Huntley Fitzpatrick - The Boy Most Likely To

“Hon,” Patsy says again, slanting back to plant a sloppy kiss on my shoulder, checking me out from under her dew-droppy eyelashes. “Boob?”

“Sorry, kid, can’t help you there.”

I avoid looking at Alice, who has again untied the top strings of her bikini. She yawns, stretches. The top edges down a little lower. No tan lines. I close my eyes for a second.

Pats grabs my ear, as if that’s a cool substitute for a boob. Could be. What do I know about babies? Or toddlers, or whatever you are when you’re one and a half. Could be it’s all about holding on to something and doesn’t matter much what you grab. I, of all people, get that.

Chapter Five

“Alice?”

“Dad?”

“Recognized your Gators,” he says.

“Crocs, Dad.”

“Those. Come on in.”

I brush aside the stiff hospital curtain. Even nearly a month after the car accident, I still have to struggle to pull on the “all is well” nurse face I never dreamed I’d need with my own father. He looks a lot better. Fewer tubes, color better, bruises faded away. But Dad in a hospital bed still makes my stomach crimp and my lungs too heavy to pull in air. Before all this, I’d almost never seen him lying down, not in motion. Now the only thing that moves is one hand, stroking Mom’s hair. She’s asleep, nestled tight against him in the tiny, cramped bed.

“Shh,” Dad says. “She’s beat.”

She’s totally out, for sure. One arm hooked behind his neck, one wrapped around his waist.

“You too, hmm?” His voice is still faintly slurry, but gentle, the same steadying sound that got me through kid-nightmares, mean teachers, and Sophie McCade in eighth grade spreading rumors I’d had boob implants during the summer.

“I could ask you the same, Dad.”

He makes a scoffing sound. “I lounge around all day.”

“You have a broken pelvis. Not to mention lung damage from a pulmonary embolism. You’re not exactly eating bonbons.”

He peers at me, shifting aside Mom’s hair so he can look me more clearly in the eye. “What are bonbons? I’ve heard it and I’ve never known.”

“I have no idea, actually. But if I figure it out and bring you some, will you eat them?”

“I will if you will. We could make a contest of it. ‘My boy says he can eat fifty eggs . . .’ ”

“No, God. No Cool Hand Luke . What it is with that movie? Every male I know has, like, a thing with it.”

“We all like to believe we have a winning hand, Alice,” he says, dragging up the pillow behind him one-handed and giving it a hard punch to fluff it up.

“Say no more.” I reach for the cards in their familiar, worn box, next to the pink hospital-issue carafe of water, the kidney-shaped trough to spit into after tooth brushing, the clutter of empty, one-ounce pill cups, and the roll of medical tape to re-bandage his IV shunt. Nothing like home, his nightstand piled with wobbly, homemade, clay penholders and mugs, heaps of sci-fi books, the picture of him and Mom in high school, big curly hair on her, leather jacket on him.

“I haven’t the heart to break your streak,” he says with that grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes before overtaking his entire face. “The painkillers gave you an unfair advantage.”

“I’m six for seven, Dad. Is it your painkillers or my raw talent?” I smile.

“Well, I’m off ’em now. So we’ll see.” He edges to one side a bit and his face goes sheet-white. He looks up at the ceiling, his lips moving, counting away the pain, taking deep breaths.

“Pant, pant, blow,” I murmur. Labor breathing. Everyone in our family knows it.

“Whoo, who, hee.” Dad’s voice is tight. “God knows I should have that one down.”

“And yet Mom says you still don’t.” I try for another smile but it slips a little, so I focus on the cards, shuffling them once, twice, three times. “Do you want me to call your nurse?”

He reaches out for the cards, takes them, and does his famous one-handed shuffle.

“Only if she’s got bonbons. Look, they’re kicking me out of here soon,” he says abruptly. “Not enough beds, I’ve outstayed my welcome, I’m all fixed now. Not sure what the latest explanation is.”

“And then –?”

“Home,” he says on a sigh. “Or a rehab facility. They’ve left it up to us.” He glances down at Mom, smiles, the same grin as in the SBH photo, tucks the hanging-out tag of her dress under the neckline. She nestles closer.

“Rehab’s covered by our deal with the devil,” I point out. Our devil may be a tall, blond, conservative state senator, but facts are facts.

“You can’t think of it that way, Alice.” He shakes his head, winces.

Still in pain, no matter how often he says it’s not a problem. The last of his summer tan is fading, the line of his jaw cuts sharper, his shoulders locked in rigid lines. He looks at least four years older than he did four weeks ago and it’s all that woman’s fault. However often she sends fancy dinner salads and gourmet casseroles over with Samantha, I can’t forget. I can’t drive past reality without even stopping, the way she did.

“Grace Reed did this, Dad. She wrecked us. She –”

“Look at me,” he says. I do, trying not to flinch at the shaved part of his scalp where they drilled the hole to relieve pressure from his head injury. Duff, Harry, and George just call it “Dad’s weird haircut.”

“A little battered maybe. But definitely not wrecked. Accepting rehab, on top of all the hospital bills – charity.”

“Not charity, Dad. Justice.”

“You know as well as I do that it’s time to get on with things, Alice. Suck it up and get on home. I’m needed there.”

I want him there. I want everything back the way it was. Coming in late at night from a date or whatever to find him watching random History Channel or National Geographic documentaries, baby after baby, Duff, Harry, then George, then Patsy conked out against his shoulder, clicker poised in his hand, nearly dozing himself, but awake enough to rouse and say, “Do you know the plane Lindbergh flew to Paris was only made of fabric? A little glue brushed over it. Amazing what people can do.” But I’m enough of a professional to look at his vital signs and translate his medical chart by heart. No matter how amazing it is what people can do, bodies have their limits.

“You know better,” I say, “about what’s needed. What you have to do.”

A muscle in Dad’s jaw jumps.

How much pain is he in? He should still be on those pills.

I wipe my expression clean, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand. Game face.

The things Mom and I traded off doing, today alone. I did breakfast, while she did morning sickness and talked on the phone setting up everyone’s back to school doctor appointments. I drove Duff to the eye doctor, she took Andy to the orthodontist, then the little guys to the beach. Then we all went to the sailing awards. Mom cheered up Andy in the bathroom after Jade Whelan said something stupid to her, then took her to get frozen yogurt. I hauled the little kids to Castle’s for hot dogs. Mom ferried the gang to Jase’s practice, then dropped them off and came to visit Dad – and dozed off. I stayed home until everyone crashed except Andy, then came here, chugging a venti Starbucks on the way. And I’m only Mom’s stunt double. I’m not Dad.

“If you leave here for home, you’ll be picking up George and Patsy, toting them to the car. You’ll be driving Harry and Duff to soccer. Taking Andy to middle school dances. Relieving Jase at the store. You’ll be on , all the time, Dad. You can’t do that yet. It’ll only set you back and make things worse. For all of us.”