because you have

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” I half-think he’s going to look at me with big

a compromised immune system, and God only knows what kind of infections

eyes and pursed lips, the way they always do with bad news, and tell me that I am

Snotty McKidneyCancer is carrying around. The group leader is Sister Janice, a

even dying-er than previously believed. But he does not. He looks at the ground

Catholic nun who is 175 years old.

and says, “Sister Janice has passed away. She had a heart attack last Wednesday,

So I drag my IV-ed ass down the hall at three o’clock this afte rnoon to go to  Teens for Wellness, mostly because I know that otherwise Sister Janice will visit

and died on Friday. Her family was with her and her death was very peaceful. I’m sorry.”

me in my room later, and I would rather deal wi th her in group form. But when

“She’s dead?” Pete asks.

I walk up I can see through the glass wall that Sister Janice has been replaced

 The chaplain opened his eyes wide and purses his lips. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

by some skinny guy with big round Harry Potter glasses, but he’s wearing the

“Well,” Pete says, “She was 175 years old.”

same powder blue lab coat Sister Janice does, so I assume he’s a chaplain. He is sitting in one of the blue plastic little-kid chairs, leaning forward, talking to

“At least,” I say. And Pete laughs. He nods his head at me, like I’ve done something cool.

Pete, a black guy I know a little. We’ve had chemo next to each other, and were

“I’m sure it’s a difficult loss for you,” the chaplain says.

roommates for a night a couple months ago. There’s also a girl I’ve never seen

My stomach is tying itself in knots. I felt like shit all day but now it feels like

before—well, either a girl or a boy with earrings. It’s hard to tell baldies apart. I open the door—eight chairs have been placed in a circle. I sit a chair away from the chaplain and a chair away from Pete. “Hey—Luke, right?” Pete says. I nod and shake his outstretched hands. “Nice to see you, Pete,” I say. “How’s it going?” he asks. “Okay,” I answer. I’m thinking I should say, “Still dying,” but I never say the things I want to say. “So where’s the good Sister?” Pete asks the new guy. “We’ll talk about that when everyone’s here,” the guy answers, his eyes glancing around the room. He leans forward and says, “Hey, I’m John. I’m a student chaplain on this floor.” “A student?” Pete asks.

24

my stomach and head are engaging in some kind of knot-tying contest. “We know a lot of dead people,” Pete explains, and it occurs to me that this is true. Dead kids from Dying Kid Summer Camp. Dead Kids from Dying Kid Trip to Disney. Dead kids from the hospital. Dead kids from mom’s My Kid Is Dying support group. It is difficult for me to get worked up about a dead kid, let alone a dead old lady. “Well,” the girl pipes up for the first time. She is a little cute when she talks. Something about her mouth. “I think it’s very sad.” The c haplain nods seriously. Shit, I feel bad. I should maybe go. “Did you know Sister Janice well?” he asks. “I never met her. My parents just brought me here from Minnesota,” she says. I laugh in my head. I try to laugh hard in my head. Poor Sister Janice. The only people who miss her never knew her.

“Yeah I’m,” he pauses. He seems not to know what he is. “New,” he finishes.

I should talk. I talk. “So you’re the new Sister Janice,” I say.

 We sat there in silence for a little while until it became clear that there were

“Well, sort of,” he answers. “I—I’ll be leading these meetings for the next

THE ODD AT SEA

several months, at least. Luke, are you all right?”  You can tell that the chaplain is new, because he says several months as if it

25

It was five forty-five in the morning. I stared at my alarm clock, which I’d had since fourth grade. In my long and distinguished career as a college student,

is a limited period of time. But it’s not. Several months is an eternity. It is everal

I’d never once woken up at five forty-five in the morning. Even my all-nighters

seternities.

finished before this. And now, one week after graduating, I was staring at my

No. several manatees. Oh. Shit.

alarm clock and seeing, for the first time in the 14 years it had been in my

It’s never fraternities. weatherable yearnities. God damn it.

possession, what 5:45 AM looked like.

Don’t forget to call Mom. They better call Mom. They better know she’s at  work. They know. She tells them. They know.  What is this? Pureed something. Wet. Ugh. Jesus. My hands soaking in it, dripping down my arms underneath my shirt. On my pants. Wet chunks of it everywhere. God. It’s in my nose. The carpet a gainst my neck, scratchy. Oh, shit. It’s my brain. God look at the brains all over me. They have to call my mom. At  work. I don’t want the girl to see. I can see the girl seeing. She’s looking down at

I sat up, folded the futon back into a couch, and then I pushed it back against the wall. The floors in the apartment slant precipitously, and so every night as I sleep the futon slips toward the entertainment center on the opposite  wall. Every morning, I wake up a nd push the futon back against the wall, and every morning, I think that maybe Sisyphus enjoys his work, as I enjoy mine.  Jen thinks it is ridiculous. To begin with, she dislikes the futon. And admittedly, the futon is a piece of shit. When I tried to buy it from this guy in

me. I must be on the porridge. Shit. Flooredge. On the floor. It’s hell all over the

town at his garage sale, he said, “Honestly, I cannot in good conscience accept

place. Girl, make them call mom at work. Jesus Christ, why is my brain coming

money for that thing,” and let me have it for free. Nonetheless, Jen feels as if

out my mouth?

I got ripped off. I can feel each metal bar underneath its thin mattress. The monkishness of it sort of appeals to me, but monkishness does not appeal to Jen.  And I can’t sleep in her dorm room more than two nights a week, at least not

 The ceilings in my apartment are six feet and three inches from the floor. The carpet is about a quarter inch thick; I am about six feet one inches tall; and my hair, which cannot be tamed, is an inch and a half high. I c annot wear shoes

officially, because I am not a student anymore. She argues that I can get rid of the futon and buy a regular bed. The futon, I respond, reminds me that The Things Of The World Are Not The Real Things.

inside. I have a bedroom, which I use as an office. It contains a card table, a

I brewed coffee and got dressed, retying my striped tie four times before I finally

computer, and a poster. For my birthday last year, Jen framed a blown-up version

got the front part to be longer than the back part. I did not think about the job

of my favorite photograph. Woody Guthrie is standing somewhere, a cigarette

I was starting. I thought about Jen, and about our fights, and about the futon,

dangling out of his mouth, a gui tar around his shoulder. Painted onto the guitar

and about Reverend Colson, and about which things matter, and about what

are the words, “This Machine Kills Fascists.” Broadly speaking, this poster i s why

machines kill fascists, and about the lowness of the ceilings, and the earliness of

I am religious.

it all, and how quickly the smell of coffee can fill a small place, a nd whether it was

26

THE ODD AT SEA

27

several months, at least. Luke, are you all right?”  You can tell that the chaplain is new, because he says several months as if it

It was five forty-five in the morning. I stared at my alarm clock, which I’d had since fourth grade. In my long and distinguished career as a college student,

is a limited period of time. But it’s not. Several months is an eternity. It is everal

I’d never once woken up at five forty-five in the morning. Even my all-nighters

seternities.

finished before this. And now, one week after graduating, I was staring at my

No. several manatees. Oh. Shit.

alarm clock and seeing, for the first time in the 14 years it had been in my

It’s never fraternities. weatherable yearnities. God damn it.

possession, what 5:45 AM looked like.

Don’t forget to call Mom. They better call Mom. They better know she’s at  work. They know. She tells them. They know.  What is this? Pureed something. Wet. Ugh. Jesus. My hands soaking in it, dripping down my arms underneath my shirt. On my pants. Wet chunks of it everywhere. God. It’s in my nose. The carpet a gainst my neck, scratchy. Oh, shit. It’s my brain. God look at the brains all over me. They have to call my mom. At  work. I don’t want the girl to see. I can see the girl seeing. She’s looking down at

I sat up, folded the futon back into a couch, and then I pushed it back against the wall. The floors in the apartment slant precipitously, and so every night as I sleep the futon slips toward the entertainment center on the opposite  wall. Every morning, I wake up a nd push the futon back against the wall, and every morning, I think that maybe Sisyphus enjoys his work, as I enjoy mine.  Jen thinks it is ridiculous. To begin with, she dislikes the futon. And admittedly, the futon is a piece of shit. When I tried to buy it from this guy in

me. I must be on the porridge. Shit. Flooredge. On the floor. It’s hell all over the

town at his garage sale, he said, “Honestly, I cannot in good conscience accept

place. Girl, make them call mom at work. Jesus Christ, why is my brain coming

money for that thing,” and let me have it for free. Nonetheless, Jen feels as if

out my mouth?

I got ripped off. I can feel each metal bar underneath its thin mattress. The monkishness of it sort of appeals to me, but monkishness does not appeal to Jen.  And I can’t sleep in her dorm room more than two nights a week, at least not

 The ceilings in my apartment are six feet and three inches from the floor. The carpet is about a quarter inch thick; I am about six feet one inches tall; and my hair, which cannot be tamed, is an inch and a half high. I c annot wear shoes

officially, because I am not a student anymore. She argues that I can get rid of the futon and buy a regular bed. The futon, I respond, reminds me that The Things Of The World Are Not The Real Things.

inside. I have a bedroom, which I use as an office. It contains a card table, a

I brewed coffee and got dressed, retying my striped tie four times before I finally

computer, and a poster. For my birthday last year, Jen framed a blown-up version

got the front part to be longer than the back part. I did not think about the job

of my favorite photograph. Woody Guthrie is standing somewhere, a cigarette

I was starting. I thought about Jen, and about our fights, and about the futon,

dangling out of his mouth, a gui tar around his shoulder. Painted onto the guitar

and about Reverend Colson, and about which things matter, and about what

are the words, “This Machine Kills Fascists.” Broadly speaking, this poster i s why

machines kill fascists, and about the lowness of the ceilings, and the earliness of

I am religious.

it all, and how quickly the smell of coffee can fill a small place, a nd whether it was

26

THE ODD AT SEA

27

absolutely vital to iron this shirt, since I’d be wearing it for like 30 hours and soon

about ministers was that, per hour, they spent more time smiling, and less time

enough it would be wrinkly anyway.

being happy, than most people.

 As I walked out the door at 6:04, I grabbed the powder-blue chaplain jacket

Most people are required to work for a few months as a chaplain before they

they’d given me three days before, on my first day of orientation. My ID—in the

can get a master’s degree in divinity (I am rather fond of the idea that I will one

picture the jacket sort of swallows me up so I look young and small-headed and

day be a Master of Divinity). But Alex, a Baptist, has been in divinity school for

my eyes are open too big like I’m scared—is clipped to the jacket. I get into the

three years. Alice, a Presbyterian, has been working as a young minister since

car and drive an hour and fifteen minutes past cornfields and rotting barns and

I was in middle school. And Mo was already a minister; he had a church and

the occasional tree rising up out of the corn, stark and windblown. And then I

everything; he just wanted to get his master’s degree because it meant a raise.

start to think about it.

 Things of the World and whatnot.

Orientation lasted three easy days. I met my three fellow student chaplains, all of whom were in their thirties or forties. I met my supervisor, a Unitarian

I pulled into the free staff parking lot two blocks from the hospital and then

Universalist. We picked out of a hat to learn which floors we’d be working on.

followed my photocopied map to the pastoral care office on the third floor. I’m

Everyone got two floors. I got the heart floor and the brain floor. That seemed a

the first to arrive except for Lynn, our supervisor, who’s been on call all night.

little gratuitous.

She’s seated with her head down on the oak conference table, a cup of coffee next to her.

Me: “Heart and brain? What else is there?”

“Morning,” I said.

Roy: “There’s lungs. I’ve got lungs.”

She looked up. “Hey, kid. Aren’t you just the picture of punctuality?”

Mo: “And kidneys. I’m on kidneys and rehabilitation.”

“It was busy?” I asked. I didn’t want to know the details, really.

Me: “Kidneys? KIDNEYS?! I want kidneys.”

“A kid choked on some candy a nd died, and the family—Mom and Dad were

Supervisor: “Kidneys is no picnic.”

recently divorced and the kid was staying with Dad and so Mom blamed him for

Me: “Tell that to heart and brain!”

giving the kid candy. She’s running around the ED calling him a murderer. All

Mo: “But God wants you to have heart and brain.”

night. They didn’t leave till 7:15.”

Me: “God did not participate in the selection process.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said.

Mo: “Sure He did. God makes every decision.”

She nodded. “By the way, important thing to note: The chaplain on call has to

Me: “God is weak and powerless in the world and that is exactly the way, the only

start the coffee at seven sharp. So no sleeping in. You get the coffee on. Got it?”

 way, in which he is with us to help us. Dietrich Bonhoeffer.”

“Yes’m.”

Mo: “God wants you on heart and brain. Mo.”

Lynn looked over at the coffee maker, perched atop a microwave, and then said, “Okay. It’s 8 AM. Congrats. You’re the chaplain on ca ll.” She reached into

But we were smiling. We were always smiling. The only thing I had gathered 28

THE ODD AT SEA

her powder blue jacket, and slid two pagers across the table, then put her head 29

absolutely vital to iron this shirt, since I’d be wearing it for like 30 hours and soon

about ministers was that, per hour, they spent more time smiling, and less time

enough it would be wrinkly anyway.

being happy, than most people.

 As I walked out the door at 6:04, I grabbed the powder-blue chaplain jacket

Most people are required to work for a few months as a chaplain before they

they’d given me three days before, on my first day of orientation. My ID—in the

can get a master’s degree in divinity (I am rather fond of the idea that I will one

picture the jacket sort of swallows me up so I look young and small-headed and

day be a Master of Divinity). But Alex, a Baptist, has been in divinity school for

my eyes are open too big like I’m scared—is clipped to the jacket. I get into the

three years. Alice, a Presbyterian, has been working as a young minister since

car and drive an hour and fifteen minutes past cornfields and rotting barns and

I was in middle school. And Mo was already a minister; he had a church and

the occasional tree rising up out of the corn, stark and windblown. And then I

everything; he just wanted to get his master’s degree because it meant a raise.

start to think about it.

 Things of the World and whatnot.

Orientation lasted three easy days. I met my three fellow student chaplains, all of whom were in their thirties or forties. I met my supervisor, a Unitarian

I pulled into the free staff parking lot two blocks from the hospital and then

Universalist. We picked out of a hat to learn which floors we’d be working on.

followed my photocopied map to the pastoral care office on the third floor. I’m

Everyone got two floors. I got the heart floor and the brain floor. That seemed a

the first to arrive except for Lynn, our supervisor, who’s been on call all night.

little gratuitous.

She’s seated with her head down on the oak conference table, a cup of coffee next to her.

Me: “Heart and brain? What else is there?”

“Morning,” I said.

Roy: “There’s lungs. I’ve got lungs.”

She looked up. “Hey, kid. Aren’t you just the picture of punctuality?”

Mo: “And kidneys. I’m on kidneys and rehabilitation.”

“It was busy?” I asked. I didn’t want to know the details, really.

Me: “Kidneys? KIDNEYS?! I want kidneys.”

“A kid choked on some candy a nd died, and the family—Mom and Dad were

Supervisor: “Kidneys is no picnic.”

recently divorced and the kid was staying with Dad and so Mom blamed him for

Me: “Tell that to heart and brain!”

giving the kid candy. She’s running around the ED calling him a murderer. All

Mo: “But God wants you to have heart and brain.”

night. They didn’t leave till 7:15.”

