House Arrest Read online

  He felt warm.

  He refused his milk.

  Oh, little brother.

  Was I hiding from you for too long?

  Or are you getting sick?

  please don’t have him be getting sick

  please don’t have him be getting sick

  please don’t have him be getting sick

  please don’t have him be getting sick

  please don’t have him be getting sick

  WEEK 13

  Did you make it yourself ?

  I couldn’t help but take a step back.

  The thought of James in a kitchen,

  the thought of James giving a grouchy look to carrots

  because they weren’t cutting themselves into the right shapes.

  I bought it.

  You should eat it.

  Chicken soup is like medicine.

  There are studies.

  I said, OK.

  And took it.

  And felt relief for those carrots.

  Sometimes I shake

  like a little earthquake that is only inside of me.

  It happens when I talk about That Day.

  It happens when I talk about Levi.

  It happens when I think about Dad.

  It happens when I think about any day

  that’s not today.

  Sometimes it happens when I do think about today.

  But yesterday, I did not shake.

  Mrs. B sat me on that squishy couch

  and she put a pillow on my head.

  I was like, What?

  but she smiled and said, Trust me

  so I squinted my eyes

  because you never trust an adult

  when they say trust me.

  But I didn’t move.

  Next, she put a weird heavy pillow on my arm.

  And another one on my other arm.

  The last thing she did,

  and this was the craziest thing of all,

  she put a bowling ball in my lap.

  A real bowling ball.

  And she stared at me all serious-like

  with pillows on my arms

  and on my head

  and a bowling ball in my lap

  and she said, What do you think?

  I couldn’t even answer

  because for the first time since Levi was born

  I could talk about things without shaking.

  How do pillows and a bowling ball make you feel calm?

  Beats me.

  But they did.

  It was so nice, I could have stayed that way all day

  and all night

  just stuck there on that couch

  anchored

  still

  safe

  looking like a complete dummy

  but not shaking.

  And almost even relaxed.

  I hope I didn’t get any germs on anything.

  I got germs on something.

  Even with all the washing

  and the hand sanitizer

  and wearing a mask

  like a doctor

  whenever I come near Levi,

  I still got germs on something.

  Marisol just went home.

  She had a line between her eyes.

  The worried line.

  She’ll be back in the morning.

  We just have to get to the morning.

  He’ll be fine, she said.

  The worried line did not go away.

  Four stoplights, plus

  one stop sign, plus

  one parking place (superhard to find).

  That’s all it takes

  to get to the hospital.

  But it feels like

  four thousand years, plus

  one eternity, plus

  one frozen car door (superhard to open).

  That’s all it takes

  to get to the hospital.

  Forever or ten minutes?

  Sometimes they’re the same, aren’t they?

  Running. We were running.

  Mom was ahead of me

  slap slap slap slap

  her feet bare, the hallway empty

  except for Levi

  on the speeding gurney

  just like a TV show.

  A nurse was riding with him

  holding the ambu bag over his trach

  squeezing squeezing squeezing,

  and a different nurse said, in a rushed voice:

  You have to stay out here.

  We’ll find you when he’s stabilized.

  Then they were through the doors

  at the end of the hall,

  the sign shouted INTENSIVE CARE in all caps

  but that was the only shouting.

  Mom’s elbows were on her knees,

  her back moving up and down up and down

  but she wasn’t breathing hard from running.

  She was crying.

  Crying so hard.

  Like I’ve never seen.

  And I just stood there

  holding the go-bag like an idiot.

  The place was empty

  neither one of us could move.

  All of our energy

  had been sucked away

  through the doors at the end of the hall.

  So we sat

  right there on the floor

  and Mom cried into my shoulder

  and she made noises I’ve never heard before

  like an animal in a trap, maybe,

  and we waited to hear something

  anything

  but we didn’t hear anything for a long time

  only those shouting words on the doors

  INTENSIVE CARE INTENSIVE CARE

  and we were the only two people in the world

  sitting in that hallway.

  Still. Right there on the floor.

  With the walls crashing down around us

  even as they glowed under the barely buzzing

  bright lights.

  Mom is finally asleep.

  The nice nurse threatened to clonk her on the head

  and knock her out.

  Instead, Mom took a pill.

  She’s asleep in the chair,

  her head on the rail of Levi’s bed.

  She doesn’t want me to call anyone.

  She never wants to ask for help.

