319 Winesap Lane - 12. Chapter 12 - A Mere Wisp of a Boy

Erik’s POV

After Dad and Jerry left, that SOB Dr. Tinsdale said I was wrong to threaten him with committing a sexual offense. I told him to get the fuck out of my life or I would ruin his reputation and if he so much as got close enough to me I would hit him in a place he’d regret for the rest of his miserable life. He stared at me and said, “You’ve been living with that devil worshipper for too long, boy.”

“Get out of this room!” I yelled. “Get away from me, you religious freak.”

The door opened and a nurse stuck her head in. She looked at both of us and asked, “Is everything okay?”

“No, this crazy fundamentalist bastard is trying to ruin my life,” I said. “It’s bad enough for him to tell me I’m going blind, but now he wants to take me away from the man who wants to adopt me. Get him out of here!”

Dr. Tinsdale glared at me and finally walked out of the room. The nurse came over to me and said, “You mustn’t get upset. You might harm your eyes.”

“Get me a different ophthalmologist. I want a new ophthalmologist who isn’t going to spout religious bullshit at me. He has no right preaching that stuff at me in a public hospital. Send him across town; I’m sure there’s got to be a hospital in Rochester associated with some religious group.”

“Erik, please calm down.”

“I can’t. Don’t you see, he said he was going to take me away from my dad. You can’t let him do that. You can’t. I tell you what. Call my social worker. His name is Bill Daniels. He lives in Warnton. You gotta save me.”

“I’ll be right back,” she said and left the room.

I knew what she was going to do. She was going to get a sedative and knock me out. Well, maybe that was a good thing, too.

Another nurse came in and said, “I have your HGH injection. I need to put it in your thigh.”

I pushed the blanket and sheet down; and, she pulled my gown up exposing my thigh. She daubed some alcohol on a spot and without further fanfare she pushed the needle in and injected the chemical. When she pulled out the needle she put a small circle bandage over the spot.

“There that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked.

“No.”

“Be back in an hour.”

“In an hour?”

“Yep, you’ll get these hourly from when you wake until you go to sleep for the next four weeks. Then you’ll go to the clinic in Newark where your hormone levels will be tested and then your endocrinologist will determine the spacing of further injection treatments. Don’t tell anybody I said this, but good going on putting Tinsdale in his place. He’s always spouting that religious shit as if we care what he says.”

She left and I turned on the television, but I couldn’t see what was on the screen so I pushed my call button. A nurse came in and I asked her if there were some music channels on the television and she said there were quite a few. She asked what kind of music I wanted to listen to and I told her light classical. She set the channel, adjusted the volume, smiled, and left.

I lay back on the pillow, shut my eyes, and listened to the orchestrations trying to pick out the individual instruments in the woodwind sections. It wasn’t much of a hobby, but I suppose that was as good as I was going to get. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself and felt a tear trickle down my right cheek. I brushed it away.

“Hello; are you awake?” a voice said on the left side of my bed.

I opened my eyes and looked at an older woman holding what looked like a small acoustic guitar. She smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Mindy Smallwood and I’m an occupational therapist here at the hospital. I understand you’ve got something seriously wrong with your eyes and that you’re going to lose your vision. I brought you this guitar to learn. You’ll be able to play it when you’re blind, but more importantly when you get bigger you can get a full-size guitar and maybe get in a band.”

“What kind of band is going to want a blind guitarist?”

“Doc Watson was a very accomplished guitarist. He won seven Grammy awards, a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award, the National Medal of Arts from President Bill Clinton, and an honorary doctor of music degree from Berklee College of Music; and, he did all of that while he was blind. He lost his vision before his first birthday.”

“Wow, that’s amazing.”

“Yes, it is. Would you like to learn how to play this?”

“Sure, but what happens when I go back to Warnton?”

“You live in Warnton?”

“Uh, huh.”

“What a coincidence, so do I. Maybe I could come over to your house and give you lessons until you find a regular instructor.”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

“Good, now here’s your guitar.”

“Is this all mine?”

“Yes, it is. Here, sit up straight and rest it on your right thigh. I’ll teach you how to play it. What kind of music do you like?”

“Mostly jazz and classical.”

“Okay, jazz guitar is mostly learning progressions and improvising on those themes. It’s mostly free-form, unlike classical, which is more structured and requires you to follow a formal written form. Let’s work on jazz first and then we’ll move on from there.”

“What kind of music did Doc Watson play?”

“Bluegrass.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“It’s the music of the back hollows of the Appalachian Mountains. It’s very melodic and in many ways is much like blues and jazz.”

“Okay, what do I do first?”