Me: “God did not participate in the selection process.” Mo: “Sure He did. God makes every decision.” Me: “God is weak and powerless in the world and that is exactly the way, the only

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said. She nodded. “By the way, important thing to note: The chaplain on call has to start the coffee at seven sharp. So no sleeping in. You get the coffee on. Got it?”

 way, in which he is with us to help us. Dietrich Bonhoeffer.”

“Yes’m.”

Mo: “God wants you on heart and brain. Mo.”

Lynn looked over at the coffee maker, perched atop a microwave, and then said, “Okay. It’s 8 AM. Congrats. You’re the chaplain on ca ll.” She reached into

But we were smiling. We were always smiling. The only thing I had gathered 28

her powder blue jacket, and slid two pagers across the table, then put her head

THE ODD AT SEA

29

back on the desk. Lynn had explained on the first day of orientation that the

I tried not to laugh.

chaplain on-call carried two pagers. The trauma pager went off when a child

“For one thing, employing a dead person would create a very complicated

 was coming to a hospital with serious injuries. A large trauma team would then

tax situation,” she went on. I started laughing now. “On the other hand, I can’t

congregate in the Trauma Bays on the first floor, and then the chaplain and

ask Mo or Roy or Alex to do any Sunday on-calls, because they all have kids and

social worker took care of the fam ilies (and sometimes the patient’s emotional

close relationships with their churches.” I nodded empathetically. Or tried to nod

 well-being) while the paramedics, nurses, and physicians worked to stabilize the

empathetically. I would have a lot of opportunities to practice this nod.

patient. It was all about stabilization in the ED, for chaplains and neurosurgeons alike.  The other pager, the chaplain pager, went off when someone wanted a chaplain specifically—for baptism or prayer or, most often, for death. As Lynn told them, “Neither pager portends particularly good news. You rarely get called to have a look at a beautiful healthy baby growing up in a deeply communicative family with an abiding religious faith.” I left her there and went back into the room with the fridge to deposit my turkey sandwich lunch. Jen made me three the day I started; this is the last of them. When I turn around, Lynn is standing there, her blonde hair perfect in its big bob, her powder blue jacket seemingly tai lored to her thin frame. “Oh, kid, I’ve got some bad news.” I waited. “You know Sister Janice?” I

“So you’ve got to do all the Sunday on-calls,” I said, finishing her thought. “I’m sorry. That’s hard.” “What, me? No no no. My dear, dear child. I don’t do on-calls on Sunday. Sunday is my day for entertaining my many gentlemen callers.” “Oh,” I said, understanding. She nodded at me. The same Goddamned empathetic nod. “I’ll pay you,” she said. “I do need the money,” I said. But I didn’t need the money. What I needed  was the work. I had a good life, an easy life. I was well-educated and reasonably well-off, born to a privileged race and a privileged gender in a privileged country. I had faced no particularly compelling struggle. I had a pretty girlfriend, who I liked

knew of her. She was the Catholic chaplain at the hospital, a nd worked there full-

a lot. My parents loved me. My friends and family were in good health. And

time, but she’d been out sick during my orientation. “She died.”

sometimes, when one is not blessed with crisis, one must manufacture it.

“Oh, Lynn, I’m so sorry.” “Yeah, sucks. So we’ve got ourselves a problem, which is that the Good Sister

 And that is why I said yes. That is why I agreed to double my on-calls. Well, and also I didn’t know yet.

did all the Sunday on-calls.” “Oh,” I said.

I didn’t know what could happen. I had never really stopped to think about

“And she is departed.”

 what it’s like to live half your life in a place where the worst possible thing

“Right,” I said.

happens every single day.

“And it would be—I mean, I’m not entirely opposed to the idea, but I just think it would be—how should I phrase this—it would be less than ideal to have the hospital staffed once a week by a deceased individual.” 30

THE ODD AT SEA

I am aware that I am not dead for a while before I’m aware of anything else. 31

back on the desk. Lynn had explained on the first day of orientation that the chaplain on-call carried two pagers. The trauma pager went off when a child

I tried not to laugh. “For one thing, employing a dead person would create a very complicated

 was coming to a hospital with serious injuries. A large trauma team would then

tax situation,” she went on. I started laughing now. “On the other hand, I can’t

congregate in the Trauma Bays on the first floor, and then the chaplain and

ask Mo or Roy or Alex to do any Sunday on-calls, because they all have kids and

social worker took care of the fam ilies (and sometimes the patient’s emotional

close relationships with their churches.” I nodded empathetically. Or tried to nod

 well-being) while the paramedics, nurses, and physicians worked to stabilize the

empathetically. I would have a lot of opportunities to practice this nod.

patient. It was all about stabilization in the ED, for chaplains and neurosurgeons alike.  The other pager, the chaplain pager, went off when someone wanted a chaplain specifically—for baptism or prayer or, most often, for death. As Lynn told them, “Neither pager portends particularly good news. You rarely get called to have a look at a beautiful healthy baby growing up in a deeply communicative family with an abiding religious faith.” I left her there and went back into the room with the fridge to deposit my turkey sandwich lunch. Jen made me three the day I started; this is the last of them. When I turn around, Lynn is standing there, her blonde hair perfect in its big bob, her powder blue jacket seemingly tai lored to her thin frame. “Oh, kid, I’ve got some bad news.” I waited. “You know Sister Janice?” I

“So you’ve got to do all the Sunday on-calls,” I said, finishing her thought. “I’m sorry. That’s hard.” “What, me? No no no. My dear, dear child. I don’t do on-calls on Sunday. Sunday is my day for entertaining my many gentlemen callers.” “Oh,” I said, understanding. She nodded at me. The same Goddamned empathetic nod. “I’ll pay you,” she said. “I do need the money,” I said. But I didn’t need the money. What I needed  was the work. I had a good life, an easy life. I was well-educated and reasonably well-off, born to a privileged race and a privileged gender in a privileged country. I had faced no particularly compelling struggle. I had a pretty girlfriend, who I liked

knew of her. She was the Catholic chaplain at the hospital, a nd worked there full-

a lot. My parents loved me. My friends and family were in good health. And

time, but she’d been out sick during my orientation. “She died.”

sometimes, when one is not blessed with crisis, one must manufacture it.

“Oh, Lynn, I’m so sorry.” “Yeah, sucks. So we’ve got ourselves a problem, which is that the Good Sister

 And that is why I said yes. That is why I agreed to double my on-calls. Well, and also I didn’t know yet.

did all the Sunday on-calls.” “Oh,” I said.

I didn’t know what could happen. I had never really stopped to think about

“And she is departed.”

 what it’s like to live half your life in a place where the worst possible thing

“Right,” I said.

happens every single day.

“And it would be—I mean, I’m not entirely opposed to the idea, but I just think it would be—how should I phrase this—it would be less than ideal to have the hospital staffed once a week by a deceased individual.” 30

I am aware that I am not dead for a while before I’m aware of anything else.

THE ODD AT SEA

31

My eyes can see. I can see that there is a person in the room. It’s not that I

takes a while for the words to get in my brain, and then another while for them

don’t recognize the person so much as that I don’t realize that it is possible to

to get into my mouth, and then another while for them to get out of my mouth.

recognize people. It’s not that I don’t know where I am so much as I just don’t

Hours, probably.

know what a place is, or what a person is, or that a person can occupy a place.

“Hey, Mom,” I say. She is stroking my forehead with her thumb. She has long

I cannot think straight, basically. My thinking becomes curved. But I know that

nails that curve a little at the end. They’re painted purple with little stars. She

I’m alive. Quel surprise. Every time this happens, I wake up, and every time, I am

 works as a manicurist, so she’s got to have good nails.

surprised. Presumably, this will continue indefinitely. Until I am not surprised.

“Sweetheart,” she says. “Sweetheart.” I can hear the stomach-clenching. “I’m okay, Mom. It’s just…the way things are.”

 What finally brings me around is the catheter, this little plastic tube they put

“You can’t give up hope,” she says to me, although she is not saying it to me.

up your urethra and into your bladder that basically does your peeing for you.

“’Course not. It was a good day, really. Cute girl in my meeting today.”

Many medical professionals have told me that catheters do not hurt. I have been

Mom smiled. “A little Casanova still!”

told this so many times, in fact, that it’s a wonder you don’t see more doctors and nurses walking around with tubes shoved up their dicks. The plain fact of

“Not so little anymore,” I said, defensive. She didn’t know, though. She didn’t know how time slows down for me, that I was ageing faster than her.

the matter is that a catheter does hurt—in fact, it hurts enough to straighten out

“Can you drink, sweetie?”

my thinking. I’m Luke; the person is my mom; the brain I puked was not brain

She’s still rubbing my forehead, up to my hair. I’m too old for this, but I can’t

but puke; I have cancer; this is a hospital; and I dislike the thing that they have

 very well stop it. Too tired. I manage to lift my head a little so I can see that in her

inserted into The Frightful Hog.

other hand, she’s holding the Shake of Nastiness.

I mean, to begin with, anytime there’s something inside your penis,

“Yeah,” I say. “I can drink.” It tastes like ground chalk and aluminum foil

something is amiss. One of the psychologists they have here told me once that the

stirred into very sour milk. But I lift my head and mom puts the straw in my

average person my age knows about 4,000 nouns. When the tumor starts curving

mouth, and I slurp as fast as I c an.

my thinking, I know fewer, but when I’m coherent, I know 4,000 nouns, give or take. Of those 4,000 nouns, from aardvark to zygote, there is not a single one

 After a while, mom says she’ll sleep here and I tell her to go home and get some

that I’d enjoy having inserted into my penis. Whether it is a person, or a place, or a

real sleep. It’s past midnight. She says okay. This happens every day, pretty much.

thing, or a small plastic tube—it does not belong inside my penis.

She offers to stay; I say go; she goes. So she goes.

 They say that cancer kids have a high tolerance for pain. Maybe so. But I

Maybe this is supposed to bother me, but I like sleeping in a room alone,

have a very low tolerance for c onstantly-feeling-like-you-need-to-pee-only-you-

actually. Although one is never really alone here. You never know when a nurse

can’t-pee-because-there-is-a-tube-stuck-two-and-a-half-feet-up-El-Presidente-

is going to come take your blood or switch your IVs or whatever. This is my main

 who-is-only-one-and-a-half-feet-long.

complaint, really, aside from the general, overriding complaint re. my impending

Still, I come around slowly—remember, everything happens slowly here. It 32

THE ODD AT SEA

doom: This place manages to have simultaneously no privacy and no social life. 33

My eyes can see. I can see that there is a person in the room. It’s not that I

takes a while for the words to get in my brain, and then another while for them

don’t recognize the person so much as that I don’t realize that it is possible to

to get into my mouth, and then another while for them to get out of my mouth.

recognize people. It’s not that I don’t know where I am so much as I just don’t

Hours, probably.

know what a place is, or what a person is, or that a person can occupy a place.

“Hey, Mom,” I say. She is stroking my forehead with her thumb. She has long

I cannot think straight, basically. My thinking becomes curved. But I know that

nails that curve a little at the end. They’re painted purple with little stars. She

I’m alive. Quel surprise. Every time this happens, I wake up, and every time, I am

 works as a manicurist, so she’s got to have good nails.

surprised. Presumably, this will continue indefinitely. Until I am not surprised.

“Sweetheart,” she says. “Sweetheart.” I can hear the stomach-clenching. “I’m okay, Mom. It’s just…the way things are.”

 What finally brings me around is the catheter, this little plastic tube they put

“You can’t give up hope,” she says to me, although she is not saying it to me.

up your urethra and into your bladder that basically does your peeing for you.

“’Course not. It was a good day, really. Cute girl in my meeting today.”

Many medical professionals have told me that catheters do not hurt. I have been

Mom smiled. “A little Casanova still!”

told this so many times, in fact, that it’s a wonder you don’t see more doctors

“Not so little anymore,” I said, defensive. She didn’t know, though. She didn’t

and nurses walking around with tubes shoved up their dicks. The plain fact of the matter is that a catheter does hurt—in fact, it hurts enough to straighten out

know how time slows down for me, that I was ageing faster than her. “Can you drink, sweetie?”

my thinking. I’m Luke; the person is my mom; the brain I puked was not brain

She’s still rubbing my forehead, up to my hair. I’m too old for this, but I can’t

but puke; I have cancer; this is a hospital; and I dislike the thing that they have

 very well stop it. Too tired. I manage to lift my head a little so I can see that in her

inserted into The Frightful Hog.

other hand, she’s holding the Shake of Nastiness.

I mean, to begin with, anytime there’s something inside your penis,

“Yeah,” I say. “I can drink.” It tastes like ground chalk and aluminum foil

something is amiss. One of the psychologists they have here told me once that the

stirred into very sour milk. But I lift my head and mom puts the straw in my

average person my age knows about 4,000 nouns. When the tumor starts curving

mouth, and I slurp as fast as I c an.

my thinking, I know fewer, but when I’m coherent, I know 4,000 nouns, give or take. Of those 4,000 nouns, from aardvark to zygote, there is not a single one

 After a while, mom says she’ll sleep here and I tell her to go home and get some

that I’d enjoy having inserted into my penis. Whether it is a person, or a place, or a

real sleep. It’s past midnight. She says okay. This happens every day, pretty much.

thing, or a small plastic tube—it does not belong inside my penis.

She offers to stay; I say go; she goes. So she goes.

 They say that cancer kids have a high tolerance for pain. Maybe so. But I

Maybe this is supposed to bother me, but I like sleeping in a room alone,

have a very low tolerance for c onstantly-feeling-like-you-need-to-pee-only-you-

actually. Although one is never really alone here. You never know when a nurse

can’t-pee-because-there-is-a-tube-stuck-two-and-a-half-feet-up-El-Presidente-

is going to come take your blood or switch your IVs or whatever. This is my main

 who-is-only-one-and-a-half-feet-long.

complaint, really, aside from the general, overriding complaint re. my impending

Still, I come around slowly—remember, everything happens slowly here. It 32

THE ODD AT SEA

Like, you’re never alone here. But also, you’re never with people. It’s possible this isn’t a hospital specific problem, come to think of it.

34

THE ODD AT SEA 

doom: This place manages to have simultaneously no privacy and no social life. 33

Like, you’re never alone here. But also, you’re never with people. It’s possible this isn’t a hospital specific problem, come to think of it.

34

THE ODD AT SEA 

The Sequel “It is a fearful thing to love what fiction can touch.” —The Odd at Sea

The Sequel “It is a fearful thing to love what fiction can touch.” —The Odd at Sea

 The Invocation If any of this is going to make sense, you need to have at least passing familiarity  with a particular feeling. I don’t know the word for the feeling if there is one, but it’s that feeling you get—or I hope you get it, anyway—when you realize the smallness of you, and the largeness of Everything Else. I’m not saying God necessarily. I’m saying you’re outside at night and it’s raining and you don’t have an umbrella and you’re running to get inside but then you stop and maybe you hold your hands palms up and feel the rain pound aga inst your fingerprints and soak through your clothes and your wet hair against y our neck and you realize how amazing it is while the thunder cracks. I’m saying there’s a certain slant of light on winter afternoons that makes you feel a weight on your chest. You see a Shakespeare play or read the Qur’an or visit the Grand Canyon or hear a song or smell pure vanilla extract or whatever it is, and you feel the immensity of it. The terrifying wonderfulness of everything. If you’ve never felt that, then don’t bother.  You will think I am merely lying, which I can’t bear. Not after all this. 39

 The Invocation If any of this is going to make sense, you need to have at least passing familiarity  with a particular feeling. I don’t know the word for the feeling if there is one, but it’s that feeling you get—or I hope you get it, anyway—when you realize the smallness of you, and the largeness of Everything Else. I’m not saying God necessarily. I’m saying you’re outside at night and it’s raining and you don’t have an umbrella and you’re running to get inside but then you stop and maybe you hold your hands palms up and feel the rain pound aga inst your fingerprints and soak through your clothes and your wet hair against y our neck and you realize how amazing it is while the thunder cracks. I’m saying there’s a certain slant of light on winter afternoons that makes you feel a weight on your chest. You see a Shakespeare play or read the Qur’an or visit the Grand Canyon or hear a song or smell pure vanilla extract or whatever it is, and you feel the immensity of it. The terrifying wonderfulness of everything. If you’ve never felt that, then don’t bother.  You will think I am merely lying, which I can’t bear. Not after all this. 39

One

thinking that she could hide behind either of its wings and never be seen again.  Just

 The words would come into my mind just as the thing happened.

often enough for me to believe the silent voice must be my own.

