Around six that evening, he found that he was ravenous. Not shocking, considering that he had eaten nothing over the past twenty-four hours. As soon as he was with Joule in the nursery, surrounded by professional caretakers monitoring his son’s vital signs, he discovered that his stomach was growling for the first time that day.
He carefully arranged Joule’s orca blanket near his content, sleeping face, and watched as the tiny fingers dreamily curled around the corner of the fabric.
He opened his backpack and found the gigantic navel oranges and slightly mushed muffin Mom had stowed away for him.
He gazed out the window. The sky was cloudless and cerulean, and the sun was glinting off the dome of the state capitol. Carver was only a few blocks east of it, and nearby was the coffee shop they liked.
Maybe she would still come.
Maybe he would look up the next moment and see her standing in the doorway, her hair silhouetted in gold and with tears in her green, green eyes. She would say she was sorry, and he would say the same, and everything would be the same again, but better. He would gather her in his arms, and then they would kneel by the incubator and marvel at their son together.
His stomach growled again. What he really wanted was some hotdish. But in the end, he ate the muffin and the oranges. It filled him up admirably, and feeling weary and strangely at peace, he easily fell asleep in the recliner chair.
—
The next days were awful. After the anesthesia wore off, Joule screamed more desperately than Casper had ever heard him, and couldn’t be comforted. He tried what they told him: he talked to him, offered his pacifier, and stroked his forehead. But he wasn’t able to feed him or even hold him. A tiny tube had been taped to Joule’s cheek and threaded through his nostril and down his esophagus to his stomach. Casper found himself swallowing a lot, miserably imagining what it would feel like for his son, trying to moisten a dry throat and feeling nothing but plastic. He reminded himself that he had known this beforehand. They had told him it would be like this.
Sometimes Joule saw him through the wall of the incubator and Casper thought he saw the tiny hand instinctively grasping toward him.
If he wasn’t being punished, it sure felt like it. You’re not special. The agony of watching his son writhe in pain and being unable to do anything about it. Things just happen. The hard, transparent barrier between them that may as well have been made of brick the way it so completely separated them. Apart from the small portholes in the side through which he could reach to adjust Joule’s blanket or stroke his tiny knuckles, he was utterly cut off from his son. Sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Do not believe it, the voiceless chill wormed into his thoughts. He is a fool. You know you must pay for what you did.
Lord, I’m a sinner.
Casper dreaded the dressing changes. They carefully peeled away the adhesive tape and removed the bandage, revealing the wound. It was longer than Casper’s index finger, and he wondered how those tiny sutures were really enough to hold his son together. The wound appeared deep, tender, and scarlet-red. Yet somehow, the staff never failed to remark on how beautiful it was. Healing perfectly, they assured him.
“He looks great,” Dr. Shakir said with evident pleasure. “He’s putting on weight, and his EKGs and echos are looking good. There’s no reason he couldn’t be moved out of the ICU tomorrow.”
“Really? Are you sure? Will I be able to hold him?” Casper couldn’t think of anything else but the day they would let him hold him again. He would give anything to have him strapped to his chest in the carrier, or to be changing his diaper, or to be washing gross yellow stuff off his back at five a.m.
Dr. Shakir smiled.
“We’ll plan on removing the feeding tube in the morning. Would that suit you, Mr. Jorgenson?” He jiggled Joule’s foot, then straightened and clapped Casper on the shoulder. “When’s the last time you ate something?”
“I don’t know. I’m okay.”
“That’s what I thought. You should take a walk. Get a coffee. Have some eggs. I assure you, he’s in good hands.”
Casper did as Dr. Shakir said. He walked down to the cafeteria, bought a coffee and a microwaved breakfast burrito and consumed them standing up by the elevators. Then he went back upstairs.
—
He frowned at the email, utterly baffled. Interview tomorrow. 2 p.m. on the third floor. Ask for Mike at reception. Best of luck, Helen.
“Who the heck is Mike?” he muttered at his computer screen.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table. It was buried under his sketchbook and a copy of Perelandra.
>> jorgenson! have you heard anything more about moving out of the icu? how’s joule doing? thinking about you both.
He smiled.
