House Arrest Read online

Her smile was huge

  lighting up the doorway

  brighter than the lightning.

  Timothy!

  It was a gasp.

  The melted paper hit me in the chest.

  I just got it. I couldn’t wait. I printed it for you.

  Read it!

  Mom came around the corner

  holding a squirming Levi.

  Maureen? What are you doing out there?

  Come in! Come in!

  You’ll wash away.

  So she came in.

  Mrs. B.

  Dripping.

  In my house.

  Looking so young

  all wet and smiley like that.

  I took the soaking paper

  careful not to let it tear

  and read it.

  Then I read it again.

  He was touring medical schools.

  Giving speeches.

  Recruiting other doctors

  to learn how to do what he does.

  He is sorry for not responding sooner.

  He says there is a charitable care program,

  a fund, at the hospital

  to pay for sick babies who need his help.

  He says he has given our contact information

  to the people who run that fund,

  to the people who give out the money.

  He says Levi will have to pass tests.

  Not like school tests,

  medical tests.

  His lungs have to be healthy.

  His stomach has to be healthy.

  His whole body has to be healthy

  so that he can manage the surgery.

  It’s a tough surgery.

  He says that if Levi is as tenacious as I am,

  if Levi is as spirited as I am,

  if Levi has half of my determination,

  half of my guts,

  he has a fine chance of passing all the medical tests,

  of becoming a candidate for surgery,

  of getting his trachea fixed.

  He says, I look forward to meeting Levi.

  I look forward to meeting you, sun.

  And I can’t believe he spelled son wrong

  but I kind of love that he did.

  I really kind of love it.

  WEEK 49

  Just a few more weeks.

  Then you don’t have to see me every week, James.

  Well, you’ll see me

  because I live in 742

  and you live in 534

  just over there

  but you know what I mean.

  This all will be over.

  You’ll just be another beardy dude.

  I’ll just be another kid.

  Don’t look at me like that, James.

  It makes me think you want to hug—

  Dude.

  You’re getting to be just as bad as Mrs. B.

  And that’s saying something.

  fifteen

  thousand

  two

  hundred

  forty

  eight

  dollars

  and

  seventy

  two

  cents

  holy

  crap

  holy

  crap

  holy

  crap

  Mom is holding the check.

  The PTA lady is at the door.

  Look at this! Look at what you’ve done, Timothy!

  Mom says it with a huge smile

  with tears in her eyes

  and she means it in a good way this time.

  Look at what I’ve done.

  Look at what I’ve done!!!

  I think about that crumpled flyer

  a rolled-up ball on my desk for so many months.

  How I thought the Carnival of Giving

  was so, so stupid and then crazy and then impossible

  and now I want to frame that crumpled thing

  and put it on the wall

  and dedicate it to the dwarves in my head

  the ones that wouldn’t give up

  the ones named

  Scared and Determined

  Angry and Stubborn.

  Thank you, dwarves,

  for not screwing this up.

  Levi has a cough now.

  Sigh.

  That means trach bullets everywhere—

  shooting balls of snot

  out of that tube in his neck.

  It’s kind of a superpower, if you think about it.

  Once someone gets hit with a trach bullet

  they’re so grossed out,

  they are stunned.

  Frozen in place.

  If Levi wasn’t trying so hard to breathe

  I bet he would laugh.

  You should see Marisol’s hair.

  Enchiladas.

  Just like the bad old days,

  except man, they taste so good

  I don’t care what they remind me of.

  José’s mom is in our kitchen

  clicking her tongue

  talking to herself in Spanish

  not happy with our selection of spices.

  She is here with José and Isa.

  Marisol with Levi in the living room.

  Levi sick again.

  Levi coughing.

  Levi setting off alarms.

  The suction machine BUZZZZZZZZZING.

  It’s strange to me

  seeing them here,

  José and Isa,

  even though their house

  is only a block away,

  even though it only takes two minutes

  to walk here.

  It’s still strange,

  their faces in our new world.

  I like it, though.

  I’m glad they’re here.

  When Mom gets home she’ll be glad, too.

  Stupid germs.

  I took Dad’s old sweatshirt

  and made it like a blanket

  to tuck behind Levi’s head

  so maybe he can breathe easier.

  I can’t tell if it’s working.

  Mom is on the phone with the doctor,

  the pulse ox is beep-beep-beeping.