 The first time: I’m eight, playing four-square with Polly, and she spikes

I mean, I was sixteen when the fiction was revealed. And of course in

the ball over my head and I run down the driveway chasing after it, the red

retrospect it seems obvious, but at the time I was busy rolling around in the

ball bouncing huge arcs, and I hear the words describing what I am doing: The

sixteenness of everything: the school newspaper, and Clay Warsley, and whether I

neighbor girl chases after the ball, dashing out into the street, not looking and not

liked or disliked the dimple in my chin. I was sixteen. The people around me were

needing to, running there at the far end of the cul-de-sac.  I knew all the words in that

hurling dripping handfuls of paint at the blank canvas that was me, and I was

sentence, but I would never have strung them together that way, and it struck me

 watching the painting come together. And I thought I was painting it, of course.

as odd that I would be the neighbor girl, some bit player in the description, and

Of course I did. I was sixteen.

that this snippet of story would come to me in a way that I could not myself make

 Admittedly, I am only seventeen now. But some years are longer than others.

up. It seemed odd, but then again, so did other things. I remember thinking—it must have been nearly the same time as the four-square-arcing-ball incident—how

 Two - Hannah al-Hajji.

odd it was that you are born either a girl or a boy and never get to switch. But

- 17

even smaller things: that pepperoni is round, that orchids smell, that you say bear 

- Yes.

 just as you say bare. It is all odd at first, and then it becomes normal—not because

- Who do you say that I am?

it is normal, but because repetition uns the peculiar.

- Yeah, you’re such an expert in knowing what people are not. It’s extremely

 And so it was with the words I would hear. I mean, I wasn’t hallucinating.

not impressive. I continue to be not amazed by your unning.

I would hear them in the soundless way the imagination hears. And only

- Uh huh.

occasionally. Once a month, perhaps. Often with Polly, but not always. Sometimes

- Rahim had this action figure, okay? This, like, three-inch tall Power Ranger.

 with my parents, as I walked next to mom in the supermarket, and the voice says,

 They were big when he was a kid. They were, like, crime fighters or something.

 Marina’s daughter finds herself pinching the wool of her mother’s slacks as they walk

I don’t know. But he had this red power ranger ever since he was a baby, but all

through the cereal aisle, trying to feel the fabric rub between her fingers without having

the painted parts had long since worn away, so actually you couldn’t tell it was a

to touch her mothe r. Just every now and again. She drinks from the water fountain,

Power Ranger. It just looked like a miniature red plastic person.

her father holding her beneath the armpits, and she counts the swallows until she is

- He was three years older.

 sated—one two three four five six se ven eight okay enough. Just often enough to be

- He lived at home till I was born and then they had to move him into this

normal. Their daughter between them on the canoe, in the center, her legs wrapped

facility. Spring Hill. So, whatever, we visited him every Sunday. Sundays were

around the cooler full of his beer, and there is a blue heron, and Marina points to it

identical: We went to church, then we went to lunch with Polly and her parents,

and the girl cannot stop staring, bowled over by its size as it spread open its wings,

then we spent like thirty to forty-five minutes with Rahim, then we went home.

40

THE SEQUEL

41

One

thinking that she could hide behind either of its wings and never be seen again.  Just

 The words would come into my mind just as the thing happened.

often enough for me to believe the silent voice must be my own.

 The first time: I’m eight, playing four-square with Polly, and she spikes

I mean, I was sixteen when the fiction was revealed. And of course in

the ball over my head and I run down the driveway chasing after it, the red

retrospect it seems obvious, but at the time I was busy rolling around in the

ball bouncing huge arcs, and I hear the words describing what I am doing: The

sixteenness of everything: the school newspaper, and Clay Warsley, and whether I

neighbor girl chases after the ball, dashing out into the street, not looking and not

liked or disliked the dimple in my chin. I was sixteen. The people around me were

needing to, running there at the far end of the cul-de-sac.  I knew all the words in that

hurling dripping handfuls of paint at the blank canvas that was me, and I was

sentence, but I would never have strung them together that way, and it struck me

 watching the painting come together. And I thought I was painting it, of course.

as odd that I would be the neighbor girl, some bit player in the description, and

Of course I did. I was sixteen.

that this snippet of story would come to me in a way that I could not myself make

 Admittedly, I am only seventeen now. But some years are longer than others.

up. It seemed odd, but then again, so did other things. I remember thinking—it must have been nearly the same time as the four-square-arcing-ball incident—how

 Two - Hannah al-Hajji.

odd it was that you are born either a girl or a boy and never get to switch. But

- 17

even smaller things: that pepperoni is round, that orchids smell, that you say bear 

- Yes.

 just as you say bare. It is all odd at first, and then it becomes normal—not because

- Who do you say that I am?

it is normal, but because repetition uns the peculiar.  And so it was with the words I would hear. I mean, I wasn’t hallucinating. I would hear them in the soundless way the imagination hears. And only occasionally. Once a month, perhaps. Often with Polly, but not always. Sometimes

- Yeah, you’re such an expert in knowing what people are not. It’s extremely not impressive. I continue to be not amazed by your unning. - Uh huh. - Rahim had this action figure, okay? This, like, three-inch tall Power Ranger.

 with my parents, as I walked next to mom in the supermarket, and the voice says,

 They were big when he was a kid. They were, like, crime fighters or something.

 Marina’s daughter finds herself pinching the wool of her mother’s slacks as they walk

I don’t know. But he had this red power ranger ever since he was a baby, but all

through the cereal aisle, trying to feel the fabric rub between her fingers without having

the painted parts had long since worn away, so actually you couldn’t tell it was a

to touch her mothe r. Just every now and again. She drinks from the water fountain,

Power Ranger. It just looked like a miniature red plastic person.

her father holding her beneath the armpits, and she counts the swallows until she is  sated—one two three four five six se ven eight okay enough. Just often enough to be

- He was three years older. - He lived at home till I was born and then they had to move him into this

normal. Their daughter between them on the canoe, in the center, her legs wrapped

facility. Spring Hill. So, whatever, we visited him every Sunday. Sundays were

around the cooler full of his beer, and there is a blue heron, and Marina points to it

identical: We went to church, then we went to lunch with Polly and her parents,

and the girl cannot stop staring, bowled over by its size as it spread open its wings,

then we spent like thirty to forty-five minutes with Rahim, then we went home.

40

THE SEQUEL

41

 And the thing I did every single week was I brought him his Power Ranger, and

room, his forehead against the table, one hand clenched around the beeper. Every

then he would hold it. Like, I don’t know if he was really holding it, because his

24-hour period, one of the chaplains was “on call,” which meant that you carried a

fists were permanently clenched, frozen and turned in upon themselves. When I

beeper around the hospital with you, and if it went off, you had to go attend to a

 was little I used to think it would hurt so much to have his fists like that, but then

calamity of some kind.

as I got older I realized that if it did hurt, i t was the least of the hurts. - He was my freaking brother. - No. No, dude. You are dead wrong. This is the fiction.

“Gary,” I said. He was 30, maybe. A black guy, a pastor’s son going into the family business. “Taylor,” he answered, without looking up. “How was last night?”

 Three

 With his forehead still on the table, he slid the beeper across the table toward

I was 21, a couple months out of college, and I was working as a student chaplain

me. I was on call now. “Long,” he said. “Drowned girl. Swimming pool. Her

at a children’s hospital in Indianapolis, Indiana.

parents just left.”

I lived at the time in the walk-in closet of a basement apartment with three guys from college in what realtors described as a gentrifying neighborhood, by  which the realtors meant that the murder rate went down every year, except for those years in which it went up. I was drinking a lot. If I had two days off in a row, I would take the train

“You want some coffee?” I asked. “Yeah.” I got the coffee started and then took my shower. I got dressed and walked back to the conference table. I sat down and took a sip of coffee and then Gary asked if I wanted to pray. I said okay and we held hands across the table with the

home from my on-call, and I would get home around 10 in the morning, and

beeper between us, and he said, “Lord, we commend to your care the spirit of

I would wake everyone up and then we would drink and play Mario Kart, and

Zariah Smithson, and we pray for all those—” at which point the beeper started

then after a while we would drink and play Trivial Pursuit. I would wait till I was

shuddering and then began to sing.

sweating booze, and then I would crawl into the sleeping bag that lay atop the

 This beeper would play a little song that sounded almost exactly like “Dixie,”

bare twin mattress on the floor of the walk-in closet, and I would sleep for 12 or

and then a voice would tell you approximately what you’d gotten yourself into this

14 hours.

time.

One does not need reasons to drink, of course. But I had some. On the morning in question, I ca me into work at 7:30, half an hour early,

 You never really had to do much unless the beeper went off, but the problem  was that the beeper went off constantly. I cut off the prayer to baptize a kid with

because I wanted to shower, and the hot water in my apartment lasted about

liver failure. The baptisms were the best part of the gig, even though they only

thirty seconds.

ever asked you to baptize somebody if that somebody was likely to die before a

I took the elevator up to the third floor, walked past the frosted glass walls of the interfaith chapel and into the pastoral care office. Gary, one of my fellow student chaplains, had been on call that night. He was sitting in the c onference 42

THE SEQUEL

real minister could be found.  Around five o’clock that afternoon I took a break from visiting kids in the ER and ended up downstairs in the basement cafeteria. I was dipping a banana into 43

 And the thing I did every single week was I brought him his Power Ranger, and

room, his forehead against the table, one hand clenched around the beeper. Every

then he would hold it. Like, I don’t know if he was really holding it, because his

24-hour period, one of the chaplains was “on call,” which meant that you carried a

fists were permanently clenched, frozen and turned in upon themselves. When I

beeper around the hospital with you, and if it went off, you had to go attend to a

 was little I used to think it would hurt so much to have his fists like that, but then

calamity of some kind.

as I got older I realized that if it did hurt, i t was the least of the hurts. - He was my freaking brother. - No. No, dude. You are dead wrong. This is the fiction.

“Gary,” I said. He was 30, maybe. A black guy, a pastor’s son going into the family business. “Taylor,” he answered, without looking up. “How was last night?”

 Three

 With his forehead still on the table, he slid the beeper across the table toward

I was 21, a couple months out of college, and I was working as a student chaplain

me. I was on call now. “Long,” he said. “Drowned girl. Swimming pool. Her

at a children’s hospital in Indianapolis, Indiana.

parents just left.”

I lived at the time in the walk-in closet of a basement apartment with three

“You want some coffee?” I asked.

guys from college in what realtors described as a gentrifying neighborhood, by

“Yeah.”

 which the realtors meant that the murder rate went down every year, except for

I got the coffee started and then took my shower. I got dressed and walked

those years in which it went up. I was drinking a lot. If I had two days off in a row, I would take the train

back to the conference table. I sat down and took a sip of coffee and then Gary asked if I wanted to pray. I said okay and we held hands across the table with the

home from my on-call, and I would get home around 10 in the morning, and

beeper between us, and he said, “Lord, we commend to your care the spirit of

I would wake everyone up and then we would drink and play Mario Kart, and

Zariah Smithson, and we pray for all those—” at which point the beeper started

then after a while we would drink and play Trivial Pursuit. I would wait till I was

shuddering and then began to sing.

sweating booze, and then I would crawl into the sleeping bag that lay atop the

 This beeper would play a little song that sounded almost exactly like “Dixie,”

bare twin mattress on the floor of the walk-in closet, and I would sleep for 12 or

and then a voice would tell you approximately what you’d gotten yourself into this

14 hours.

time.

One does not need reasons to drink, of course. But I had some. On the morning in question, I ca me into work at 7:30, half an hour early,

 You never really had to do much unless the beeper went off, but the problem  was that the beeper went off constantly. I cut off the prayer to baptize a kid with

because I wanted to shower, and the hot water in my apartment lasted about

liver failure. The baptisms were the best part of the gig, even though they only

thirty seconds.

ever asked you to baptize somebody if that somebody was likely to die before a

I took the elevator up to the third floor, walked past the frosted glass walls of the interfaith chapel and into the pastoral care office. Gary, one of my fellow student chaplains, had been on call that night. He was sitting in the c onference 42

real minister could be found.  Around five o’clock that afternoon I took a break from visiting kids in the ER and ended up downstairs in the basement cafeteria. I was dipping a banana into

THE SEQUEL

Key Lime yogurt. Eating at the cafeteria was bad luck, but eating elsewhere else  was also bad luck.

43

 who might rush in. But of course no one came for her. On that much, everyone agrees.

 The beeper went off mid-banana. In Dixie Land where I was born… “Sixteen year-old female Level One en route six minutes.”

Dr. Bell said, “Hey, Hannah, can you hear me?” I saw her mouth form a yes.

Patients are almost always preceded by their parents, because no matter how

“You’re doing great, sweetie,” Dr. Bell said. “You’re doing awesome, and

fast an ambulance can drive, terrified parents can drive faster. So I was surprised,

 we’re gonna take care of you.” And then a nurse said, “Line in, line in.” They were

standing just inside the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, that no one had

 working on the leg. They pushed some tubing or something into the wound and

arrived for her. The minutes ticked down; the trauma team got in place. I was

Hannah thrashed around like crazy with Dr. Bell saying, “I know. I know. Stay

standing next to the social worker, a woman in her 50s named Lynn who has

 with me,” and I could Hannah’s lips moving, and I assume that she was praying.

developed the ability to work really hard despite deep down inside not really giving a shit, which is the only way that you become a person in your 50s working as a social worker at a children’s hospital. I saw the ambulance pull up, lights on and sirens off. The driver flew out and ran to the back, and quickly they were wheeling her in. One of the paramedics

 The ambulance paramedics shuffled out of the room, walking past us, and Lynn says, “Her parents?” “Yeah, so check this out: She says they were in the car with her, but they  weren’t at the scene. She was ejected a couple hundred yards from the crash, too.  Weird.”

 was shouting as the doors glided open. He talked all the way in to Trauma Bay 2,

I squinted at him.

 where they moved her from the gurney to a bed. “Boys and girls, meet Hannah

“Suicide, maybe,” he said, then wandered off to the staff room with the free

al-Hajji. Hannah’s sixteen. She’s a Sagittarius who enjoys long walks on the beach,

soda. Lynn followed him out the door. I stayed. It was Lynn’s job to find the

boys who aren’t any good for, being ejected from vehicles in single-car accidents,

family, not mine. My job was to watch. “Don’t just do something,” my supervisor

shoe shopping, and arterial lacerations on her left thigh with possible head

liked to say. “Stand there.”

trauma. She’s awake, alert, a real pleasure to be around, and her pulse is 84 with a pressure of 90 over 60.” I got a look at her once she was in the trauma bed, still strapped to the

I saw the asphalt stuck half-inside her cheek. I saw her toes wiggle when she  was asked to wiggle them, and I saw her lips moving silently, and I saw Dr. Bell looking up into the pale flourescent light above, rearranging it so that she could

ambulance’s backboard. Neck brace. Huge blood-saturated bandages wrapped

better see Hannah’s split-open outer thigh, the cut running up three inches from

around one leg, the blood dripping from the gurney. Her clothes in a bag, the

the outside of her kneecap, the bleeding stopped enough now that I could see into

 jeans black with blood.

her leg, where it looked like meat.