>> Rice! Thanks for checking in. He’s good. Looks like I might be back on diaper duty tomorrow.
He stared at the computer screen. Mike. He scratched his head and yawned. Two o’clock p.m. He wasn’t thinking any farther ahead than eight o’clock, the following morning. Joule was scheduled to be getting his feeding tube removed.
>> did you hear we lost cole becket to ohio state? unbelievable.
>> Yeah, we’re pretty thin at wide receiver right now. But I heard we might get Dion Tatum from LSU.
Mike…who is Mike?
“Mike!” he exclaimed under his breath. 2 p.m. His interview at Carver. He couldn’t believe it had completely slipped his mind.
>> in our dreams, jorgenson.
He smiled again and glanced out the hospital window. A storm front was moving in from the west. The smooth, lofted rain clouds were gray against the golden sky as they approached over the lake. He had loved riding his Rimshot just before a storm. He sped along the trail that skimmed the lakeshore, watching the rain move in as the breeze raked his hair and face. The fragrance of the damp, pensive air was exhilarating. Reagan had never liked that he did that.
“One day you’re going to get struck by lightning and die. Or lose your eyebrows!”
“Anything but that.”
“Babe…”
“These thunderstorms are nothing, Ray. We have a bunker under our house to survive tornadoes. We spend hours down there drinking pop and playing Dutch Blitz. It’s awesome. Some day you’re going to come to my house and I’ll show you.”
The rain began to batter and stream down the window. White fissures crackled noiselessly in the distance, trailed by hammering thunder.
He closed his laptop and leaned back in the recliner, gazing at Joule. The monitor measured his heartbeat, beeping steadily, the bright green thread spiking and falling in perfect rhythm.
He reached through the porthole and tucked the orca blanket loosely around Joule’s tummy, allowing a corner of it to graze his face. In his sleep, Joule burrowed his face into the soft fabric. Casper watched his small chest rise slowly, the pacifier wobbling in his mouth.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would hold him again.
—
Joule coughed and sputtered, whimpering after the nurse pulled out the feeding tube. She coiled it up in her hand and disposed of it, then offered Casper a onesie. It was the first time Joule had been permitted to wear clothes since before the surgery.
“Okay, Dad,” she said to Casper, “you want to do the honors?”
“I brought some from home, if that’s okay,” he said, producing one in Hawkeyes black and gold. As he stood over Joule, the plexiglass barrier finally removed, he wanted to lean his face into his son and inhale his scent. But the thick pad of white gauze and tape on his chest still made him appear so fragile, that Casper found he was afraid to touch him. “Are you sure I can—I’m not going to hurt him?”
“Doc gave him the green light.”
“He just looks so — what if I break him?” As soon as she realized he was serious, she smiled indulgently at Casper, as if she were amazed a person could be so stupid. “Seriously, he just had his chest cracked open, and there’s nothing but a bandaid covering it. Maybe you should do it.”
“If you say so.” She started pulling the onesie over Joule’s head with professional speed, blithely assured that she wasn’t going to accidentally yank off a limb in her haste.
“Why are you doing it like that?” he suddenly snapped, shoving her hands out of the way. Casper was surprised at himself, but he had no intention of letting her near Joule again. “Sorry. But you’re going to hurt him.” The nurse strode off with a huff. He shrugged. Fair enough. He carefully eased Joule’s shoulders and arms into the sleeves, wincing as he pulled the fabric over the bandage. When he had finished securing the snaps, he stood back to see Joule grinning at him, the left dimple deep in his chubby cheeks, looking as if nothing had ever happened.
Casper leaned close and blew a raspberry on Joule’s belly, as gentle as he could manage. Joule gurgled. Casper grinned and did it again. Joule cackled. Casper took his son’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead, clasping him tightly and breathing him in deeply.
Thank You, he breathed. Thank You. Thank You.
You have not done enough. You are not finished.
Lord, I’m a sinner.
And you will never be changed.
Lord, I’m a sinner. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do I keep on doing.
Follow Me.
You cannot follow Him.
He closed his eyes. He looked down at where he had punished himself. The edges of the wounds were beaded with dark, congealed blood. As he placed his hand over his chest, he could feel it was still there. Fresh and alive.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
But it is not enough. You cannot follow Him.
