Somebody Up There Hates You Read Free Page A

this has what you might call a nightmare quality about it. Worst case dreamland scenario, come to life. First, the man rattles the metal side of my bed. He leans over and hisses, “You awake, wiseass?”
    And I let my eyes open. His bloodshot eyes are about six inches from mine, and he’s breathing dragon breath all over my face. I put one hand under the sheet, on the red call button, just in case. Here’s the thing: you’re helpless in one of these beds. It’s a goddamn crib . Like you’re a baby. Talk about sitting ducks. So your only means of help is the call button. “Yes, sir,” I say. “I’m awake.”
    He leans in even closer and he says, “Then listen up, asshole. You stay away from Sylvia. Leave her the hell alone.” His eyes go all watery and he says, “Do you know how tired out she is after your little prank? She collapsed in her room, and the nurse could hardly get a blood pressure. It was like—like, nothing. Scared the crap out of me. You little prick.” He reaches out a hand and grabs the front of my T-shirt, still the Black Sabbath one. “I don’t know what kind of lowlife bitch raised you or why your parents aren’t even here, but I’m filling in for them, okay? And if you go near Sylvia again, you’ll—”
    But he doesn’t get to finish, because I sit up, roaring. And I just start screaming and swinging. Because no one, and I mean no one, calls my mom a lowlife bitch. I get in one good fist to his mouth before nineteen people run into the room and pull the man away from my bed. It wasn’t much, but I had the satisfaction of seeing blood curling down his lips before Edward, the huge gay nurse, shoves him out of my room, hard. See, Edward doesn’t like this man a bit because of an earlier shoving incident at the nurses’ station, which I heard all about. Stories like that fly up and down the hallways like demented bats. Any kind of excitement, any slice of good gossip, I mean, that’s our daily bread. And that day, the day of the incident, there was yelling and cursing and security called and all kinds of good shit to liven things up. Anyway, let us just say that Edward is not a fan of Sylvie’s old man. And that’s fine, because you want Edward on your side, trust me, and I’m pretty sure he’ll always be on mine. Edward’s got my back.
    And then Jeannette sits with me for a while, cleaning up my knuckles, which just split wide open on the man’s teeth. She wraps gauze around my right hand, sighing and tsk ing the whole time, muttering under her breath. I try to explain and only get as far as saying, “He said my mom was—” and she hushes me with a pat on the shoulder.
    â€œI know, honey. You just lie back now and rest. Your heart is going like a hammer. I don’t like that. Just shush now.”
    And I fall asleep with her hand soothing my forehead, and it’s almost like having my mom with me. Even though I’d been so happy that Mom wasn’t going to be here for a while, now it seems like I want her. I don’t know; it’s real complicated, isn’t it? Families. Teenagers and parents. It’s all very strange.
    Here’s the thing. It’s one of the parts of hospice that drives everybody crazy. Families. In the regular hospital wards, they keep some kind of check on how many family members can show up at one time and bother you, and there are some sort of visiting hours and times when no one’s supposed to be there, so you get a little time off. (Except for the Puerto Rican families in the big hospital in New York. Man, no one could keep those people out: grandpas, great-grand-somebodies, seventeen aunts with three kids each, never mind the parents and siblings— everyone came, carrying some kind of food in aluminum containers, smelling like garlic and spice and onion—the whole familia showing up day and night. Best