She was beautiful—thick, light brown hair in lazy curls to her shoulders. Big,

Hannah began to mumble. “What’s that, Hannah?” Dr. Bell asked absent-

brown eyes. They were blinking. Lynn and I hung back by the entrance of the

mindedly, and then turned to tell a nurse, “When is that OR available? This is

 Trauma Bay, partly to stay out of the way and partly to stop any family members

ridiculous. Tell them we need a room, Holly, and not in some vague undetermined

44

THE SEQUEL

45

Key Lime yogurt. Eating at the cafeteria was bad luck, but eating elsewhere else  was also bad luck.

 who might rush in. But of course no one came for her. On that much, everyone agrees.

 The beeper went off mid-banana. In Dixie Land where I was born… “Sixteen year-old female Level One en route six minutes.”

Dr. Bell said, “Hey, Hannah, can you hear me?” I saw her mouth form a yes.

Patients are almost always preceded by their parents, because no matter how

“You’re doing great, sweetie,” Dr. Bell said. “You’re doing awesome, and

fast an ambulance can drive, terrified parents can drive faster. So I was surprised,

 we’re gonna take care of you.” And then a nurse said, “Line in, line in.” They were

standing just inside the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, that no one had

 working on the leg. They pushed some tubing or something into the wound and

arrived for her. The minutes ticked down; the trauma team got in place. I was

Hannah thrashed around like crazy with Dr. Bell saying, “I know. I know. Stay

standing next to the social worker, a woman in her 50s named Lynn who has

 with me,” and I could Hannah’s lips moving, and I assume that she was praying.

developed the ability to work really hard despite deep down inside not really giving a shit, which is the only way that you become a person in your 50s working as a social worker at a children’s hospital. I saw the ambulance pull up, lights on and sirens off. The driver flew out and ran to the back, and quickly they were wheeling her in. One of the paramedics

 The ambulance paramedics shuffled out of the room, walking past us, and Lynn says, “Her parents?” “Yeah, so check this out: She says they were in the car with her, but they  weren’t at the scene. She was ejected a couple hundred yards from the crash, too.  Weird.”

 was shouting as the doors glided open. He talked all the way in to Trauma Bay 2,

I squinted at him.

 where they moved her from the gurney to a bed. “Boys and girls, meet Hannah

“Suicide, maybe,” he said, then wandered off to the staff room with the free

al-Hajji. Hannah’s sixteen. She’s a Sagittarius who enjoys long walks on the beach,

soda. Lynn followed him out the door. I stayed. It was Lynn’s job to find the

boys who aren’t any good for, being ejected from vehicles in single-car accidents,

family, not mine. My job was to watch. “Don’t just do something,” my supervisor

shoe shopping, and arterial lacerations on her left thigh with possible head

liked to say. “Stand there.”

trauma. She’s awake, alert, a real pleasure to be around, and her pulse is 84 with a pressure of 90 over 60.” I got a look at her once she was in the trauma bed, still strapped to the

I saw the asphalt stuck half-inside her cheek. I saw her toes wiggle when she  was asked to wiggle them, and I saw her lips moving silently, and I saw Dr. Bell looking up into the pale flourescent light above, rearranging it so that she could

ambulance’s backboard. Neck brace. Huge blood-saturated bandages wrapped

better see Hannah’s split-open outer thigh, the cut running up three inches from

around one leg, the blood dripping from the gurney. Her clothes in a bag, the

the outside of her kneecap, the bleeding stopped enough now that I could see into

 jeans black with blood.

her leg, where it looked like meat.

She was beautiful—thick, light brown hair in lazy curls to her shoulders. Big,

Hannah began to mumble. “What’s that, Hannah?” Dr. Bell asked absent-

brown eyes. They were blinking. Lynn and I hung back by the entrance of the

mindedly, and then turned to tell a nurse, “When is that OR available? This is

 Trauma Bay, partly to stay out of the way and partly to stop any family members

ridiculous. Tell them we need a room, Holly, and not in some vague undetermined

44

THE SEQUEL

future.” Hannah was mumbling still. The paramedic holding Hannah’s head, a girl my age named Anne, leaned down. “I’m sorry,” Anne says, “I don’t understand. But listen, baby, you just sit tight and we’re gonna get you upstairs and stitch you up

45

forearm. “Exeunt. It means ‘They Exit.’ It’s the last word of ma ny plays. It’s almost like, ‘the end,’ you know?” She just closed her eyes and said nothing more as they finally got her up to the OR.

and you’ll be fine.” But she wouldn’t calm down. She tried to sit up, so I took a step forward. She mumbled again, louder this time, but her jaw wasn’t moving as she’d like it

I was half-asleep in the waiting room when the surgeon came out finally, and I stood up. “You’re the chaplain?”

to. And then I could hear her. “Egg. A. Oont,” she says. “A. Gay. Unt.” I came

And I said, “Yeah. How’d she do?”

to the bedside now and put a hand on forearm, an attempt at both comfort and

 And he said, “Where’s the family?”

restraint. I guessed at what she was fee ling, and spoke to her for the first time.

“Not here yet,” I said.

“You’re not alone, Hannah. We’re all here with you, to take care of you. This i s

“Where the hell are they?”

 Anne. The doctor is Dr. Bell. Say hi, Dr. Bell.” “Hi, Dr. Bell,” she said. “I’m Nate Taylor. We’re all here with you.” She seems to be listening, but then when I don’t say anything for a moment, she says, “wassit ean? Wassit ean?”  An nursing assistant gingerly placing Hannah’s clothes into plastic bags said,

I looked at the clock on my cell. “I don’t know. It’s been three hours. Social  worker’s trying to get in touch.” “ No one is here?” “Correct.” “Jesus. Poor thing. She did fine. Barring infection, she’ll be home in two

“She’s saying what’s it mean,” and then added, “I got a two-year-old. Talks just

days. I mean, provided someone picks her up. What is it with fa milies these days,

like that.”

chaplain?”

“Uh huh,” Hannah said. “wassit een?”

“When will she wake up?”

Dr. Bell pulled me back by the collar of my powder blue chaplain jacket and

“An hour?” My cell rang. It was Lynn.

 whispered in my ear, her breath hot. “That’s good, keep her talking.” “What does what mean, Hannah?” I asked.

“Hey, Lynn.” “Come have a cup of coffee with me,” she says. “I’m in the lounge.”

“A. Gay. Oont.” “A gay aunt?” I ask. Even Hannah laughed.

“So you know that restaurant Juan Pablo’s down on Lafayette?” I nodded. “Okay.

She tried again. “Egg,” she said. And then she closed her jaw a little, wincing.

Okay. So an empty SUV crashed into some old lady in the parking lot of Juan

“Zay.” Her jaw relaxed again. “oot.” “Egzayoot,” Anne said. “What’s that mean?” And then louder, “Does anyone know what egzayoot means?” “It’s a stage direction,” I said to Hannah. My palm sweating against her 46

THE SEQUEL

Pablo’s. The restaurant calls 911, says a car with no one inside i t just ran over one of their regulars. You with me so far?” I nodded. “Cop comes to inve stigate, on his  way into the minimall he happens to see a hand coming out of a drainage ditch on Lafayette Road. He gets out and here’s this marginally conscious girl with blood 47

future.” Hannah was mumbling still. The paramedic holding Hannah’s head, a girl my age named Anne, leaned down. “I’m sorry,” Anne says, “I don’t understand. But listen, baby, you just sit tight and we’re gonna get you upstairs and stitch you up

forearm. “Exeunt. It means ‘They Exit.’ It’s the last word of ma ny plays. It’s almost like, ‘the end,’ you know?” She just closed her eyes and said nothing more as they finally got her up to the OR.

and you’ll be fine.” But she wouldn’t calm down. She tried to sit up, so I took a step forward. She mumbled again, louder this time, but her jaw wasn’t moving as she’d like it

I was half-asleep in the waiting room when the surgeon came out finally, and I stood up. “You’re the chaplain?”

to. And then I could hear her. “Egg. A. Oont,” she says. “A. Gay. Unt.” I came

And I said, “Yeah. How’d she do?”

to the bedside now and put a hand on forearm, an attempt at both comfort and

 And he said, “Where’s the family?”

restraint. I guessed at what she was fee ling, and spoke to her for the first time.

“Not here yet,” I said.

“You’re not alone, Hannah. We’re all here with you, to take care of you. This i s

“Where the hell are they?”

 Anne. The doctor is Dr. Bell. Say hi, Dr. Bell.”

I looked at the clock on my cell. “I don’t know. It’s been three hours. Social

“Hi, Dr. Bell,” she said. “I’m Nate Taylor. We’re all here with you.” She seems to be listening, but then when I don’t say anything for a moment, she says, “wassit ean? Wassit ean?”  An nursing assistant gingerly placing Hannah’s clothes into plastic bags said,

 worker’s trying to get in touch.” “ No one is here?” “Correct.” “Jesus. Poor thing. She did fine. Barring infection, she’ll be home in two

“She’s saying what’s it mean,” and then added, “I got a two-year-old. Talks just

days. I mean, provided someone picks her up. What is it with fa milies these days,

like that.”

chaplain?”

“Uh huh,” Hannah said. “wassit een?”

“When will she wake up?”

Dr. Bell pulled me back by the collar of my powder blue chaplain jacket and

“An hour?” My cell rang. It was Lynn.

 whispered in my ear, her breath hot. “That’s good, keep her talking.” “What does what mean, Hannah?” I asked.

“Hey, Lynn.” “Come have a cup of coffee with me,” she says. “I’m in the lounge.”

“A. Gay. Oont.” “A gay aunt?” I ask. Even Hannah laughed.

“So you know that restaurant Juan Pablo’s down on Lafayette?” I nodded. “Okay.

She tried again. “Egg,” she said. And then she closed her jaw a little, wincing.

Okay. So an empty SUV crashed into some old lady in the parking lot of Juan

“Zay.” Her jaw relaxed again. “oot.” “Egzayoot,” Anne said. “What’s that mean?” And then louder, “Does anyone know what egzayoot means?” “It’s a stage direction,” I said to Hannah. My palm sweating against her 46

Pablo’s. The restaurant calls 911, says a car with no one inside i t just ran over one of their regulars. You with me so far?” I nodded. “Cop comes to inve stigate, on his  way into the minimall he happens to see a hand coming out of a drainage ditch on Lafayette Road. He gets out and here’s this marginally conscious girl with blood

THE SEQUEL

47

pouring out of her pants like a fountain. Cop sits with her while the ambulance

disconnected.” I scrolled to the L’s and called a “Lutz.” “The number you are

comes. She tells the cop she was i n the backseat. Her parents in the front. Then

calling has been changed or disconnected.”

they disappeared. Like, to use the parlance of your profession, they were raptured, although nota bene she is a Muslim. So the girl sees that the car i s headed for  Juan Pablo’s and she doesn’t figure she has time to crawl into the front seat and

“Weird,” I said again, although honestly it wasn’t that weird. Lots of people go crazy. “Explains the lack of parents, though.” Lynn reaches across the table and grabs my wrist. “Oh, but wait,” she says.

put the brakes on so she rolls down the window and jumps out a just before

“The license plate? A forgery. The state never issued it. The VIN on the car? There

impact and lands on a big hunk of glass bottle.”

is no VIN on the car. Her driver’s license? Fake, according to the cops, even

I tried to think it through.

though it sure as shit seems real. Look, even has the hologram.” I turn the license

It didn’t make sense, but children’s hospitals are in the business of not

in the light and watch the word Indiana appear and disappear over her face, the

making sense. Everything there was impossible, none of it could be reconciled to

picture dominated by a huge smile, and the smile reminded me of the over-the-

the real and actual world I went home to, the world where people study for tests

top way little kids smile under duress. I was utterly charmed by the smile—I

and make friends and play soccer and complain about cafeteria lunches and worry

concluded from it that she was who I wanted her to be, a gi rl whose every act was

about their hangnails and drive fast and drink bad vodka and play Mario Kart.

a tiny rebellion, and who had now seen fit to execute the largest-scale rebellion

It was impossible to believe fully in both worlds, and the end result for me was a

possible. It turned out otherwise, of course, but that smile cast the die.

kind of chronic inability to believe in either. My coffee had gotten lukewarm, which was how I like it. I drank i t all in four sips. “Weird,” I said finally. “So I’m telling the paramedics, you know, she was driving and jumped out of the car. Maybe she’s delusional, you know. Bipolar. And they’re nodding, but turns out this is only the tip of the delusional iceberg: Both seatbelts are buckled

“I’m just saying the girl has gone to pretty elaborate lengths to disguise her identity,” Lynn says. My cell alarm beeped. “She should be up,” I said. “You wanna talk to her?” “Nah, cops said they’d be here in an hour. They’ll call me if they need me.  Want a cigarette?” I shook my head no and headed upstairs. God bless Lynn. She could gi ve up on anybody.

in the front seat for starters. And her cell phone? Anne brought it to me a nd I started calling the numbers. First ‘mom and dad.’ Then ‘dad cell.’ Then ‘mom cell.’

Four

I call ‘grams.’ Then I just start at the top. I call Ashleigh. I call “Caycey.’ I call

 We had just come from lunch at Juan Pablo’s with Polly and her parents—they’d

‘Cory’ and “Cory’s mom’ and ‘Des’ and ‘Drea’ and ‘Durden.’”

moved to Carmel years before. It was weird to see Polly now; we went to different

“And what, no one’s home?”

schools and didn’t really have anything to talk about because the only thing we

She handed me the cell, covered i n a purple sparkly shell. “Call,” she says.

ever had in common was physical proximity.

“Call anybody.”

48

 We were driving to Spring Hill when I reached down to my left and found

I scrolled down to ‘mom cell’ and hit send.

the Power Ranger not there, and I said, “Mom, do you have the Power Ranger?”