O wretched man that I am.
Follow Me.
The calm, mighty hand was laid on his head. His gaze instantly dropped to the ground. He saw a pair of feet in front of him. They were dusty from the path. He furrowed his brow and stared hard, unsure of what he was seeing. So he put out his hand and touched them. His fingers trembled as they grazed the place. Cruel holes had been driven straight through and had scarred over. Deep, tender, scarlet red. No. No, no. His heart surged within him, pained with grief and shock. Not You. He looked up to His face, but the light was too great.
The things he had learned and recited back, the facts of Roman execution and memory verses about propitiation — it crashed upon him. He couldn’t breathe. He had never understood, but he thought he had. He thought he knew it all. He hid his eyes with his hands, afraid of what He would do. He trembled in terror, thinking of the pitiful wounds he had inflicted on himself, so shallow and futile, a crude, childish mockery he had committed in his ignorance. I didn’t understand. I should have known, but I didn’t. It should be me. Not You. Even then, he still shook with fear. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He reached out blindly for a fistful of his garment. Please don’t cast me out. Please don’t send me away. I have nowhere else to go.
Two irresistible hands grasped his arms and pulled him to his feet.
Put your finger here, and see My hands.
The hands turned, revealing the palms. Cruel holes, driven straight though to daylight on the other side.
Stop doubting and believe.
He bowed his face into the great palms and clung to them.
Follow Me.
—
His right hand was falling asleep, so he shifted Joule in his arms. Ever since Casper had been permitted to hold him again, he found it nearly impossible to do anything else. He had to be careful how he held Joule in order not to put pressure on the wound, but he was getting used to it. The nurses had also shown him how to change Joule’s dressing, so he was also getting used to the sight of the scar. Though it still turned his stomach to see the tiny sutures embedded in his son’s skin, the wound did seem to be healing. The skin was slowly closing on its own, the red glare smoothing into pink.
So he cradled him in his arms and talked shop, beginning to allow himself the slightest trust that the worst was over.
“It’s not a parallel universe, per se. It takes place in our solar system, but the rules are different,” Casper said, thumbing through the pages of Perelandra with his free hand. Joule grinned. “For example, it involves all the same planets but they have inhabitants and different names.”
He checked his watch. The interview would have been starting right about then. It was strange how easy it had been for him to decide to cancel it. To leave Grover after what they had done for him? The first thing he was going to do when he got home was cash those checks. Brent Grosse had been understanding and assured him that they could still use him. Maybe he really had changed since high school.
He confessed his abandoned plan to Nick first, then to Mom and Dad. Nick had told him in no uncertain terms that to move back to Madison would have been stupid, which was accurate, while Mom and Dad had, more tactfully, expressed relief that he had changed his mind. He was looking forward to getting back home.
“Right in here, sir.” He heard Breonna, his favorite nurse, speaking behind him. He turned to see her smile at him and disappear, leaving him alone. With Mark in the doorway. Casper felt his stomach seize.
“H-hey,” he stammered.
“I won’t be long,” Mark promised, adjusting the mask over his face and dragging the oxygen tank behind him. Casper clutched Joule tighter and instinctively backed against the window. “I came, in part, to apologize for the other day.” The glass was cool on his back.
“It’s okay, Mark.”
“I didn’t need to say what I did. I had no right. You didn’t ask me to come, and pt I swear it wasn’t my intent to make the situation worse.”
“It’s okay.”
“Will you stop saying that?” Mark snapped. He hung his head and sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m no good at this kind of thing. Reagan would kill me if she could hear me.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a white envelope, and held it toward Casper. “I came to give you this.” He saw his name in her handwriting. Casper took it immediately. It was thin.
“What is it?” Casper asked.
“Just open it.”
He recognized the butterfly stationery from the magnetic notepad on the fridge. He shook his head as he read it, amazed.
Casper, I wish you all the best. – Reagan
Taped to the note, he found a check for thirty-five hundred dollars. She didn’t have that kind of money.
“I don’t understand.” He held out the check toward Mark.
“Technically, it belongs to you. She sold the Rimshot.” Casper’s stomach plummeted.