  But I could call José’s mom.

  She could bring clothes.

  Mom’s shoes.

  And maybe snacks.

  Don’t you think it’s OK

  to cry uncle sometimes?

  To ask for help?

  Otherwise you’re just crying.

  And how does that help anyone?

  I’m going to call José’s mom.

  I’m going to do it.

  We need help.

  I don’t care what Mom says.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I’m lost.

  I’m lost.

  He’s so sick.

  WEEK 14

  It’s been fourteen weeks.

  He says it like I don’t know.

  Fourteen weeks, Timothy.

  How are you holding up?

  I look over at him.

  His face more scruff than beard.

  His dark eyes, staring.

  His hair blowing in the breeze.

  Too young to be Dad’s age.

  Too old to be cool.

  I shrug.

  Aren’t we past shrugging?

  He doesn’t smile

  but his face isn’t hard, either.

  Not like it used to be.

  We’re sitting outside

  in the hospital courtyard.

  It’s sunny today,

  almost warm.

  You want some lunch?

  I have an extra half.

  He pulls a sandwich from his bag.

  It’s cut into thirds.

  An extra half? Really?

  James, I think you
are worse at math than me.

  Still in ICU.

  Still watching machines breathe for Levi.

  It was just a cold.

  Just a cold.

  She seems really nice.

  Her hand pushes the hair from Levi’s forehead

  and she makes sure Baby Signing Adventure

  plays in the background

  even though he’s pretty out of it.

  This morning, though,

  when Mom was down the hall in the shower,

  this nurse,

  this nice lady with tired eyes

  and painted eyebrows,

  she said, Supposably, the doctor will be here soon.

  Supposably is not a word.

  Can you keep a baby alive

  if you are kind

  and you have tired eyes

  but you don’t know that supposably isn’t a real word?

  José would call me a jerk

  for being picky and weird

  but I’m just saying . . .

  How do you know?

  If someone can keep a baby alive?

  How do you ever know?

  José’s mom was not having it.

  You listen to me, Annie.

  That boy is just a boy.

  He needs rest. Food.

  He needs to be a boy.

  I’m taking him with me.

  The judge, the court, they can take it up with me.

  Her mouth was in a tight line

  but then it softened.

  Just for tonight, Annie.

  Just for tonight.

  The last part she said like she was soothing

  a hurt animal.

  Her face crinkled into a quiet smile.

  I stayed peeking behind the hospital room’s

  bathroom door.

  José’s mom put her hand on Mom’s shoulder.

  She leaned down and whispered:

  You need a break, Mami.

  Her hand squeezed.

  How about I take you both tomorrow night?

  Mom laid her cheek on José’s mom’s hand.

  Mom closed her eyes.

  Swallowed hard.

  Not crying.

  Almost crying.

  A machine alarmed and the nurse came in.

  I put my bag over my shoulder.

  Walked out of the bathroom.

  José’s mom put her other hand on my shoulder.

  We all looked at Levi as the nurse checked the alarm.

  Let’s go, mijo.

  She steered me to the door.

  I stopped to look at Mom.

  Should I leave her?

  It’s against the rules of house arrest.

  And what about Levi? What if something happens?

  Levi is in safe hands, José’s mom whispered.

  She turned to Mom and smiled her soft smile again.

  Don’t worry, Mami.

  Timothy is in safe hands, too.

  You know how when you shake a snow globe

  everything swirls around?

  José’s house is like that.

  On the outside it looks like a plain, regular house.

  On the inside everything is moving, swirling,

  talking, laughing.

  Theresa flies through the room,

  soccer cleats over her shoulder

  yelling about being late to practice.

  Sofia drops a glass and it shatters on the tile,

  she swears and starts to clean up the mess

  never taking off her headphones

  never not dancing.

  Alé is upstairs

  oomPAH oomPAH oomPAH

  playing the tuba

  and making the whole thing seem like a TV show.

  Isa swings her backpack to the floor,

  thud.

  Her hair falls around her face

  a black curtain.

  And when she smiles it’s like the curtain opens.

  And the light shines bright

  so bright

  it kind of hurts my eyes.

  It may be very possible

  the only thing in this crazy snow globe

  that’s not moving right now

  is me.

  Isa is at the table with us,

  four books open

  one in her lap

  her glasses on her head, holding her hair back.

  She looks up.