It rang once, and then, “The number y ou are calling has been changed or

and she said, “No, you have it,” and I said, “I think I might have left it in the

THE SEQUEL

49

pouring out of her pants like a fountain. Cop sits with her while the ambulance

disconnected.” I scrolled to the L’s and called a “Lutz.” “The number you are

comes. She tells the cop she was i n the backseat. Her parents in the front. Then

calling has been changed or disconnected.”

they disappeared. Like, to use the parlance of your profession, they were raptured, although nota bene she is a Muslim. So the girl sees that the car i s headed for  Juan Pablo’s and she doesn’t figure she has time to crawl into the front seat and

“Weird,” I said again, although honestly it wasn’t that weird. Lots of people go crazy. “Explains the lack of parents, though.” Lynn reaches across the table and grabs my wrist. “Oh, but wait,” she says.

put the brakes on so she rolls down the window and jumps out a just before

“The license plate? A forgery. The state never issued it. The VIN on the car? There

impact and lands on a big hunk of glass bottle.”

is no VIN on the car. Her driver’s license? Fake, according to the cops, even

I tried to think it through.

though it sure as shit seems real. Look, even has the hologram.” I turn the license

It didn’t make sense, but children’s hospitals are in the business of not

in the light and watch the word Indiana appear and disappear over her face, the

making sense. Everything there was impossible, none of it could be reconciled to

picture dominated by a huge smile, and the smile reminded me of the over-the-

the real and actual world I went home to, the world where people study for tests

top way little kids smile under duress. I was utterly charmed by the smile—I

and make friends and play soccer and complain about cafeteria lunches and worry

concluded from it that she was who I wanted her to be, a gi rl whose every act was

about their hangnails and drive fast and drink bad vodka and play Mario Kart.

a tiny rebellion, and who had now seen fit to execute the largest-scale rebellion

It was impossible to believe fully in both worlds, and the end result for me was a

possible. It turned out otherwise, of course, but that smile cast the die.

kind of chronic inability to believe in either. My coffee had gotten lukewarm, which was how I like it. I drank i t all in four sips. “Weird,” I said finally. “So I’m telling the paramedics, you know, she was driving and jumped out of the car. Maybe she’s delusional, you know. Bipolar. And they’re nodding, but turns out this is only the tip of the delusional iceberg: Both seatbelts are buckled

“I’m just saying the girl has gone to pretty elaborate lengths to disguise her identity,” Lynn says. My cell alarm beeped. “She should be up,” I said. “You wanna talk to her?” “Nah, cops said they’d be here in an hour. They’ll call me if they need me.  Want a cigarette?” I shook my head no and headed upstairs. God bless Lynn. She could gi ve up on anybody.

in the front seat for starters. And her cell phone? Anne brought it to me a nd I started calling the numbers. First ‘mom and dad.’ Then ‘dad cell.’ Then ‘mom cell.’

Four

I call ‘grams.’ Then I just start at the top. I call Ashleigh. I call “Caycey.’ I call

 We had just come from lunch at Juan Pablo’s with Polly and her parents—they’d

‘Cory’ and “Cory’s mom’ and ‘Des’ and ‘Drea’ and ‘Durden.’”

moved to Carmel years before. It was weird to see Polly now; we went to different

“And what, no one’s home?”

schools and didn’t really have anything to talk about because the only thing we

She handed me the cell, covered i n a purple sparkly shell. “Call,” she says.

ever had in common was physical proximity.

“Call anybody.”

48

 We were driving to Spring Hill when I reached down to my left and found

I scrolled down to ‘mom cell’ and hit send.

the Power Ranger not there, and I said, “Mom, do you have the Power Ranger?”

It rang once, and then, “The number y ou are calling has been changed or

and she said, “No, you have it,” and I said, “I think I might have left it in the

THE SEQUEL

49

restaurant,” and she said, “ Hannah,” and I said, “Sorry sorry sorry sorry,” and my

 And then I decide to let it all go. The bleeding didn’t hurt, not really. I just

dad said, “Are you sure?” and I was looking around everywhere for it, and I knew

took my hand away, and I stared at it a second, watched it run in little rivers down

I’d taken it to the restaurant because I was always super-paranoid about leaving

into the dry ditch, and I watched the skin of my arms go pale, and I found myself

it in the car as if someone would take a tiny unpainted red action figure from the

not caring very much about continuing to be a person, and I put my head down

back seat of a car or something.

on the grass and turned my face toward the low, clouded sky.

“Pretty sure,” I said. So then my dad pulled a dramatic and somewhat cranky

I didn’t feel scared, really, because I was sure of what I’d seen.

u-turn and we were driving down Lafaye tte back toward Juan Pablo’s and no one said anything else, and then the words came. As Marina and Ibrahim drive back

— No no no. Not like I was going to be with them, exactly. I just felt like the

toward Juan Pablo’s, she thinks about how long it has been since she had champagne.

central people who would be really bummed out about it no longer existed. I felt

I was wondering who hadn’t had champagne in a long time when the voice surprised me. It had always used vocabulary I knew, but now, it breathed a new  word to me. Exeunt.

lightheaded. I think I vomited a little, like on my shirt. When I closed my eyes the  world spun so I just stared heavy-lidded at that sky. Then I heard the siren.  And for some reason I raised my hand. I didn’t even especially want to or think about it and I have regretted it many times since.

 And then in front of me, my parents disappear.

- No, that’s not the same thing at all. - It’s the difference between blacking out your windows and letting night fall.

 The guy who knew the meaning of exeunt looked stretched out to me, everything

- Oh, my God you are always asking me to tell you the fricking story and I

about him too long. They Exit. And then they did and then the minimall ahead,

am telling you the fricking story and now you are trying to tell me what the story

and as I scrambled out of my seatbelt we jumped a curb and now the parking lot

is about? It’s my story. My telling it to you is conditioned upon you hearing it

 was too close and I was like, crap, I should have kept my seat belt on and then

 without taking it. Okay?

I saw we were going to hit something hard and like an i diot I jumped out the  window head first. My head hurt bad enough that I didn’t start to think about what had happened until I saw the blood coming through my jeans.

- Right, so okay. My hand was up, over the seeding unmown grass, and I  waved with just my fingers as the siren got loud. The cop stopped. She put both fists into the wound, pushing so hard I puked again, and then more sirens, and then the ambulance, and then the white light burning through my eyelids in that

It wasn’t like they had faded slowly into the ether. They didn’t wave goodbye

bed that I thought for sure was The Li ght, and then Mr. Long Face Bluejacket

or make a noise. They just weren’t there anymore. I kept thinking they must be in

defining exeunt, and then nothing for a long time. I tried to die the whole time;

the wrecked car. But then I would remember what I’d seen, the empty front seat,

I kept telling myself Don’t fight Don’t fight Don’t fight, and when the purple-

the driverless car. And then I would tell myself they couldn’t disappear, because

masked man with the wire rimmed glasses told me to count from 10 to 1 starting

it was impossible. And all the while, the blood roaring out of me no matter how

at 10, and I said “Teh...” and then my vision filled with black dots, and then the

tight I hold my open palm agai nst the rip in my jeans.

black dots became my vision…when that happened, I honestly thought I was

50

THE SEQUEL

51

restaurant,” and she said, “ Hannah,” and I said, “Sorry sorry sorry sorry,” and my

 And then I decide to let it all go. The bleeding didn’t hurt, not really. I just

dad said, “Are you sure?” and I was looking around everywhere for it, and I knew

took my hand away, and I stared at it a second, watched it run in little rivers down

I’d taken it to the restaurant because I was always super-paranoid about leaving

into the dry ditch, and I watched the skin of my arms go pale, and I found myself

it in the car as if someone would take a tiny unpainted red action figure from the

not caring very much about continuing to be a person, and I put my head down

back seat of a car or something.

on the grass and turned my face toward the low, clouded sky. I didn’t feel scared, really, because I was sure of what I’d seen.

“Pretty sure,” I said. So then my dad pulled a dramatic and somewhat cranky u-turn and we were driving down Lafaye tte back toward Juan Pablo’s and no one said anything else, and then the words came. As Marina and Ibrahim drive back

— No no no. Not like I was going to be with them, exactly. I just felt like the

toward Juan Pablo’s, she thinks about how long it has been since she had champagne.

central people who would be really bummed out about it no longer existed. I felt

I was wondering who hadn’t had champagne in a long time when the voice surprised me. It had always used vocabulary I knew, but now, it breathed a new

lightheaded. I think I vomited a little, like on my shirt. When I closed my eyes the  world spun so I just stared heavy-lidded at that sky. Then I heard the siren.

 word to me. Exeunt.

 And for some reason I raised my hand. I didn’t even especially want to or think about it and I have regretted it many times since.

 And then in front of me, my parents disappear.

- No, that’s not the same thing at all. - It’s the difference between blacking out your windows and letting night fall.

 The guy who knew the meaning of exeunt looked stretched out to me, everything

- Oh, my God you are always asking me to tell you the fricking story and I

about him too long. They Exit. And then they did and then the minimall ahead,

am telling you the fricking story and now you are trying to tell me what the story

and as I scrambled out of my seatbelt we jumped a curb and now the parking lot

is about? It’s my story. My telling it to you is conditioned upon you hearing it

 was too close and I was like, crap, I should have kept my seat belt on and then

 without taking it. Okay? - Right, so okay. My hand was up, over the seeding unmown grass, and I

I saw we were going to hit something hard and like an i diot I jumped out the  window head first. My head hurt bad enough that I didn’t start to think about what had happened until I saw the blood coming through my jeans.

 waved with just my fingers as the siren got loud. The cop stopped. She put both fists into the wound, pushing so hard I puked again, and then more sirens, and then the ambulance, and then the white light burning through my eyelids in that

It wasn’t like they had faded slowly into the ether. They didn’t wave goodbye

bed that I thought for sure was The Li ght, and then Mr. Long Face Bluejacket

or make a noise. They just weren’t there anymore. I kept thinking they must be in

defining exeunt, and then nothing for a long time. I tried to die the whole time;

the wrecked car. But then I would remember what I’d seen, the empty front seat,

I kept telling myself Don’t fight Don’t fight Don’t fight, and when the purple-

the driverless car. And then I would tell myself they couldn’t disappear, because

masked man with the wire rimmed glasses told me to count from 10 to 1 starting

it was impossible. And all the while, the blood roaring out of me no matter how

at 10, and I said “Teh...” and then my vision filled with black dots, and then the

tight I hold my open palm agai nst the rip in my jeans.

black dots became my vision…when that happened, I honestly thought I was

50

THE SEQUEL

going, so you can imagine my disappointment when all of a sudden I was feeling

51

it, okay? You’re using the plot of that novel to construct your identity.”

something, a sweaty hand on my shoulder, and I was not dead, and there was Mr. Exeunt again. I blinked, and he was still there. The impossibility of it settled in enough that

 That woke me up a little, shook some capital letters out of me. “Dude,  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! MY NAME IS HANNAH  AL-HAJJI. MY MOM IS MARINA STARKE.”

I realized they couldn’t have disappeared. People don’t disappear. “My parents,” I said. “Are they here?” “Who are your parents, Hannah?” he asked. His hand still on my shoulder, the paper gown soaking up his sweat. I want to move but can’t. “Marina Starke and Ibrahim al-Hajji,” I said. Mom never wanted to take his

“Yes,” the guy said, calmly. Oh so ca lmly. It’s easy to be calm when it’s not  your life. I didn’t know this guy, but I knew one thing about him: His parents  were either alive or they were dead. So of course he was calm. He was calm like  you were, like the cabbie was, like everybody is who can answer the essential questions. “Yes,” Exeunt said again. “Your mom is Marina Starke. She works as an

name or his religion, and he never wanted to force them upon her. The Exeunt guy’s eyebrows came together for a moment, like he knew something, and I said, “What?”  And he said, “There was no one in the car with you, Hannah. The phone

insurance adjuster. Your Dad owns an Arabic translation service, e ven though he didn’t learn Arabic until he was an adult. Your next-door neighbors for many  years were Polly and Ima Portent. I mean, Hannah. Her name is Im a Portent.

numbers you programmed into your phone are all disconnected. Your parents—

 That’s, like, not a real person name. It’s a novel name. A bad novel. But yes, you

I’m sure they want and need to know you’re okay. And I need your help to contact

grew up next door to Ima Portent and her daughter Polly, and you have a crippled

them.”

brother.” “How do you know about my brother?”

I shook my head. I felt aga in this desperate desire not to be here, not to be

“Because he’s the star of The Odd at Sea.”

a person anymore, and it was a feeling I’d never felt before, although then again, these early days were sort of an era of never-befores. “Marina Starke and Hasim

I took a little while to try to process what this guy was telling me, but when

al-Hajji,” I said. “We live in Quail Hollow. 8110 Armitage Trail. I always lived

I finally responded, it was all at once. “Dude you are fucking crazy I don’t even

there. All the neighbors know me. Call them. Mom and Dad and I were at lunch

know who you are you’re like 20 I mean what are you a fucking 20 year old

 with my friend Polly Portent and her mom, Ima. And then we left to visit my

doctor.”

brother but we had to go back before I forgot hit Po—”

“I’m the chaplain.” “What is that I don’t even know what that means.”

 And the guy was like, “You were at dinner with Ima Portent? Your mother is Marina Starke?”

“I’m, like—for tonight anyway, I’m like the minister for the hospital.”

I wasn’t feeling great, but I summoned the energy for one exclamation point. “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you! Are they here? Is Polly here?” “Hannah,” he said. He was all serious now. His thick lips were pursed into parallel lines. “Ima Portent is the protagonist of a novel. The Odd at Sea. I’ve read 52

THE SEQUEL

“Listen nutso get me a doctor or a cop or somebody who is not just some asshat trying to make me fucking crazy so they can save me.” Which, even in retrospect, was precisely what he was up to. I just didn’t quite comprehend the he  yet. 53

going, so you can imagine my disappointment when all of a sudden I was feeling

it, okay? You’re using the plot of that novel to construct your identity.”

something, a sweaty hand on my shoulder, and I was not dead, and there was Mr. Exeunt again. I blinked, and he was still there. The impossibility of it settled in enough that

 That woke me up a little, shook some capital letters out of me. “Dude,  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! MY NAME IS HANNAH  AL-HAJJI. MY MOM IS MARINA STARKE.”

I realized they couldn’t have disappeared. People don’t disappear. “My parents,” I said. “Are they here?” “Who are your parents, Hannah?” he asked. His hand still on my shoulder, the paper gown soaking up his sweat. I want to move but can’t. “Marina Starke and Ibrahim al-Hajji,” I said. Mom never wanted to take his

“Yes,” the guy said, calmly. Oh so ca lmly. It’s easy to be calm when it’s not  your life. I didn’t know this guy, but I knew one thing about him: His parents  were either alive or they were dead. So of course he was calm. He was calm like  you were, like the cabbie was, like everybody is who can answer the essential questions. “Yes,” Exeunt said again. “Your mom is Marina Starke. She works as an

name or his religion, and he never wanted to force them upon her. The Exeunt guy’s eyebrows came together for a moment, like he knew something, and I said,

insurance adjuster. Your Dad owns an Arabic translation service, e ven though

“What?”

he didn’t learn Arabic until he was an adult. Your next-door neighbors for many

 And he said, “There was no one in the car with you, Hannah. The phone

 years were Polly and Ima Portent. I mean, Hannah. Her name is Im a Portent.

numbers you programmed into your phone are all disconnected. Your parents—

 That’s, like, not a real person name. It’s a novel name. A bad novel. But yes, you

I’m sure they want and need to know you’re okay. And I need your help to contact

grew up next door to Ima Portent and her daughter Polly, and you have a crippled

them.”

brother.” “How do you know about my brother?”

I shook my head. I felt aga in this desperate desire not to be here, not to be a person anymore, and it was a feeling I’d never felt before, although then again,

“Because he’s the star of The Odd at Sea.”

these early days were sort of an era of never-befores. “Marina Starke and Hasim

I took a little while to try to process what this guy was telling me, but when

al-Hajji,” I said. “We live in Quail Hollow. 8110 Armitage Trail. I always lived

I finally responded, it was all at once. “Dude you are fucking crazy I don’t even

there. All the neighbors know me. Call them. Mom and Dad and I were at lunch

know who you are you’re like 20 I mean what are you a fucking 20 year old

 with my friend Polly Portent and her mom, Ima. And then we left to visit my

doctor.”

brother but we had to go back before I forgot hit Po—”

“I’m the chaplain.” “What is that I don’t even know what that means.”

