Chapter 10

Nick awoke the next morning with everything hurting, even the pores on his face. His head throbbed, his neck and ribs were tender, even his pupils had pins sticking in them. The light coming from the lines in the blinds was painfully bright, making his eyes water. He lay as still as he could, trying not to move. Even breathing was painful. Shards of glass stabbed at the back of his eyeballs, jabbing with each beat of his heart. He needed some aspirin and something to settle his stomach, but that would mean moving, so he stayed as still as possible, willing his headache to go away. He awoke to the sound of something vibrating and footsteps on the stairs leading to his bedroom.

“Nick? You up yet?”

His father’s words drilled into his ears. No, he was dead. He was sure of it. He was in hell for drinking and throwing up out the window of the car, leaving splatters on the side of the door. That he remembered clearly.

“No.”

His father opened the shades, and Nick pulled the blanket over his eyes. “I think I’m sick.”

“Yeah, I saw the evidence on the side of your car door.” Nick heard the accusation in his dad’s voice before he said anything. “Emily drove you home last night?” he asked, glaring. “Are you hungover?” He paused. “The car reeks of alcohol.”

“Sorry.” Nick sighed behind the covers. “I guess I got carried away.”

“You need to shower and get up. Even if you’re going to act like an idiot, you still need to be part of the family and do your chores.”

“Just give me a minute.” He started to sit up. “Can you get me water and some aspirin?” Or three or four? A whole bottle?

His father huffed but he left, and Nick heard him in the bathroom for the water and pain reliever.

“Here.” Nick heard his father set the glass on the table and the ping of several tablets.

“Thanks. Give me a minute.”

His father left, closing the door behind him, leaving Nick alone. Nick shifted his body cautiously, each movement excruciating. Nick sat at the side of the bed, breathing shallowly, willing his stomach to stop churning so he could take the tablets. The water in the glass swirled with waves of nausea. He swallowed the pills and washed them down and waited for his stomach to erupt, and when it didn’t, he was able to shower. The pinpricks of water bore into him, easing the throbbing in his head, settling his stomach.

After dressing and texting an apology to Emily, Nick crept down the stairs, where he found his parents in the study drinking coffee.

“Do you want to tell us what happened last night?” His father set his coffee cup down with deliberate slowness, his fingers tense on the handle. His mother glanced up from her magazine.

“I guess I screwed up.”

“Why?” his mother asked.

“That miserable loss.”

“Everyone has off nights,” his father said.

“But I played terrible.”

“I remember many losses,” his father said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Nick leaned against the chair and moved his head and neck around. “I guess I didn’t handle it very well last night. I got carried away.”

“We’ve all had a lot on our minds,” his mother pointed out. “Your grandmother’s stroke,” she said.

“Just take it easy with that stuff,” his father said.

“I know. I know.” But he relied on his liquid fortification to get him through some days.

“We’ll talk later. First you need to clean the mess off the car, and you should visit your grandmother.”

Nick pocketed the keys and went out to the driveway, studying the vomit across the side of the Subaru.

Nick drove to the car wash, hosed off the Subaru, and wiped out the inside. Better, he reasoned, but he still smelled a whiff of vomit, so he purchased a car freshener before heading to the hospital. In his head, he rehearsed what he would say to Grandma, the sanitized version of the game and the party afterward. He wondered if his mother had ever gotten in trouble in high school. She was levelheaded like Emily, and he couldn’t imagine his mother vomiting out the window. Emily either. Emily kept him sane when school was hard, football practice was intense, and the demands of life made him crazy. Punctual, organized Emily, leading their junior class and the designated driver of his life.

He drove to the small rehab hospital between Laketon and Grand Rapids, a twenty-minute ride, and went to her room on the second floor, 7B.

Grandma was sitting up in bed, the white blanket accentuating the paleness of her skin.

“Hi, Grandma.”

She turned from the television to him. The left side of her face sagged from her stroke, but otherwise she appeared normal.

“Nick, my boy, so good to see you! Sorry I missed the game last night.” Grandma turned down the sound of TCM—her favorite channel. A black-and-white film was playing, where everyone wore suits, smoked, and were drinking at a bar.

Nick grimaced.

“Are you sick?” Stroke or not, his grandmother didn’t miss much.

Nick shifted uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “I guess I’m sick,” he mumbled.

Her eyes bored into him. “I see.”

“We went to a party after the game.”

“Ahh,” she said. “That kind of sick.”

He looked up and gave her a pained smile. “I started reading Grandpa’s journal.”

“What did you think?”

“It’s kind of hard to read.”

Grandma nodded. “Yes, water damage from when we had a leak in the roof.” Grandma shifted. “Can you use it in your research?”

“That’s the thing, Grandma, my partner wants to research Gypsies.”

Grandma pursed her lips as if deep in thought. “I don’t remember anything about Gypsies.” She turned her head as if looking to see something written on the whiteboard. “Only said he felt sick for the people they found when they liberated the camps.” She licked her lips.

Nick shifted his feet as images of starving and sick people flashed through his mind—a terrible scene. “No, the thing with the Gypsies happened before D-Day. I wish we could use it, but my partner is set on Gypsies.”

“Hmm. Not the Jews?” Grandma asked.

“No, I guess everyone always thinks about the Jews in that war. There were others who were persecuted.” He cracked his knuckles as he talked.

“True,” she said.

“Do you want the journal back?”

“No, you keep it. He’d want you to have it,” Grandma said as she smoothed down the blankets.

Nick brightened, feeling better than he had all morning. “I’d like that.”

The curtains parted next to the bed, and an orderly came in. “Time for physical therapy.”

“Oh, I was enjoying my grandson! Do we have to?”

“I’ll come tomorrow if I get all my homework done,” Nick promised, standing and leaning over Grandma’s bed.

“All right,” Grandma said. “Will you go water my plants?”

“Sure.” He squeezed her hand lightly and gave a lopsided grin before returning to his car, where he rolled down the windows, hoping the fresh air might somehow blow away the lingering smells. He drove to the retirement community where Grandma had moved after Grandpa died.

Her front door had several notes stuck to it. Get well soon! Dinner when you return. Missed you at Bunco! The seniors here seemed to look out for each other. Mom was right; Grandma had lots of friends here.

He unlocked her front door and let himself into her small but neat apartment. There were several pots of green plants in her living area. Nick got a pitcher and began watering. On the table was an unfinished puzzle. Nick paused and fingered several pieces and studied where to place them. After fitting them into the picture, he went down the short hallway to Grandma’s bedroom where she had a giant Christmas cactus that she tended faithfully.

As he went down the hallway, lined with family photos, he stopped to study the picture of his grandfather in his uniform. In some ways, Nick resembled him—hair color, the set of their jaws. There was also a picture of Grandpa with his unit. These men looked like boys, like they could be part of the Laketon High football team, not grown men fighting a world war.

Almost all the faces reflected apprehension and stoicism; only one man gave the camera a rueful half smile. Most of these men were dead like his grandfather.

He left the pictures and began watering the cactus as a long dark hallway with cold stone floors flashed through his head. A fleeting glimpse of boys milling around as the boom of canons echoed in the background. Were they preparing for war too? It was the same boy Nick kept seeing—Jean Claude Rousseau.