  What are you writing, Timothy?

  Nothing.

  My face is suddenly five hundred degrees.

  She smiles,

  then frowns.

  Have you seen my glasses?

  Her hands pass over the table,

  she looks on the floor.

  On your head, gordita, José says with a snort.

  Now Isa’s face turns red.

  I punch José in the arm.

  Just a playful punch.

  But Isa gathers up her books and goes upstairs.

  She walks in rhythm to Alé’s

  oomPAH oomPAH music

  but not on purpose.

  I think.

  WEEK 15

  It’s kind of soothing after a while,

  the beep beep beeping.

  The machines measuring Levi’s life.

  A nonstop rhythm.

  Even when he’s not moving

  and has all those wires on him

  and all that medicine pumping into him,

  we hear beep beep beeping.

  Heartbeats turned into heartbeeps.

  So we always know

  he’s still alive.

  José’s mom and James and Mom are talking

  in the hallway.

  James looks pale.

  He really hates hospitals.

  I almost feel bad for him.

  Almost.

  I am doing homework while they talk

  which of course means

  listening to everything they say

  I hear

  grades

  responsibility

  I know

  good kid

  judge’s approval

  and other stuff.

  José’s mom wants me to start sleeping at their house.

  Not permanent,

  but while Levi is in the hospital.

  Also, she wants me there for dinners.

  I want to do it.

  But I don’t want to do it.

  What will Mom do without me?

  Who will remind her to eat?

  I am in José’s family’s giant van.

  Heading to see Mrs. B.

  It is just as crazy as the house.

  Soccer bag, dance bag, music stand, books.

  Yelling, talking, laughing, shoving.

  Every corner of the van

  has something or someone stuffed into it.

  José’s mom is singing loud and proud

  to some song with a thumping beat.

  Everyone is acting like her voice is a weapon

  killing them, ears first.

  She is laughing and singing,

  the van driving through a storm.

  I just hold on tight,

  fingers gripping my seat belt.

  It’s like the world is swallowing me

  one laugh at a time.

  Isa cracks José on the head with a book.

  Can I laugh while Levi is so sick?

  Can I be happy with Mom so scared?

  The rain streaks across the windows.

  We are almost there, mijo.

  José’s mom runs her fingers through her hair

  while the van is stopped at a red light.

  She turns back to smile at me.

  Almost there.

  Be creative.

  The teachers at school say that all the time.

  Having trouble solving a problem?

  Be creative.

  Having trouble writing an essay?

  Be creative.

  Having trouble keeping your broth
er alive?

  Be creative.

  Well, they don’t say that last one.

  It’s true, though, you know.

  I bet if the doctors were more creative

  Levi would get better.

  All the way better.

  Mom says they’re doing their best.

  She says we’re on Levi time, just like always.

  But you know what?

  That doesn’t mean we can’t be creative.

  Having trouble listening to your mom?

  Be creative.

  Subglottic stenosis.

  Bronchiectasis.

  Failure to Thrive.

  I copied those words down from Levi’s chart.

  I don’t know how to say most of them,

  or even what they mean.

  Well, I can kind of guess at the last one,

  but it doesn’t seem like a sickness.

  It seems like a judgment.

  I’m going to look them up,

  because I don’t believe,

  not for one second,

  that Levi has to live like this every day.

  There has to be something we can do.

  Someone we can call.

  I need a computer.

  There’s only one at José’s house

  and someone is always on it.

  The one at my house hasn’t had the Internet

  in months and months.

  School has a ton.

  But I have no free time to use them.

  What do you think, Mrs. B?

  Can I use your computer?

  I know the plants won’t mind.

  Will you?

  WEEK 16

  James has on his Serious Face.

  His Probation Officer University face.

  Mr. and Mrs. Jimenez have been interviewed

  and approved.

  The judge respects the situation.

  Mom talks to him like a robot.

  Yes, no, yes, I understand.

  Her eyes are stuck to Levi.

  Like he’s her sun instead of just her son,

  like she’s a glob of plasma

  reaching and stretching to him.

  She gets her energy from knowing he’s right there.

  She can’t not touch him.

  You worry about Levi.

  We have Timothy under control.

  We have Timothy under control.

  Like I am a disease.

  James is pale again.

  He’s out of breath, like he’s run to the hospital.

  But I don’t think he’s done any running.

  I think it’s true:

  he really

  really