 And the guy was like, “You were at dinner with Ima Portent? Your mother is Marina Starke?”

“I’m, like—for tonight anyway, I’m like the minister for the hospital.”

I wasn’t feeling great, but I summoned the energy for one exclamation point. “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you! Are they here? Is Polly here?” “Hannah,” he said. He was all serious now. His thick lips were pursed into parallel lines. “Ima Portent is the protagonist of a novel. The Odd at Sea. I’ve read 52

“Listen nutso get me a doctor or a cop or somebody who is not just some asshat trying to make me fucking crazy so they can save me.” Which, even in retrospect, was precisely what he was up to. I just didn’t quite comprehend the he  yet.

THE SEQUEL

53

to the bookstore, if it was still open. She didn’t answer. I ran down the four flights of stairs from Hannah’s room to the Emergency

 We were both busy breathing the unkempt air of outside. The dirty, delicious

Department. I took the stairs two at a time, thinking that I was still young, that

air with its suspended particulates, its flu viruses, its infectious bacteria. It was a

my knees were still good, that the best and worst of it were i n front of me.

 warm, humid night in Columbus. We walked through the hospital playground—a

I found Dr. Bell talking to the mother of a kid with an exceptionally bad ear

place that is always empty even in the daytime, not for lack of children but for

infection—a writhing, howling black kid kicking the bed. I went in and knelt next

lack of well ones. We were far enough away from the streets and the buildings to

to the kid and told him that it wouldn’t hurt much longer, and as soon as I said

see our moonlit shadows, the black over the silver as we walked past the shadows

it he calmed down—I could almost feel his body slacken, and for half a second I

of still swing sets. And that air, thick enough to chew.

thought I might not be a shitty chaplain after all, whereupon Dr. Bell said to the mother, “There it goes. That’s the medicine kicking in. As long as we can stay

Dr. Bell broke the silence. “So I hear the leg trauma girl is nuts.” “Indeed,” I said. We made it out onto this street designed for college

ahead of the pain, he should be fine. Just give him another pill around 4 AM, and

students—head shops and bagel stores and all-night convenience stores selling

then keep up with the drops. Should work fine now that we’ve got his canal open.”

nothing but candy and beer. I told her about the girl and about The Odd at Sea.

Dr. Bell and I left together, and as we walked down the hall, I said, “Are you super busy?” “Is that a rhetorical question?” “Uh, no. Do you have like ten minutes for a walk?” “Don’t ask me out, Taylor. I can’t go out with a minister. My rabbi would kill me.”

“That’s funny,” she said. “I know that book.” “Yeah?” “Well, I never read it, but the guy who wrote it is from here, isn’t he?” “It is, yeah. It’s about this insurance adjuster lady who is having an incredibly boring affair with her female next-door neighbor.” I’d read it a summer ago. I was living on campus, working for a professor

“I’m not asking you out,” I said, rolling my eyes.

 who was writing a book about whether or not one word in Richard III should be

She stopped walking and swiveled, looking up at me. “Anti-semite,” she

deleted from the text of the play. (Really). That summer, this beautiful girl named

smirks.

Ellen was slowly dumping me. It took her the full fourteen weeks to complete

“There’s no winning with you.”

the excision, and after our fights, I would read. Back then I was willing to read

“Yes,” Dr. Bell said as she slapped the silver plate to open the doors outside.

absolutely anything so long as it was not Richard III  or about Richard III , and

“That’s the idea.”

because my standards were so low, I ended up reading The Odd at Sea, which I found in the 50-cent used hardcover rack at the college bookstore. It was signed.

Once we got into the open air, the flirtation ended—it was more theater for our fellow employees than anything else. (I ostensibly had a gi rlfriend, although it  would be more accurate to say that a girlfriend had me.)  As we walked across the emergency parking lot, I told Dr. Bell I wanted to go 54

THE SEQUEL

I figured any signed book, even a terrible one, was worth a couple quarters. I read the book in two nights. It was only about 200 pages—just a series of character sketches about this woman Marina and this kid Polly. Parts of it were  just regularly overwritten, but parts were so-bad-it’s-good, enough to keep you 55

to the bookstore, if it was still open. She didn’t answer. I ran down the four flights of stairs from Hannah’s room to the Emergency

 We were both busy breathing the unkempt air of outside. The dirty, delicious

Department. I took the stairs two at a time, thinking that I was still young, that

air with its suspended particulates, its flu viruses, its infectious bacteria. It was a

my knees were still good, that the best and worst of it were i n front of me.

 warm, humid night in Columbus. We walked through the hospital playground—a

I found Dr. Bell talking to the mother of a kid with an exceptionally bad ear

place that is always empty even in the daytime, not for lack of children but for

infection—a writhing, howling black kid kicking the bed. I went in and knelt next

lack of well ones. We were far enough away from the streets and the buildings to

to the kid and told him that it wouldn’t hurt much longer, and as soon as I said

see our moonlit shadows, the black over the silver as we walked past the shadows

it he calmed down—I could almost feel his body slacken, and for half a second I

of still swing sets. And that air, thick enough to chew.

thought I might not be a shitty chaplain after all, whereupon Dr. Bell said to the

Dr. Bell broke the silence. “So I hear the leg trauma girl is nuts.”

mother, “There it goes. That’s the medicine kicking in. As long as we can stay

“Indeed,” I said. We made it out onto this street designed for college

ahead of the pain, he should be fine. Just give him another pill around 4 AM, and

students—head shops and bagel stores and all-night convenience stores selling

then keep up with the drops. Should work fine now that we’ve got his canal open.”

nothing but candy and beer. I told her about the girl and about The Odd at Sea.

Dr. Bell and I left together, and as we walked down the hall, I said, “Are you super busy?”

“That’s funny,” she said. “I know that book.” “Yeah?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Well, I never read it, but the guy who wrote it is from here, isn’t he?”

“Uh, no. Do you have like ten minutes for a walk?”

“It is, yeah. It’s about this insurance adjuster lady who is having an incredibly

“Don’t ask me out, Taylor. I can’t go out with a minister. My rabbi would kill me.”

boring affair with her female next-door neighbor.” I’d read it a summer ago. I was living on campus, working for a professor

“I’m not asking you out,” I said, rolling my eyes.

 who was writing a book about whether or not one word in Richard III should be

She stopped walking and swiveled, looking up at me. “Anti-semite,” she

deleted from the text of the play. (Really). That summer, this beautiful girl named

smirks.

Ellen was slowly dumping me. It took her the full fourteen weeks to complete

“There’s no winning with you.”

the excision, and after our fights, I would read. Back then I was willing to read

“Yes,” Dr. Bell said as she slapped the silver plate to open the doors outside.

absolutely anything so long as it was not Richard III  or about Richard III , and

“That’s the idea.”

because my standards were so low, I ended up reading The Odd at Sea, which I found in the 50-cent used hardcover rack at the college bookstore. It was signed.

Once we got into the open air, the flirtation ended—it was more theater for our fellow employees than anything else. (I ostensibly had a gi rlfriend, although it  would be more accurate to say that a girlfriend had me.)  As we walked across the emergency parking lot, I told Dr. Bell I wanted to go 54

I figured any signed book, even a terrible one, was worth a couple quarters. I read the book in two nights. It was only about 200 pages—just a series of character sketches about this woman Marina and this kid Polly. Parts of it were  just regularly overwritten, but parts were so-bad-it’s-good, enough to keep you

THE SEQUEL

55

reading on nights when the only other entertainment available to you is having

pulled the book out and flipped through. It too was signed. Elliot Garmin liked

extravagantly painful arguments with a nice-looking girl who cannot quite bring

autographing.

herself to love you.  The best thing about The Odd at Sea, to be honest, was its title, that  wonderful pun on Homer. I kept thinking the title would pay off, that Polly

“You know anything about this guy?” I asked Dr. Bell. “No, just that he was one of the like four other Jews in Knox County when I  was growing up. I think he lived in Mount Vernon?”

and Marina would go to the beach one day, rent a tubby sailboat, and then get

“He did? Where does he live now?”

dragged out by the tide to face Cyclops and Sirens. But this was not to be—in

“He’s dead,” she says.

fact, there was not a drop of water in the whole damned book.

“Well, see, that is a potentially relevant piece of information.” “I thought it kind of went without saying,” she answers. “I mean, I don’t

 We came to the bookstore, which was three houses joined together—all of them

know if you’ve noticed, but pretty much everyone we both know? Is dead.” I

still furnished, but now with a winding and endless collection of used books

laughed.

stacked high against every wall. The store was eccentrically cataloged in a way that only the owner understood, and so if y ou wanted to find any particular book,  you had to find him. Fortunately, he was sitting behind a cash register at the messy entryway.

“I should introduce you to xxx,” I say, and even though she laughed, I regretted saying it. I would do anything for a laugh. “You are dark, Taylor,” she says. “You are one dark-hearted servant of your Lord.”

“I’m looking for a book,” I said. He glanced up at me and then back down to his reading. “Bibles on the second floor, in the blue bathroom.” “He’s not that kind of chaplain,” Dr. Bell said. “He’s the conflicted kind.” “Oh, then our gay erotica is in the basement.” I laughed. “The book I’m looking for is called The Odd at Sea. I don’t remember the auth—” “Hoosier authors. Second floor. Yellow bedroom. Author’s name is Elliot Garmin. Terrible book, by the way.” “Great, thanks.”

 The book cost three bucks. When I got back to her room on the fourth floor, Hannah was sleeping. Her rhinestone cell phone was gone from the bedside table. In its place sat a Marion County Sheriff business card. I tucked the book in her arm. I walked down to the basement, got a banana from the cafeteria, and then ate it in the deserted Gastroenterology Lab waiting room on the second floor. The Gastroenterology Lab waiting room was a bad luck place to eat, of course, just like every other place. But I figured i t was safer than the cafeteria, which had already failed me once that night. I was standing up to throw away the banana peel when the beeper starts

 We walked upstairs and wandered until we came to a canary-colored room with a

playing its wistful tune. Fucking Gastroenterology Lab waiting room. Terrible

sagging full bed covered with a yellow paisley bedspread. Dr. Bell found the book,

place to eat a banana. What had I been thinking?

a dust jacket-less hardcover, the title printed in block navy blue lettering down the dimpled spine. The author’s name was almost microscopic: Elliot Garmin. I 56

THE SEQUEL

I could hear the fatigue in the dispatcher’s voice when he said, “Level 1 trauma. Eight minutes. Fifteen year old male. Shot himself.” 57

reading on nights when the only other entertainment available to you is having

pulled the book out and flipped through. It too was signed. Elliot Garmin liked

extravagantly painful arguments with a nice-looking girl who cannot quite bring

autographing.

herself to love you.

“You know anything about this guy?” I asked Dr. Bell.

 The best thing about The Odd at Sea, to be honest, was its title, that  wonderful pun on Homer. I kept thinking the title would pay off, that Polly

“No, just that he was one of the like four other Jews in Knox County when I  was growing up. I think he lived in Mount Vernon?”

and Marina would go to the beach one day, rent a tubby sailboat, and then get

“He did? Where does he live now?”

dragged out by the tide to face Cyclops and Sirens. But this was not to be—in

“He’s dead,” she says.

fact, there was not a drop of water in the whole damned book.

“Well, see, that is a potentially relevant piece of information.” “I thought it kind of went without saying,” she answers. “I mean, I don’t

 We came to the bookstore, which was three houses joined together—all of them

know if you’ve noticed, but pretty much everyone we both know? Is dead.” I

still furnished, but now with a winding and endless collection of used books

laughed.

stacked high against every wall. The store was eccentrically cataloged in a way that only the owner understood, and so if y ou wanted to find any particular book,

“I should introduce you to xxx,” I say, and even though she laughed, I regretted saying it. I would do anything for a laugh.

 you had to find him. Fortunately, he was sitting behind a cash register at the messy entryway.

“You are dark, Taylor,” she says. “You are one dark-hearted servant of your Lord.”

“I’m looking for a book,” I said. He glanced up at me and then back down to his reading. “Bibles on the second floor, in the blue bathroom.” “He’s not that kind of chaplain,” Dr. Bell said. “He’s the conflicted kind.”

 The book cost three bucks. When I got back to her room on the fourth floor, Hannah was sleeping. Her rhinestone cell phone was gone from the bedside table. In its place sat a Marion County Sheriff business card. I tucked the book in her arm. I walked down to the basement, got a banana

“Oh, then our gay erotica is in the basement.” I laughed. “The book I’m looking for is called The Odd at Sea. I don’t remember the auth—” “Hoosier authors. Second floor. Yellow bedroom. Author’s name is Elliot Garmin. Terrible book, by the way.” “Great, thanks.”

from the cafeteria, and then ate it in the deserted Gastroenterology Lab waiting room on the second floor. The Gastroenterology Lab waiting room was a bad luck place to eat, of course, just like every other place. But I figured i t was safer than the cafeteria, which had already failed me once that night. I was standing up to throw away the banana peel when the beeper starts

 We walked upstairs and wandered until we came to a canary-colored room with a

playing its wistful tune. Fucking Gastroenterology Lab waiting room. Terrible

sagging full bed covered with a yellow paisley bedspread. Dr. Bell found the book,

place to eat a banana. What had I been thinking?

a dust jacket-less hardcover, the title printed in block navy blue lettering down the dimpled spine. The author’s name was almost microscopic: Elliot Garmin. I 56

I could hear the fatigue in the dispatcher’s voice when he said, “Level 1 trauma. Eight minutes. Fifteen year old male. Shot himself.”

THE SEQUEL

 And so Dr. Bell and I came together to make the mutual acquaintance of

57

and shaky lines of ink claiming in cursive: e garmin. I turn past two blank pages and the book begins as I did: The neighbor girl

another former person.

chases after the ball, dashing out into the street, not looking and not needing to,  The night descends into a steady drip of visitors, none of whom I want to see. The

running there at the far end of the cul-de-sac. It goes on. Polly Portent stands in her square-within-a-square, ple ased with the

female cop, the one who found me, asking if I have a history of mental illness and then telling me my phone is evidence. The social worker, middle-aged, clicking a

 power of her spike. When the girl re turns, Polly says, “I told you I could spike it!”

pen sponsored by an anti-depressant manufacturer, refusing even to entertain the

“Spikes are against the rules,” says the neighbor girl.

idea I might not be crazy. The Jamaican nurse, who calls me “baby.” The surgeon,

“Nuh-uh,” says Polly. “Spikes aren’t never against the rules.”

 who says I’m physically fine, emphasizing the word so as to remind me that I am

I had no idea whether this faithfully recounted our conversation—I

not fine.  When they leave, and I am alone, I feel the panic clawing at my stomach. I

remembered only the ball’s decreasing arcs as it bounced down Polly’s driveway in front of me, and the voice telling me about it. But as the book crept on, the panic was replaced by awe: The Odd at Sea was

feel disgusted by the printed cotton gown tied around me like it’s a shroud. I want out desperately—out of the gown that scares me ev ery place it touches my skin,

about me. Well, not me—I was either the neighbor gi rl or my mother’s daughter.

out of this bed and this room and this building, out to find my parents, out to

But it was about Polly and Mom. It said that Mom and Dad fought at night after

understand why the contacts in my phone don’t exi st anymore, out of here. But I

dinner many days, which they did and probably all parents do, but not all parents

can’t leave—the slightest shift of my body ma kes the pain explode out of my leg,

fight about the business of Arabic translation, and the i mportance of finding a

pain so bad that it puts dots in my eyes. I wonder agai n why I raised my hand

‘real’ job with ‘benefits.’ Other people went to the grocery store, but they didn’t

 when the cop drove by.

buy halal beef and then eat cold pork hot dogs on the way home. Other people

 As bad as I find the uninvited visitors, the aloneness is worse. I just want the panic to be interrupted. It is impossible to fall asleep with the panic washing over me constantly, each moment of it still fee ling entirely unprecedented, despite the moment that I

have friends named Polly, but those Pollys don’t prefer vanilla milk to chocolate milk, or drink beer on their thirteenth birthdays in the cobwebbed underbelly of my parents’ deck while I lay next to her, drinking Sprite, so nervous about my proximity to sin that my heartbeat thunders in my eardrums.

know came before and the one I know is coming. This endless newness of no one coming for me. Yes, it is impossible to sleep. But the drugs make it impossible not to sleep. I wake up at 3:30 with the panic eating its way through my body, trying to escape up my esophagus. I turn my head to see what time it is, but between the

I was on page 43 when a nurse came in to give me pain meds in a little paper cup. “You gotta get some sleep, baby,” the woman says. “Have you ever read this book?” I answer. I hold it up to her under the bedside light, and she shakes her head no.

clock and me is a book. The Odd at Sea. By Elliot Garmin. Published in 1996 by

“Not a lot of time for reading. How’s your pain, baby?”