  It’s a little bit crazy right now.

  The night stretches ahead of us.

  I have the oxygen ready.

  If he needs it.

  I have the breathing medicine ready.

  If he needs it.

  I have an extra trach ready.

  If he needs it.

  Mom is on her way home

  from the new job,

  from her long day of training.

  She is bringing us coffees.

  A treat, she said.

  We’ll watch movies, she said.

  It’ll be fine, she said.

  He’ll be fine, she said.

  I have the doctor’s number.

  If we need it.

  WEEK 50

  I stayed home from school today.

  I’m telling you now,

  don’t freak out.

  Mom had to work.

  No sick days during

  the first thirty days of work.

  Marisol had to stay home

  to use one of her sick days.

  I’m a kid, so pretty much

  I can kind of have all the sick days I need.

  And Levi, well,

  for Levi pretty much every day is a sick day.

  Someone had to stay with him

  so it was me.

  I’ll be gone just a couple of hours.

  Just while he’s napping.

  I’ll get my work computer and bring it home.

  They said I could work from home

  the whole rest of the week.

  It will be fine.

  I’ll be back before you know it.

  Famous last words, Mom.

  Famous last words.

  You know when you print pictures

  and they
come matte or shiny?

  Shiny is . . . shiny.

  But matte is a little more dull, the colors kind of muted.

  Levi is matte today.

  His face is darker, blurrier.

  I wish Mom wasn’t at work.

  He’s scaring me.

  Four stoplights.

  Why is it taking this long?

  It shouldn’t take this long.

  Where is the ambulance?

  Where where where where where

  where where where where where

  oh my god

  levi

  wake up

  levi

  wake up

  levi

  wake up

  Please forgive me.

  It’s the only thing I can think to do.

  WEEK 51

  I didn’t care about the cars,

  I didn’t even think about them.

  Have you ever seen a blue baby?

  If you have then you know

  you can’t see anything else

  only that awful color

  spreading through his face

  settling in his lips.

  I was holding him so close.

  Running,

  just running

  down the sidewalk

  hoping to meet the ambulance

  but it still wasn’t there

  and suddenly José’s house was there

  and the turtle car was there

  and I know the keys are always under the visor

  and so I took it

  even though it was probably going to catch on fire

  even though I’ve never driven one inch in my life

  I took it.

  I stole it.

  I stole that turtle car.

  Did you say five, James?

  I hit five cars?

  Well, I was really distracted.

  Five counts of leaving the scene of an accident.

  Five counts of vehicular negligence.

  One count of driving without a license.

  One count of driving underage.

  One count of grand theft auto.

  One probation: violated.

  I’m reading the charges

  while I wait for the judge.

  These khaki scrubs scratching me,

  these white slippers not fitting right.

  They left one thing off this sheet:

  one count of saving Levi’s life.

  Which counts for everything

  don’t you think?

  Your mom will be here as soon as she can, Timothy,

  as soon as Levi is stable.

  Her fingers gripped the metal table

  right where someone had etched

  F F F F F F

  across the surface.

  The surface of Mrs. B’s face

  was also etched

  with lines that meant

  timothy timothy timothy timothy timothy.

  OK,

  I said.

  Thanks for coming.

  Oh, Timothy,

  she said.

  Oh, my sweet Timothy.

  I probably don’t need to worry about this journal anymore

  do I?

  Now that I’m in new trouble?

  Now that I’ve been taken to juvie

  so fast

  my head spun.

  I like writing in it, though.

  I like that Mrs. B made them let me keep it.

  So at least one thing from house arrest worked.

  This stupid journal

  turned out to be not so stupid

  after all.

  José’s dad won’t press charges.

  He refuses to say I stole the car.

  Only that I borrowed it

  with his permission

  even though I am thirteen.

  Is that going to get him in trouble?

  I don’t want to get him in trouble.

  WEEK 52

  Ducks.

  Little yellow ducks.

  On the mask.

  Well, masks.

  One over Levi’s nose and mouth.

  One over his trach.

  Just to be safe, Mom said.

  She held him in her lap

  across the table from me.

  This one scratched like the other one,

  the word SNART

  in rock band letters.

  It was a blockage,

  she said.

  You did everything right,

  she smiled.

  Well, everything regarding Levi.

  She sighed.

  It only took an overnight procedure

  to remove the blockage.

  He’s fine now, see?