“She what?” His voice was weak, tight as if he were on the edge of tears. Joule squirmed in his arms and began to whine, disturbed by the sudden intensity in his voice. “Sorry, Bud,” he said, nervously jostling Joule to calm him. Suddenly aware of the delicate wound still healing on his chest, he slowed his movement. “W-Why would she sell it?”
“Reagan thought you would need the money.” Casper nodded slowly. He sighed, feeling a strange sense of relief, though the idea sickened him — the image of some affluent dweeb who had a spare thirty-five hundred bucks lying around, speeding around on his Rimshot. Casper set the envelope on the windowsill.
“So, she’s done.”
“You need to understand something.” Mark took a deep breath, but it was broken by a cough. Casper cleared the recliner of his computer, two backup pacifiers, and a spare muslin blanket, and gestured to it. Mark nodded and shuffled into it. He settled back against the chair and cleared his throat. “Her mother was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And brilliant. She was brilliant.” Sounds familiar. “After college, we were going to New York. She was going to be a playwright and I was going to be head editor of the Times.” Mark paused, and Casper thought of the sagging porch crowded with stacks of marked-up newsprint. He took a seat on the windowsill. “When she got pregnant, it didn’t bother us at all. We were so happy. She chose the name. A heroine from a book she liked. But when Reagan was three months old—,” his voice trembled, and he adjusted the oxygen tank on the floor. He sniffed, then coughed again. “When Reagan was three months old, she told me she was done. She said she would never make it to New York if she had to worry about us. So she left.”
Casper stared at Mark, without words.
“I got a job as a copy editor here. My family is a bunch of grasping, squeezing low-lifes, so with no support to speak of, Reagan was raised by strangers, neighbors. Whoever I could get. Then, right around the time she was in fourth grade, I got sick. The way it was, I couldn’t hold down a job for longer than a few months. And Reagan—,” he paused, his eyes hardening. “Do you want to know where that woman ended up? She married a filthy rich producer and has three kids. Lives on the Upper West Side. The oldest just graduated from Columbia. Isn’t that nice?” Mark’s face was grim and hard. “Like I said, if there is a hell, I hope she’s there waiting for me.” A chill shot through Casper’s heart. He opened his mouth to respond, but Mark waved him off. “I spent a year hoping to win her back. But then,” Mark paused, his eyes curling in an ironic smile, “I got a note in the mail. And a hundred-dollar bill.” He tugged on his ring finger.
He thought of Mark, twenty-five years younger. He thought of her growing up in strange houses. Casper stroked the bridge of Joule’s nose and watched the deep hazel eyes slowly growing heavier.
“I’m sorry, Mark. I know how I’d feel if that happened to Joule.”
“Don’t you see?” Mark held out his hand toward Joule. “It’s the same thing all over again. She’s merely doing what her mother did.”
“This is different. If I hadn’t—,” he stopped himself. “Reagan doesn’t deserve all of the blame. If I had—if things were different, maybe she would have made a different choice.” Mark shook his head.
“As much as I hate to admit it, Reagan did inherit a few characteristics from her mother. In that letter she wrote, Isabelle told me that she hated herself for leaving us, but she was going to do it anyway. And trust me — Reagan hates herself for giving up Joule, and believe it or not, even selling that bike of yours tore her up. But she did it anyway. And just like Isabelle, when she’s says she’s done she means it.”
“I believe you,” Casper said, meaning it. “Mark, I’m really sorry.” Mark waved him off.
“I didn’t tell you all of this to excuse Reagan. And I don’t expect this to make you feel better. I’m only telling you what I wish I had known, so you don’t waste any more of your lives. Don’t move back here. Don’t leave your family. You’re going to need them. Both of you will need them.”
“I know that.”
Mark hobbled to his feet. Casper reached out to steady him.
“Sincerely, I wish you both the best,” he said, glancing briefly down at Joule. “And I’m—I’m glad I could be here. Though you may not be. Now, now,” he said, when Casper began to deny it, “You don’t need to lie.”
“I can walk you down.”
“You stay put. And give your parents my best.”
—
As soon as he got back to Grover, he cashed all the checks, including hers.
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Katie Bertola 