Garmin Enterprises, LLC. Signed by someone purporting to be the author, thin

“Irrelevant,” I tell her.

58

THE SEQUEL

59

 And so Dr. Bell and I came together to make the mutual acquaintance of

and shaky lines of ink claiming in cursive: e garmin. I turn past two blank pages and the book begins as I did: The neighbor girl

another former person.

chases after the ball, dashing out into the street, not looking and not needing to,  The night descends into a steady drip of visitors, none of whom I want to see. The

running there at the far end of the cul-de-sac. It goes on. Polly Portent stands in her square-within-a-square, ple ased with the

female cop, the one who found me, asking if I have a history of mental illness and then telling me my phone is evidence. The social worker, middle-aged, clicking a

 power of her spike. When the girl re turns, Polly says, “I told you I could spike it!”

pen sponsored by an anti-depressant manufacturer, refusing even to entertain the

“Spikes are against the rules,” says the neighbor girl.

idea I might not be crazy. The Jamaican nurse, who calls me “baby.” The surgeon,

“Nuh-uh,” says Polly. “Spikes aren’t never against the rules.”

 who says I’m physically fine, emphasizing the word so as to remind me that I am not fine.  When they leave, and I am alone, I feel the panic clawing at my stomach. I

I had no idea whether this faithfully recounted our conversation—I remembered only the ball’s decreasing arcs as it bounced down Polly’s driveway in front of me, and the voice telling me about it. But as the book crept on, the panic was replaced by awe: The Odd at Sea was

feel disgusted by the printed cotton gown tied around me like it’s a shroud. I want out desperately—out of the gown that scares me ev ery place it touches my skin,

about me. Well, not me—I was either the neighbor gi rl or my mother’s daughter.

out of this bed and this room and this building, out to find my parents, out to

But it was about Polly and Mom. It said that Mom and Dad fought at night after

understand why the contacts in my phone don’t exi st anymore, out of here. But I

dinner many days, which they did and probably all parents do, but not all parents

can’t leave—the slightest shift of my body ma kes the pain explode out of my leg,

fight about the business of Arabic translation, and the i mportance of finding a

pain so bad that it puts dots in my eyes. I wonder agai n why I raised my hand

‘real’ job with ‘benefits.’ Other people went to the grocery store, but they didn’t

 when the cop drove by.

buy halal beef and then eat cold pork hot dogs on the way home. Other people

 As bad as I find the uninvited visitors, the aloneness is worse. I just want the panic to be interrupted. It is impossible to fall asleep with the panic washing over me constantly, each moment of it still fee ling entirely unprecedented, despite the moment that I

have friends named Polly, but those Pollys don’t prefer vanilla milk to chocolate milk, or drink beer on their thirteenth birthdays in the cobwebbed underbelly of my parents’ deck while I lay next to her, drinking Sprite, so nervous about my proximity to sin that my heartbeat thunders in my eardrums.

know came before and the one I know is coming. This endless newness of no one coming for me. Yes, it is impossible to sleep. But the drugs make it impossible not to sleep. I wake up at 3:30 with the panic eating its way through my body, trying to escape up my esophagus. I turn my head to see what time it is, but between the

I was on page 43 when a nurse came in to give me pain meds in a little paper cup. “You gotta get some sleep, baby,” the woman says. “Have you ever read this book?” I answer. I hold it up to her under the bedside light, and she shakes her head no.

clock and me is a book. The Odd at Sea. By Elliot Garmin. Published in 1996 by

“Not a lot of time for reading. How’s your pain, baby?”

Garmin Enterprises, LLC. Signed by someone purporting to be the author, thin

“Irrelevant,” I tell her.

58

THE SEQUEL

59

cargo shorts. (There’s a pair of gray boxer briefs, too, but I think I’d just as soon  And then she’s standing in the fluorescent-lit hallway, and I cannot see her

go commando.) A boy after my own heart, really. I grab his hat off the bedside

through the open door but I can hear her talking quietly with someone else,

table—a red OSU hat—figuring I might need, like, to disguise my face. I empty

saying, “As soon as she gets her psych eval in the morning, she’s goin’ straight to

the pockets of the shorts—an uncapped pen, some receipts, a Snickers bar, and

7.”

then in his back pocket a wallet. I flip it open just to know: Clayton Palis. I leave “Poor thing,” says the other one.

him a note.

I don’t know what “seven” is, but I gather it’s in my best interest not to find out. I can see how i t will go: No matter how hard I try to explain what happened,

Clay,

it will look exac tly like I am crazy. Elaborately, brilliantly crazy—but still crazy. I  will be stuck forever in a bed like this one, taking drugs designed to put my neural

Hate to do this to you, but I just love your style too much not to borrow it.

alphabet back in order. I will be a case study i n unshakeable delusions. They will  write about me in journals. And I will never convince anyone of anything, because

I hope it’s nothing serious,

 you cannot prove that the impossible has happened, even when it has.

h a-h

 The pill kicks in half an hour later—it doesn’t remove the pain so much as it

I stuff Clayton Palis’s shirt and shorts between the chair and my good leg.

removes me from the pain. Even so, standing up kills—I feel my stomach turn

Ideally, of course, Clayton Palis would be a girl—she’d be 5’ 4” and a size 6 and

and think I might puke, but I hold on to the rail alongside the bed and then swing

have a hospital closet stuffed with Dior dresses and 34B bras, but then again,

the leg forward. I grab the book and shuffle toward the door, and the pain gets so

ideally, I wouldn’t be fictional. Anyway, a girl could do worse than Clayton Palis.

deep into me that I can’t keep myself from crying, and then I am out in a hallway,

I’m wheeling at a pretty good pace when I come to a circular desk at the end

and then, there, yes, collapsing into a wheelchair. It takes me a moment to get the

of the hallway and the Jamaican nurse scampers up from behind a computer and

 wheels unlocked, but then I roll slowly down the deserted hallway, quiet but for

literally jumps in front of me. She is a sizable woman, at least half the width of

some snores. I look into each dark room as I pass by, but it’s hard to tell anything

the hallway.

about the people in the beds except for their approximate size. Five doors down, I find someone who looks about my length and wheel into the room. The creature is unfortunately a boy, his tussle of chestnut hair turned away from me as he sleeps on his side. I’m looking for a suitcase or something, but he seems to have come here with as little forethought as me, unfortunately. I’m trying to turn the chair around when I notice a tuft of something coming from a drawer on the bedside table: a periwinkle polo shirt and a nice pair of khaki 60

THE SEQUEL

“Back to your room,” she says sternly. “I can’t fall asleep without a cigarette,” I answer. The lie occurs to me as I tell it: I have never smoked. “Poor thing,” she says. “The poor, poor thing. But you can’t smoke. It’s bad for your circulation, and you lost a lot of blood, and—” “I’ve had a really bad day. I just—” I start to choke up. The tears aren’t fake, exactly. But they’re only real in a technical sense. “Really need a cigarette.” 61

cargo shorts. (There’s a pair of gray boxer briefs, too, but I think I’d just as soon  And then she’s standing in the fluorescent-lit hallway, and I cannot see her

go commando.) A boy after my own heart, really. I grab his hat off the bedside

through the open door but I can hear her talking quietly with someone else,

table—a red OSU hat—figuring I might need, like, to disguise my face. I empty

saying, “As soon as she gets her psych eval in the morning, she’s goin’ straight to

the pockets of the shorts—an uncapped pen, some receipts, a Snickers bar, and

7.”

then in his back pocket a wallet. I flip it open just to know: Clayton Palis. I leave “Poor thing,” says the other one.

him a note.

I don’t know what “seven” is, but I gather it’s in my best interest not to find out. I can see how i t will go: No matter how hard I try to explain what happened,

Clay,

it will look exac tly like I am crazy. Elaborately, brilliantly crazy—but still crazy. I  will be stuck forever in a bed like this one, taking drugs designed to put my neural

Hate to do this to you, but I just love your style too much not to borrow it.

alphabet back in order. I will be a case study i n unshakeable delusions. They will  write about me in journals. And I will never convince anyone of anything, because

I hope it’s nothing serious,

 you cannot prove that the impossible has happened, even when it has.

h a-h

 The pill kicks in half an hour later—it doesn’t remove the pain so much as it

I stuff Clayton Palis’s shirt and shorts between the chair and my good leg.

removes me from the pain. Even so, standing up kills—I feel my stomach turn

Ideally, of course, Clayton Palis would be a girl—she’d be 5’ 4” and a size 6 and

and think I might puke, but I hold on to the rail alongside the bed and then swing

have a hospital closet stuffed with Dior dresses and 34B bras, but then again,

the leg forward. I grab the book and shuffle toward the door, and the pain gets so

ideally, I wouldn’t be fictional. Anyway, a girl could do worse than Clayton Palis.

deep into me that I can’t keep myself from crying, and then I am out in a hallway,

I’m wheeling at a pretty good pace when I come to a circular desk at the end

and then, there, yes, collapsing into a wheelchair. It takes me a moment to get the

of the hallway and the Jamaican nurse scampers up from behind a computer and

 wheels unlocked, but then I roll slowly down the deserted hallway, quiet but for

literally jumps in front of me. She is a sizable woman, at least half the width of

some snores. I look into each dark room as I pass by, but it’s hard to tell anything

the hallway.

about the people in the beds except for their approximate size. Five doors down, I find someone who looks about my length and wheel into the room. The creature is unfortunately a boy, his tussle of chestnut hair turned away from me as he sleeps on his side. I’m looking for a suitcase or something, but he seems to have come here with as little forethought as me, unfortunately. I’m trying to turn the chair around when I notice a tuft of something coming from a drawer on the bedside table: a periwinkle polo shirt and a nice pair of khaki 60

“Back to your room,” she says sternly. “I can’t fall asleep without a cigarette,” I answer. The lie occurs to me as I tell it: I have never smoked. “Poor thing,” she says. “The poor, poor thing. But you can’t smoke. It’s bad for your circulation, and you lost a lot of blood, and—” “I’ve had a really bad day. I just—” I start to choke up. The tears aren’t fake, exactly. But they’re only real in a technical sense. “Really need a cigarette.”

THE SEQUEL

 The woman shakes her head. “The poor, poor thing,” she says again, and then stands aside. I wheel myself to the elevator.

61

I don’t know how long it took me to get back in the chair. An hour, maybe. Fortunately, I had nowhere to be.

 And this is the first gift of my fictionality: the freedom to lie, to inhabit and abandon stories as needed. To become a hermit crab of stories. To make myself up.

Outside the hospital, I wheel past some people in lab coats smoking cigarettes, down a super-sketchy, too-sharp ramp, and out onto the sidewalk. I roll past a playground, struggling to go straight because I’ve never used a wheelchair before, and also because I’m stoned out of my gourd on whatever is supposed to keep my leg from hurting, and also because my leg hurts so bad that every single time I inhale, I feel entirely confident that I am going to exhale an endless stream of puke.  The empty rectangle I pushed past was ringed by a well-manicured hedge,  which provided the only cover I could see. I put Clayton Palis’s clothes in my mouth—not ideal, I realize, but my choices were limited—and gripped the siderails of the chair with my arms. I pushed myself up and out, trying to launch my body over the hedge so I might have a bit of privacy as I changed. Instead, I landed in the hedge, and had to roll over it, my leg tearing open, an earthquake on my side, and then this wave of nausea, and I had just enough time to rip Clayton’s shirt and shorts out of my mouth before I vomited. I lay there for a while, just breathing, just letting the pain hurt, and then I sat my self up, extricated myself from the gown, and eased my way into his c lothes. I had to crawl wit my arms around the puke and then back through the bush, and as the branches tugged at the leg of the shorts I closed my e yes and stopped and waited for a while, and thought about how stupid it was to try to hide behind the hedges when it’s dark out anyway, and who gives a shit if some kid with cancer staring out of a fifth floor window sees you naked? 62

THE SEQUEL

63

 The woman shakes her head. “The poor, poor thing,” she says again, and then stands aside. I wheel myself to the elevator.

I don’t know how long it took me to get back in the chair. An hour, maybe. Fortunately, I had nowhere to be.

 And this is the first gift of my fictionality: the freedom to lie, to inhabit and abandon stories as needed. To become a hermit crab of stories. To make myself up.

