Chapter 15
Colby
I wake up to find my six family members camped around my room. Dax is softly strumming his acoustic guitar in the corner while Kat gazes out the window. Keane and Ryan are huddled together, looking at something on Ryan’s phone. Mom and Dad are chatting quietly.
And the angel in the blue scrubs is nowhere to be found.
I pat the mattress and quickly locate the white board she brought me. Did she write me a goodbye message after I drifted off? The last thing I remember writing on the board was a question about the baby. Is it still there, or has it been replaced by something she wrote to me?
But, no, the only thing scrawled on the board is a rather detailed cartoon of a hard dick and balls. I roll my eyes. It’s Keane’s signature doodle. His graffiti tag, so to speak. A nod to his penile nickname since middle school.
Believe it or not, as immature as Keane can be at times, he’s not quite as sophomoric as that dick-and-balls doodle would suggest. Keane leaving that little gem in covert places for my mother to discover is a long-running family gag. It started when Keane drew the stupid thing on a school notebook at age thirteen. Mom saw it and read him the riot act for drawing it on something he’d brought to school. But instead of owning up to his stupidity, Keane instead went with the well-worn strategy of deny, deny, deny and swore up and down the cartoon was nothing but the innocent depiction of a rocket at lift-off. And what did Mom do in the face of such foolish audacity? True to form, she broke down and laughed. And, thus, a longstanding family joke was born. Call our family’s sense of humor immature, but, to this day, we all think it’s hilarious when our dick-and-balls Banksy leaves his mark in yet another unexpected place for us to stumble upon. Really, at the end of the day, he’s making fun of himself—chiding the thirteen-year-old version of himself who actually believed our mother was idiotic enough to think her naughty son was nothing but a sweet little boy dreaming of outer space.
“He’s awake,” Kat says softly, drawing my attention away from the white board. She lopes to the edge of my bed and lovingly takes my hand in hers. “Hi, Cheese and Macaroni,” she whispers, smiling down at me sweetly. “Did you sleep well?”
I nod.
“Are you in pain, honey?”
Yes, I’m in pain, but not physically. But since there’s no way, or reason, to tell her that, I simply shake my head.
Did I imagine that beautiful angel in blue scrubs telling me the baby died? It’s possible. I mean, no mortal woman, other than maybe Beyoncé, could possibly be that beautiful without Photoshop. I don’t think I imagined those beautiful hazel eyes staring into my soul, but just to be sure, I grab the marker next to the white board and write, Is baby OK?
Kat reads my words and, instantly, by the look on her face, I know I didn’t imagine the beautiful angel in the blue scrubs.
“Mom? Dad?” Kat says, tilting the board for them to see.
My parents come over and gently tell me the horrible news. As they speak, I close my eyes. But I don’t cry this time. I’ve already heard this news, after all. Besides, I never cry with my family. I’m everyone’s shoulder to cry on. It doesn’t work the other way around.
“Dax, play him a song,” Kat says. “He looks sad.”
My entire family gathers around my bed and Dax begins playing “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers... and the minute I hear Dax’s soulful voice calling me “brother” and telling me to lean on him, emotion rises and bucks inside me, straining to get out.
I can’t believe I’m lying here, broken and breathing on a fucking machine. I can’t believe I went through hell for nothing. That I failed that poor mother after promising her I wouldn’t. I can’t stop thinking about the excruciating pain that little baby must have felt in the fire while I remained safe and protected in my turn-out gear. I can’t stop thinking of her face when she raised her arms to me, nonverbally begging me to rescue her.
I close my eyes again, willing the torturous thoughts and images to stop. I pray for serenity to overtake me, but it’s no use. I can’t escape the visions. Over and over again, all I can see is the look of relief on that little baby’s face when I showed up to save the day, immediately followed by her charred, unconscious face when someone ripped her from my grasp.
Visualize something happy, Colby, I tell myself. Something that makes you feel calm.
Ralph.
I force myself to think about my sweet dog’s face... but, immediately, that image gives way to...
The angel.
Hazel eyes.
Mocha skin.
A smile that touched my soul.
I feel calm again.
At least for now.
I gently grab that woman’s beautiful face with my palms and pull her toward me and lay a soft kiss on her full, luscious lips... And then I kiss and kiss and kiss her, fusing my tortured spirit with her healing one, until, finally, blessedly, whatever is dripping into my IV bag does its job and everything fades to black.