A List of Cages(56)

I tell them I’ll be back as soon as I check on Julian, and I return a few minutes later knowing no more than I did before. My friends all have the sick and grieving look of mourners at a wake. Emerald’s still quietly crying, her face red and blotchy as she sits on one of the gray vinyl-upholstered ER benches. Jesse’s slumped over nearby, his earbuds notably missing, tapping a steady, solemn beat on a tabletop with his fingertips.

Camila and Matt are actually holding hands as they sit together on another bench. They’re both wearing red plaid pajama pants and T-shirts, and I wonder if this is a thing they do—dress alike when they’re at home.

Charlie’s on the other side of the giant room, turning around in circles like an angry dog. Allison’s a pale shadow behind him. Everyone looks traumatized, while I move from person to person like the host at the world’s most depressing slumber party. I kiss Emerald’s hair and hug Jesse and stuff vending machine snacks into Charlie’s fists, but I’m not sure if anything I’m doing actually helps.

At four in the morning I head back to Julian’s room for the thousandth time, and the doctor tells me his results are ready.


Mostly normal. No brain trauma. No organ failure. But he’s depleted, dehydrated, not breathing well on his own, and his blood pressure’s still too low. He’s being admitted into the hospital and moved to a room where he’ll stay till he’s stronger.

When I report this to my friends, it seems like one of those moments where we’re all supposed to leap into the air with overjoyed relief. Instead, everyone just looks exhausted and depressed, like we’re all depleted now.

Emerald takes my hand and pulls like she expects me to leave with my mobilizing friends.

“I’m staying,” I tell her.

“You need to get some sleep.”

“I can sleep here.”

“Adam…” She looks like she wants to say something, but she just kisses me before she joins the others.

I watch while everyone disappears through the automatic doors.


Julian’s new room is totally dark except for a panel of fluorescent lights behind his bed, making him look like a strange museum exhibit, every cut and bruise perfectly lit. His right index and ring fingers are wrapped in bandages. He’s wearing an oxygen mask and is connected to just as many machines as before. He has an antiseptic smell, like maybe they washed him before dressing him in the hospital gown.

I get a sudden rush of apprehension. Russell must’ve gone home by now, must’ve seen Julian isn’t in the trunk. What if he tries to find him? What if he comes here?

I jump when a round nurse touches my shoulder and says she’ll be taking care of Julian till her shift ends at seven A.M.

“What happened to his fingers?” I whisper, even though he’s shown no sign of stirring.

“They’re broken.” I must look as sick as I feel, because she adds, “He’s not in any pain. The doctor gave him morphine.” Overhead, there’s a noise, like a couple of bars of music from a creepy ice-cream truck. “A new baby.”

“What?”

“That little lullaby plays all over the hospital whenever a baby is born.” She smiles like it’s sweet, but there’s something twisted about it to me. I mean, everyone, everywhere in this hospital can hear it, but why? So when you’re dying you can contemplate your own mortality and the circle of life?

The nurse points to an orange-and-yellow-striped recliner in front of the window. “That’ll pull out into a bed,” she says. “I’ll get you some covers.”

“Thanks.” It’s freezing in here, like even colder than school, which can’t be good for sick people.

Soon I’m under a thin blanket on the hard twin fold-out bed. Lying in the same room like this reminds me of when Julian and I were younger, only now each of his inhales and exhales are mechanical and amplified like he’s breathing through a microphone.

I’m exhausted, but too keyed up to sleep. When Julian lived with me, sometimes he had trouble sleeping. I remember one time, being almost asleep and hearing him whisper my name.

“Adam?”

“Yeah?” I said.

“Can you see me?”

There was just enough light filtering through the mini blinds in my room. “Yes, I can see you.”

“I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try and go back to sleep.”

“I can’t. I’m too scared.”

“Just think good thoughts. Mom used to tell me to do that when I was little.”

“You used to get scared?”

“Sometimes.”

“What did you think about?”

I rolled over and looked at him. A vertical stripe of light from the blinds fell right across his eyes like a mask. “Spider-Man.”

He squinted at me skeptically. “You’d pretend Spider-Man was with you?”

“Well, no, I’d pretend I was Spider-Man.”

“And that made you not scared?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I’d think about the movies, sort of playing them in my head. Then I’d just fall asleep.”

“But Spider-Man is scary.”

“No, he’s not. He’s awesome.”