Outside the hospital, I wheel past some people in lab coats smoking cigarettes, down a super-sketchy, too-sharp ramp, and out onto the sidewalk. I roll past a playground, struggling to go straight because I’ve never used a wheelchair before, and also because I’m stoned out of my gourd on whatever is supposed to keep my leg from hurting, and also because my leg hurts so bad that every single time I inhale, I feel entirely confident that I am going to exhale an endless stream of puke.  The empty rectangle I pushed past was ringed by a well-manicured hedge,  which provided the only cover I could see. I put Clayton Palis’s clothes in my mouth—not ideal, I realize, but my choices were limited—and gripped the siderails of the chair with my arms. I pushed myself up and out, trying to launch my body over the hedge so I might have a bit of privacy as I changed. Instead, I landed in the hedge, and had to roll over it, my leg tearing open, an earthquake on my side, and then this wave of nausea, and I had just enough time to rip Clayton’s shirt and shorts out of my mouth before I vomited. I lay there for a while, just breathing, just letting the pain hurt, and then I sat my self up, extricated myself from the gown, and eased my way into his c lothes. I had to crawl wit my arms around the puke and then back through the bush, and as the branches tugged at the leg of the shorts I closed my e yes and stopped and waited for a while, and thought about how stupid it was to try to hide behind the hedges when it’s dark out anyway, and who gives a shit if some kid with cancer staring out of a fifth floor window sees you naked? 62

THE SEQUEL

63

 Afterword  Thanks for reading these early and largely unsuccessful attempts to write about illness and tragedy and life in a children’s hospital. I wrote “Double On-Call” in late 2001, and then revised it several times through the first few months of 2002. After having it read by my mentor Ilene Cooper and another editor at Booklist, the magazine where I worked, I submitted it to a few Christian Fic tion literary journals. No one was interested in publishing it, but I did get some helpful feedback. “Double On Call” is embarrassingly autobiographical (right down to me fancying myself “awkwardly handsome” and “theologically sophisticated,” when I am in fact neither). I worked for six months as a student chaplain at a children’s hospital, and while many of the details recounted in this story are fictional, many are not. My publisher Julie Strauss-Gabel once told me, “The fact that something happened doesn’t mean you should leave it out of a novel, but it also doesn’t mean you should leave it in a novel,” and I fear that I left far too much in that story. I really liked the story when I wrote it (I can tell because I went back to it and revised it extensively several times), but now it feels gratuitous and discursive and frankly a bit nihilistic. 65

 Afterword  Thanks for reading these early and largely unsuccessful attempts to write about illness and tragedy and life in a children’s hospital. I wrote “Double On-Call” in late 2001, and then revised it several times through the first few months of 2002. After having it read by my mentor Ilene Cooper and another editor at Booklist, the magazine where I worked, I submitted it to a few Christian Fic tion literary journals. No one was interested in publishing it, but I did get some helpful feedback. “Double On Call” is embarrassingly autobiographical (right down to me fancying myself “awkwardly handsome” and “theologically sophisticated,” when I am in fact neither). I worked for six months as a student chaplain at a children’s hospital, and while many of the details recounted in this story are fictional, many are not. My publisher Julie Strauss-Gabel once told me, “The fact that something happened doesn’t mean you should leave it out of a novel, but it also doesn’t mean you should leave it in a novel,” and I fear that I left far too much in that story. I really liked the story when I wrote it (I can tell because I went back to it and revised it extensively several times), but now it feels gratuitous and discursive and frankly a bit nihilistic. 65

 There’s also a lack of awareness of audience that I guess I developed while

Caroline Mathers in The Fault in Our Stars) and that his ability to use language

 working with Ilene on Looking for Alaska. “Double On-Call” was a story I wanted

 would shrink until he could only use a few dozen words to describe his experience

people to read, but I wrote it for myself—to process (and perhaps even to boast

of the world. (This is kind of the opposite of  Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,

about) horrible things I’d witnessed. But even though “Double On-Call” is by

and it’s a fine idea, but unfortunately for me I am not James Joyce.)

far the most autobiographical thing I’ve ever let strangers read, it’s also the most

 As a chaplain, I became really bothered by people talking about the human

cold and distant. I think at the time I thought this narrative distance was a sign of

soul as a stable thing that exists while you are alive and then departs all at

proper literary fiction, but in reality I was probably trying to protect myself from

once upon your death, because in a hospital, you quickly learn that there are

the reality of experience. I couldn’t “go there,” as chaplains used to say. I could

gradations of death. Does a brain dead person have a soul? What about a person

 write about it in a cold and clinical and distant way, but I couldn’t really bring the

in a persistent vegetative state? What about someone with late-stage dementia?

reader into the experience. As the hospital stories got more and more fictional,

 And if a person whose dementia is so bad that they are “gone,” as people often

it became easier somehow to “go there,” but I could never quite manage it until I

say, on what day—at what moment—were they separated from their soul? If a

ditched the chaplain character entirely and focused on imagining what it might be

disease attacks your brain and makes a formerly gentle and cautious person cruel

like to be the kid.

and impulsive, has the disease taken the soul?

 All that noted, there are a few things from the story I don’t mind too much. I

 Anyway, all of this stuff was on my mind a lot at the hospital and in the

like the somewhat complicated picture of the young father, although we don’t see

 years afterward. (I only worked there for about six months, but it was definitely

enough of him. And I like the last line—enough that I repurposed it in The Fault

the six most important months of my professional life, and I have spent a lot of

in Our Stars, making it one of the last lines of An Imperial Affliction. The idea

time thinking about it and trying to figure out how to make sense of it/whether

of conflating the Son (of God) and the Sun (that gives light to earth) i s nothing

there is any sense to be m ade.) My idea was that “The Odd at Sea” would portray

new; it’s no coincidence that Jesus has long been called the Light of the World.

the soul as I’ve seen it—appearing slowly during the course of a human life and

(I’m reminded of that great T. S. Eliot line: Light, the visible sign of the Invisible

then disappearing slowly, rather than imagining the soul as a metaphysical but

Light.) But even if there’s not much fresh in it, I still like the line, and it must’ve

still tangible thing that one is born with (or as many believe, that exists upon

clung to something in my brain for ten years, when I finally found a place for it.

conception) and has until one dies. Some of this worked its way into The Fault in

Our Stars, but most of it didn’t. Maybe I’ll come back to it someday, but I don’t I wrote “The Odd at Sea” in early 2007, when the story that became Paper Towns

know. Maybe in the end it’s a boring argument about semantics, like debating

seemed irrevocably stuck and muddled and unfinishable. I’d tried several times

how many angels fit on the head of a pin. Still, the vast majority of people

to return to the world of “Double On-Call” or some version of it, but “The Odd

(including many agnostic and atheist people) believe in some conception of a

at Sea” was the first time I wrote more than 1,000 words straight that I liked. My

soul, and I think we need to consider what we mean when we talk about it.

idea was that the young man narrating half the story would become progressively more overwhelmed by his brain tumor, and that his personality would change (like 66

AFTERWORD

So that was the idea there. A few things from “The Odd at Sea” did stick around for The Fault in Our Stars—this was my first time trying to write about 67

 There’s also a lack of awareness of audience that I guess I developed while

Caroline Mathers in The Fault in Our Stars) and that his ability to use language

 working with Ilene on Looking for Alaska. “Double On-Call” was a story I wanted

 would shrink until he could only use a few dozen words to describe his experience

people to read, but I wrote it for myself—to process (and perhaps even to boast

of the world. (This is kind of the opposite of  Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,

about) horrible things I’d witnessed. But even though “Double On-Call” is by

and it’s a fine idea, but unfortunately for me I am not James Joyce.)

far the most autobiographical thing I’ve ever let strangers read, it’s also the most

 As a chaplain, I became really bothered by people talking about the human

cold and distant. I think at the time I thought this narrative distance was a sign of

soul as a stable thing that exists while you are alive and then departs all at

proper literary fiction, but in reality I was probably trying to protect myself from

once upon your death, because in a hospital, you quickly learn that there are

the reality of experience. I couldn’t “go there,” as chaplains used to say. I could

gradations of death. Does a brain dead person have a soul? What about a person

 write about it in a cold and clinical and distant way, but I couldn’t really bring the

in a persistent vegetative state? What about someone with late-stage dementia?

reader into the experience. As the hospital stories got more and more fictional,

 And if a person whose dementia is so bad that they are “gone,” as people often

it became easier somehow to “go there,” but I could never quite manage it until I

say, on what day—at what moment—were they separated from their soul? If a

ditched the chaplain character entirely and focused on imagining what it might be

disease attacks your brain and makes a formerly gentle and cautious person cruel

like to be the kid.

and impulsive, has the disease taken the soul?

 All that noted, there are a few things from the story I don’t mind too much. I

 Anyway, all of this stuff was on my mind a lot at the hospital and in the

like the somewhat complicated picture of the young father, although we don’t see

 years afterward. (I only worked there for about six months, but it was definitely

enough of him. And I like the last line—enough that I repurposed it in The Fault

the six most important months of my professional life, and I have spent a lot of

in Our Stars, making it one of the last lines of An Imperial Affliction. The idea

time thinking about it and trying to figure out how to make sense of it/whether

of conflating the Son (of God) and the Sun (that gives light to earth) i s nothing

there is any sense to be m ade.) My idea was that “The Odd at Sea” would portray

new; it’s no coincidence that Jesus has long been called the Light of the World.

the soul as I’ve seen it—appearing slowly during the course of a human life and

(I’m reminded of that great T. S. Eliot line: Light, the visible sign of the Invisible

then disappearing slowly, rather than imagining the soul as a metaphysical but

Light.) But even if there’s not much fresh in it, I still like the line, and it must’ve

still tangible thing that one is born with (or as many believe, that exists upon

clung to something in my brain for ten years, when I finally found a place for it.

conception) and has until one dies. Some of this worked its way into The Fault in

Our Stars, but most of it didn’t. Maybe I’ll come back to it someday, but I don’t I wrote “The Odd at Sea” in early 2007, when the story that became Paper Towns

know. Maybe in the end it’s a boring argument about semantics, like debating

seemed irrevocably stuck and muddled and unfinishable. I’d tried several times

how many angels fit on the head of a pin. Still, the vast majority of people

to return to the world of “Double On-Call” or some version of it, but “The Odd

(including many agnostic and atheist people) believe in some conception of a

at Sea” was the first time I wrote more than 1,000 words straight that I liked. My

soul, and I think we need to consider what we mean when we talk about it.

idea was that the young man narrating half the story would become progressively more overwhelmed by his brain tumor, and that his personality would change (like 66

So that was the idea there. A few things from “The Odd at Sea” did stick around for The Fault in Our Stars—this was my first time trying to write about

AFTERWORD

a support group with “a rotating cast of characters,” for instance. There was no

67

One last note: It seems to me that in all these stories there is a streak of

such support group at the hospital where I worked (at least that I ever heard

nihilism, which in some ways was may be a bigger shortcoming in these stories

about), but I’ve attended support groups (as a mentally ill person, not as a group

than all the problems with structure and theme and voice and characterization

leader) many times, and so I felt comfortable in that world. That really became

and everything. All my early attempts to write about the mortality of young

the launching point for The Fault in Our Stars. “The Sequel” is in many ways a very different story from the others and

people were written in great anger and hopelessness. I believe there is real and  valuable hope to be found in the famous Bonhoeffer quote that beings “Double

concerned with very different stuff, but we still find ourselves in a children’s

On-Call.” The problem is, I didn’t believe it. I found nothing but despair at

hospital with a young chaplain and a young social worker. (Also, I kept using the

the children’s hospital. I was confronted for the first time with the fact that

same names. I don’t know why.) I wanted “The Sequel” to be about fictionality

the universe is (or at least appears to be) completely indifferent to the lives of

and how we construct meaning in a world that doesn’t seem to have any—how

individual humans. And all the kinds of existential hope I’d come across in my life

 we fathom stars into constellations, basically. And I really liked the idea of a

up to then (both secular and religious) could not stand up in the face of the plain

 young woman somehow surviving a novel (I still like the idea, actually). But I

truth that many children who have done absolutely nothing wrong suffer a nd die.

could never quite bring Hannah to life, as if her being a fiction inside a fiction

 That has always been part of the human story, and it always will be.

 was one layer of complexity too much for my simple-minded storytelling brain to

But a story that merely acknowledged this horror could never be any good.

handle. And without Hannah coming alive and trying to solve big problems in an

I hold the unfashionable belief that fiction ought to be useful: it should entertain

interesting way, there was really nothing to write about except the premise, and

us or bolster us or make us feel unalone or help us to imagine others more

premises always get boring if there’s nothing more to them. I wrote more than

empathetically. I still agree with William Faulkner, who said in his Nobel Prize

30,000 words of The Sequel, but everything after what you read here is rambling

acceptance speech that “the poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man; it

and basically incoherent as I desperately tried to stumble upon a plot of some

can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.” Even if I were

kind.

a far better writer, “Double On-Call” could never be anything but a record.

But I did return to the question of how made-up stories work in our lives,

So the real difference between these stories and The Fault in Our Stars is,

and why they matter so much to us. And I returned, too, to the mysterious

for lack of a less cheesy word, hope. I finally came to believe that nihilism wasn’t

relationship between reader and writer: We are making something together, and

the only response to a universe indifferent to the lives of individuals, and that

each of us is profoundly dependent upon the other i f the something is going

embracing hope does not mean ignoring or denying the reality of suffering. This

to be worthwhile. The year I spent on “The Sequel” felt wasted; so did all the

happened partly because of my friendship with Esther Earl, who taught me that

months I spent on “Double On-Call” and “The Odd at Sea.” (And this is not even

a short life can also be a good and full and heroic life. And it happened partly

to mention the year I lost down the rabbit hole of the Desert Island Book.) But

because I learned that love between two people will last as long as one of them i s

I was working toward what I called “the hospital chaplain thing” all along, as it

around to feel it.

turns out—it just wasn’t about a hospital or a chaplain. Such is writing, I guess. 68

AFTERWORD

69

a support group with “a rotating cast of characters,” for instance. There was no

One last note: It seems to me that in all these stories there is a streak of

such support group at the hospital where I worked (at least that I ever heard

nihilism, which in some ways was may be a bigger shortcoming in these stories

about), but I’ve attended support groups (as a mentally ill person, not as a group

than all the problems with structure and theme and voice and characterization

leader) many times, and so I felt comfortable in that world. That really became

and everything. All my early attempts to write about the mortality of young

the launching point for The Fault in Our Stars.

people were written in great anger and hopelessness. I believe there is real and

“The Sequel” is in many ways a very different story from the others and

 valuable hope to be found in the famous Bonhoeffer quote that beings “Double

concerned with very different stuff, but we still find ourselves in a children’s

On-Call.” The problem is, I didn’t believe it. I found nothing but despair at

hospital with a young chaplain and a young social worker. (Also, I kept using the

the children’s hospital. I was confronted for the first time with the fact that

same names. I don’t know why.) I wanted “The Sequel” to be about fictionality

the universe is (or at least appears to be) completely indifferent to the lives of

and how we construct meaning in a world that doesn’t seem to have any—how

individual humans. And all the kinds of existential hope I’d come across in my life

 we fathom stars into constellations, basically. And I really liked the idea of a

up to then (both secular and religious) could not stand up in the face of the plain

 young woman somehow surviving a novel (I still like the idea, actually). But I

truth that many children who have done absolutely nothing wrong suffer a nd die.

could never quite bring Hannah to life, as if her being a fiction inside a fiction

 That has always been part of the human story, and it always will be.

 was one layer of complexity too much for my simple-minded storytelling brain to

But a story that merely acknowledged this horror could never be any good.

handle. And without Hannah coming alive and trying to solve big problems in an

I hold the unfashionable belief that fiction ought to be useful: it should entertain

interesting way, there was really nothing to write about except the premise, and

us or bolster us or make us feel unalone or help us to imagine others more

premises always get boring if there’s nothing more to them. I wrote more than

empathetically. I still agree with William Faulkner, who said in his Nobel Prize

30,000 words of The Sequel, but everything after what you read here is rambling

acceptance speech that “the poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man; it

and basically incoherent as I desperately tried to stumble upon a plot of some

can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.” Even if I were

kind.

a far better writer, “Double On-Call” could never be anything but a record.

But I did return to the question of how made-up stories work in our lives,

So the real difference between these stories and The Fault in Our Stars is,

and why they matter so much to us. And I returned, too, to the mysterious

for lack of a less cheesy word, hope. I finally came to believe that nihilism wasn’t

relationship between reader and writer: We are making something together, and

the only response to a universe indifferent to the lives of individuals, and that

each of us is profoundly dependent upon the other i f the something is going

embracing hope does not mean ignoring or denying the reality of suffering. This

to be worthwhile. The year I spent on “The Sequel” felt wasted; so did all the

happened partly because of my friendship with Esther Earl, who taught me that

months I spent on “Double On-Call” and “The Odd at Sea.” (And this is not even

a short life can also be a good and full and heroic life. And it happened partly

to mention the year I lost down the rabbit hole of the Desert Island Book.) But

because I learned that love between two people will last as long as one of them i s

I was working toward what I called “the hospital chaplain thing” all along, as it

around to feel it.

turns out—it just wasn’t about a hospital or a chaplain. Such is writing, I guess. 68

AFTERWORD

69