  Levi smacked his hands on the table.

  The doctors say you saved him, Timothy.

  Your quick thinking saved his life.

  Levi pulled the ducks off his face

  away from his neck.

  He smiled at me,

  put his dirty finger in his trach,

  and said,

  BUH BUH

  BUH BUH

  and then he signed more dog

  and my heart almost exploded

  right there

  in the visiting room

  at Tall Pines, Texas Juvenile Correctional Facility.

  The thing about juvie is that

  it’s not like jail.

  Not really.

  You don’t get an end date.

  They don’t just say:

  You get six months in juvie!

  You have to stay until they think you’re fine.

  So it could be six months.

  It could be a year.

  It depends on me.

  We’re on Timothy time now.

  We fly out next week.

  Mom showed me the paperwork.

  We’ll stay for two weeks

  for tests.

  Then we’ll come home.

  After we find out the results

  we’ll go back for the surgery

  if Dr. Sawyer thinks he can do it.

  I looked at the paper.

  Everything I’d worked for

  typed out neatly

  in rows

  on a white sheet

  just like any old regular paper.

  So simple.

  So not simple.

  Regular words.

  But not regular words.

  I looked up at Mom.

  You’ll have to tell him hi for me, OK?

  Dr. Sawyer, I mean.

  You’ll have to tell him thank you.

  One year ago.

  Like one of those machines

  where the ball falls in a bucket

  and knocks over a bottle

  that lights a match

  that pops a balloon

  that scares a chicken

  who lays an egg

  that cracks in a pan

  and makes your breakfast for you.

  One year ago it all started.

  One year ago I made this crazy meal

  that I am still eating.

  It was weird to see you guys together,

  James.

  Mrs. B.

  In the same room, I mean.

  I know you’re together together,

  but seeing you here

  across the table,

  this one scratched with BARF,

  was a little disorienting.

  And even though it was weird

  seeing you together

  without any plants

  or grouchy looks

  I’ve actually missed you guys.

  Can you believe that?

  On my cot

  in the room

  they call a dorm room

  though I guess it’s probably nothing like

  a real dorm room.

  The walls are yellow.

  Yellow like Mrs. B’s hair.

  Yellow like the Baby Signing Adventure DVD case.


  Yellow like the lasers killing José’s aliens.

  Yellow like James’s gym T-shirt.

  Yellow like Mom’s wallet.

  Yellow like Marisol’s scrubs.

  Yellow like the stars on Isa’s fingernails.

  Timothy Davidson?

  One of the guards who is not called a guard

  but who is still technically a guard

  stood in the doorway.

  Come with me.

  You have a phone call.

  The phones all line a hallway.

  I picked one up.

  I said, Hello.

  There was a crackle, and then,

  T-man?

  I looked at the yellow wall.

  I saw the words scratched there,

  the words HOPE and FIGHT

  and BREATHE and SUCK.

  I put my hand on the cool cinder blocks

  on the strength of those walls.

  And I took a deep, deep breath.

  Dad?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is one of those circumstances where the Acknowledgments word count could easily outnumber the actual word count of the book, but I will endeavor to keep it short.

  To Ammi-Joan Paquette, Virginia Euwer Wolff, and Tamra Tuller—you brought Timothy and Levi to life. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Thank you. And to everyone at Chronicle—

  a million high fives for being so darn supportive. I often wonder if I’m the most fortunate author in the whole universe.

  To Tracy, Annie, and Chris, thank you for your professional expertise. I am amazed and awed every day by people who work

  in the juvenile justice system and with Child Protective Services. You are heroes.

  To Sam Mirrop, a king among men, a leader among doctors, and the best Tigger impersonator I’ve ever met, here’s to no more Letters of Medical Necessity.

  To Anne, Michelle, and Delicia, thank you for your years of loving hard work. When a mother learns she’s going to have to share her baby with in-home nurses it’s kind of hard to accept, but you all became part of our family. Thank you for being nothing

  like Mary.

  To everyone on our aerodigestive team at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, and especially to the nurses in the Complex Airway ICU and step-down unit—you made a difficult time so much easier. You are amazing, and you saved our lives in more ways than one.

  There are not enough thanks in the world for Don and Carole, Rose Marie and Ken, Julie and Chris, Sharon and Adam, all my mamas who circled the wagons when we needed it most, and of course to Amy, who saved me a thousand times just by making