Dear Edward(10)

He rises out of the wheelchair at the front door of the hospital and is handed crutches. He walks slowly to the car, between Lacey and John. He’s conscious of his aunt and uncle’s presence in a new way. The last time he saw them before this was at Christmastime, when they’d met for brunch at a restaurant in Manhattan. He remembers listening to his father and uncle discuss a new computer-programming language. He’d sat between his mother and Lacey and had been so bored that he built a house using his silverware and napkin. The women had skipped from one seemingly pointless conversation to the next: neighbors, the ice cream Lacey made once a year from an elusive Canadian berry, a handsome actor on his mom’s television show.

If asked, Edward would have said that he loved his aunt and uncle, but it had always been clear that they weren’t for him, or Jordan. The grown-ups got together for the grown-ups. The gatherings were designed to allow his mother and aunt to share a teary hug goodbye and promise into each other’s hair: We will see each other more often. Edward can picture his brother across from him at that brunch, steepling his fingers and trying to weigh in on the technical conversation his dad and John were having, as if he were also a grown-up. The image of his brother is so painful that Edward’s vision cuts out entirely for a second, and he stumbles.

“Steady,” John says.

“Goodbye, Edward,” voices say.

“Good luck, Edward.”

A car door swings open in front of him. Only then does he see, on the far side of the car, across the street, a small crowd of people. He wonders dimly why they’re there. Then someone in the crowd calls Edward’s name, and others clap and wave their arms when they see that they have his attention. He studies a posterboard held by a little girl. His head aches as he absorbs the words: Stay Strong. The sign beside it says in block letters: MIRACLE BOY!

“I don’t know how they found out your release date,” John says. “It wasn’t in the papers.”

Lacey rubs his arm, and since he is precariously balanced on his booted foot, this almost throws him over.

“It’s like they think I’m famous.”

“You are famous, kind of,” John says.

“Let’s leave,” Lacey says.

They climb into the car and drive past the waving, poster-bearing crowd. Edward stares at them through the window. He offers a small wave, and a man pumps the air with his fist, as if Edward’s wave was what he’d been hoping for. The clicking noise starts up inside Edward then, a reminder of the staccato beat he used to time piano notes with. He sinks back into his seat and listens to his body. He can’t remember being invaded with sounds like this ever before. Beneath the sharp clicks there is the thud—a blurrier, messier sound—of his own heart.

They drive toward a house Edward has visited sporadically over the course of his life, but always with his parents and brother. Now he’s going to live there. How is that possible? He tries to recall the name of his aunt and uncle’s town. He watches the cars and trees wash past the window. They seem to be driving too quickly, and he’s about to say something when he spots a graveyard. For the first time, he wonders what happened to the bodies.

An icy sweat coats his skin. “Please pull over.”

John swerves to the hard edge of the highway, and Edward pushes open his door, hangs his body out, and throws up onto the gray dirt. Oatmeal and orange juice. Cars hurtle past. Lacey rubs his back. He pretends, as he does every time her face isn’t directly in his line of vision, that she is his mom.

He can’t stop vomiting; his body coils up, releases.

He hears her say, “I hated when the nurses told you that you were going to be okay.” Lacey’s voice is more strident than his mother’s; she’s his aunt again.

“You’re not okay. Do you hear me, Edward? Are you listening? You are not okay. We are not okay. This is not okay.”

His body has paused, and he’s unsure whether the violence will continue. When he realizes he’s done, that his body is scraped clean and pulsing with emptiness, he sits up. He nods his head. And somehow, that statement and that nod loosen and break apart the air between the three of them. There is a note of relief. They have somewhere to start, even if it is the worst place imaginable.





9:05 A.M.

The spiky buildings of Manhattan can be seen out the window, the raised right arm of the Statue of Liberty, the swipe of a bridge across the river. The passengers shift in their seats, searching for positions comfortable enough to occupy for six hours in the sky. Top buttons on shirts are undone. Shoes removed. Passengers with the gift of being able to fall asleep anywhere, anytime, do so now. There’s no need for consciousness, after all. On the ground, people’s bodies are utilized, but on a plane, a person’s size, shape, and strength have no utility and are in fact an inconvenience. Everyone has to find a way to store themselves, in the most tolerable fashion possible, for the duration of the flight.

Florida peers past Linda and the sleeping woman with the blue scarf. She has a hunger to see the city before it disappears behind clouds. Different locations have different energies, and for her, New York is glittering eye shadow, Basquiat graffiti, and strangers with bold dreams. She sees herself dancing in bars, slow-walking across cacophonous streets while men hoot at her womanly goods, wringing all the life she can out of her days in that snap-crackle-pop city.