Brock Clarke - Exley

“Your dad?” she said, and then looked at the empty bed, then at her clipboard. “He should still be in surgery.”

“Surgery?” I said. “What kind of surgery?” But I could tell already that the nurse regretted telling me even the little she’d told me. She wagged the clipboard in my direction, just to let me know that she was the one who decided who was allowed to know what and when.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

“But he’s my dad,” I said. “What kind of surgery is he having?”

“How did you even get in here?” she said. “Does your mother even know you’re here?”

I could immediately see Mother’s face as she got the phone call from the hospital at ______ o’clock at night. I could hear the nurse asking her if she knew that her son was in the hospital, and I could hear Mother saying, No, he isn’t, he’s in bed . And then I could picture Mother getting up and going to my bedroom to make sure I really was in bed. And then I just started running — past the nurse, out of the hospital, back home, into my bedroom, out of my clothes, into my pajamas, and into bed. It happened so fast that I began to wonder if I’d really gone to the VA hospital at all or if I’d just gone there in my head. My head, after all, was the thing that always got me into trouble. Mother told me so. I looked to my right. There was the empty plate on the end table. There were some crumbs on it. So I knew I hadn’t imagined or dreamed the BLT. Then I smelled my hand, the one I’d used to touch the hospital floor. It didn’t smell like a hand that had been dipped into a puddle on a hospital floor; it just smelled like a hand. Then I thought about what had happened at the hospital, or what I’d imagined happening at the hospital. It didn’t seem possible that I could just buzz my way into the hospital and then walk into my dad’s room without anyone stopping me. And it also didn’t seem possible that the nurse would let me, or I’d let myself, leave the hospital without finding out what had happened to my dad. And if something doesn’t seem possible, then it usually isn’t. I felt much better then, because I knew that the whole thing had been a dream and that my dad had just gone into surgery in my head and not in the hospital. Still, I also knew that I’d wake up tomorrow and wonder again if the whole thing had actually happened. So I got up out of bed, crept downstairs, opened the window seat, took out my journal, and wrote down everything that really had happened since I’d written in the journal earlier that night, and then everything that had only happened in my head, just so I’d know the difference between the two. When I was done, I put the journal back in the window seat. It felt wrong in there, like something had been messed with, but it was dark and I couldn’t see and just then I heard Mother mumbling, and so I closed the window seat and went back to my room and told myself that I was probably wrong about the window seat, and if I wasn’t, then I’d “deal” with it in the morning.

Letter 3

Dear Miller,

I’m not going to lie to you, bud: I’m so ______. I’m so, so ______. I can’t even think of anything else to say in this letter. All of the other guys here in ______ are writing letters home saying that everything is fine, don’t worry, everything is fine, I’ll be home soon. I wrote a couple of those letters, too. You got them, right? I hope you got them. I don’t even know if you got them. You probably didn’t even get them. You probably think I’m a horrible dad for not writing you. Or you got the letters but haven’t written me back because you think I’m a horrible dad. Because either way, I haven’t heard from you in a long, long time. That’s another thing I’m so ______ about.

It’s like something is in my mind and I can’t get it out of there, not even for a little while. Even reading A Fan’s Notes doesn’t help me, bud. I tried to give my copy to ______, but he just laughed and said, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” So I just threw it away. I can’t even get my mind clear enough to feel sad about that, or happy, or anything.

I know I shouldn’t be saying this, bud. But I don’t know what else to say: I’m so ______. I’m so ______ that I’m going to ______. I don’t want to be here anymore. I keep walking around telling people — ______, ______, even ______ — that I don’t want to be here anymore, and they laugh at me. They say, “No ______.” But they don’t understand. I want to come home. I want to come home, Miller. Even if your mom doesn’t want me home. Even if you don’t want me home, either. Even if there isn’t anything there for me to come home to. I don’t think I can take it here anymore. I want to come home.

Love, Your dad

Doctor’s Notes (Entry 19, Part 1)

Ireread the three letters several times in an attempt to determine their authenticity. On the one hand, they look the same as the first letter M. showed me ______ weeks ago: they are on the same plain white paper, in the same style, written by the same hand with the same penmanship. If that letter was a fake — and I was certain it was — then these letters must be fraudulent as well. But if these letters are fakes, then why do they refer to letters M. has and has not written to his father — letters that, if these three letters are fake, cannot and do not exist? If M. has written the letters, then why do they tell M. not to think about K. and not to teach M.’s father’s class, when clearly M. has no intention of following these orders? If M. has written the letters, then why do they make so many obviously “nudge-nudge, wink-wink” exclamatory allusions to M.’s reading a book M. insists he has not read? Are these letters real, then? Or are they the most expertly conceived frauds? Or are they the most amateurishly conceived frauds? I struggle with this for a while until I remember I’m dealing with M., who has already shown he’s inclined toward the fraudulent. And besides, as I know as well as the next mental health professional, children are capable of seeming expert one moment and amateurish the next. With that in mind, it seems clear enough that the letters are fake. But whether they are or they aren’t, why were they in M.’s mother’s possession, and not M.’s?

Just then the phone rings. I know it is M.’s mother. How serendipitous , I think, I shall ask her myself why the letters were on her dresser and not M.’s . But then I realize I cannot! I cannot ask her about the letters without revealing to her that I have read the letters. Because I cannot reveal to her that I have read the letters without also revealing to her that I broke into her house and rifled through her dresser drawers and stole the letters, inadvertently, and the newspaper clipping, advertently. Because I cannot reveal all those things and still have her speak to me the way I want her to speak to me. Because I’d rather hear her lovely whisper than hear the truth behind the letters that were in her drawer and that are now in my hands. And I wonder: Is this true love? When people talk about true love, do they mean a love that enables you to endure the truth, or a love that makes you ignore it?

“Hello,” M.’s mother whispers, and with that whisper the letters disappear from my brain, if not from my possession.

“I was just thinking about you,” I say.

“Really?” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “Really.” Fortunately for me, we are on the phone, and she can’t see my smile, can’t see how pleased with myself I am. I’ve never been at all proficient at “playful banter” until now.

I hear M.’s mother sip on something, hear the clink of ice cubes against glass. Normally, I am against the consumption of alcohol — against and, indeed, opposed to it —but I am prepared to have an open mind where drinking and M.’s mother are concerned. I am prepared to love it if she loves it, or if it makes her love me. I hear her sip again, then sigh. “Everything OK?” I ask.