“You need to learn how to tune your guitar. I’ve put a clip-on tuner on the head of your guitar to help you get it in tune, but you need to listen to the sounds of the strings so that you will learn how to tune it without the tuner. The strings count from the bottom up: E-B-G-D-A-E. Here’s your pick. Turn on the tuner by pressing this button. Now, starting at the first string, pluck it with your pick and turn the tuning mechanism at the head until the string comes into tune. Go ahead; I’ll watch just to make sure you’re doing okay.”

I did as she said and soon all six strings were in tune. “What now?” I asked.

“Here, these sheets show the notes as they are played on your guitar,” she said as she handed me some papers that had graphic images I couldn’t quite make out below notes as they appear on staffs.

“What do these cross-hatches mean?” I asked.

“Look at them carefully and then look at your guitar. Do you see any familiarity?”

“Uh, do these vertical lines correspond to the strings?”

“Yes.”

“Then those horizontal lines would be these bar things on the guitar, right?”

“Those are called frets.”

“What do the circles with the numbers mean?”

“Those are your fingers that play that note.”

“This first graphic doesn’t have any fingers showing on the string, so I just strum it without placing any of my fingers on it and I’ll play the ‘E’ note?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so if I pluck the ‘E’ string, I play an ‘E’; and then pressing down my first finger in the top fret …”

“That’s the first fret.”

“Okay, I press the ‘E’ string down in the first fret I’ll play an ‘F’; my second finger in the second fret plays an ‘F#’; and, my third finger on the third fret plays a ‘G’.”

“That right, now you have more than enough information for you to learn all the notes from open strings to the third frets. Learn each of the notes and play your scales so you can memorize those notes. See you next time, Erik.”

“Thank you for the guitar,” I said.

I looked at the charts and starting at low ‘E’ I ran the scale up to ‘G’ on the first string. Soon, I could hear the familiarity of the notes from when I played the clarinet and knew this was going to work. The horribleness of going blind suddenly seemed to be only to be a change in my persona. Unlike Doc Watson who had to learn the guitar when he was blind, I had the advantage of being able to see the music with what was left of my eyes before I would have to see the music with my ears and fingers.

* * * *

As I played the scales, I slowly began to hear the melody to ‘Amazing Grace’ come out of the structured music. I continued to play the scales, but slowly the melody came out stronger and soon I was playing ‘Amazing Grace’ on my guitar. I continued to play that song until another song slowly came into of my awareness. Maybe it was one of the drugs they were giving for the pain in my knee, but I became aware that I was on the verge of playing ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’. I remembered the notes on the clarinet and saw them on the guitar graphics, but then saw there was a problem with the guitar. What were those notes below the third fret?

Finally, they brought my dinner and I had to put away the guitar. The nurse took it and set it in the chair beside the bed. I ate my meal thinking of all the songs I knew from playing clarinet and how I was going to adapt them to the guitar.

I pushed my tray away from the bed and leaned over to retrieve the guitar, but I couldn’t quite reach it. I leaned further, but the bed rail was in the way. I figured out how to lower it and then did that. Now, rolling over my right leg—which had a thigh to ankle cast on it—I reached across the space between the chair and the bed. I tried to stretch my fingers out those final few inches and I just touched the head of the guitar when I felt myself rolling out of the bed. I tried to roll back, but I had so overextended myself I was slipping out of the bed and falling to the floor.

I screamed when my right leg broke through the cast and I fell into a disjointed heap on the floor. The pain in my right leg was excruciating, but when I looked at my right arm I knew it was worse.

A nurse ran into the room, looked at me, and then left. But, she was right back with two more nurses. They worked over me analyzing my situation and then one asked, “What were you trying to do, kill yourself?”

“I wanted to get my guitar,” I cried through the blinding pain.

“Why didn’t you use your call button?”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

“That’s what the call button is for.”

I hadn’t noticed, but one of the nurses left and was soon back with a doctor. She knelt beside me and looked at my arm and wrist. Then she said, “Compound fracture to the forearm, possible fracture of the wrist.”

She moved down to my leg and just shook her head. Then she said, “I don’t know what’s going on here. We’ll need to get him down to x-ray. Let’s get him up on a gurney.”

“I can’t feel my feet,” I said.

“Get a backboard,” the doctor said.

With care, they slipped the backboard under me and using it to support my body they raised me up and put me on the gurney. They wheeled me out of my room and I saw Dr. Tinsdale over at the counter speaking with a nurse. He turned and looked right at me. Then he did exactly what I expected him to do, he walked over to the gurney and placed his right hand over my eyes.

“Oh, Lord, our Father in Heaven, I beseech Thee to bring healing to this poor …”

“Get your fucking perverted religious ass hands off me!” I screamed. “You have no right to touch me!”

“Doctor, if you would please step away from the boy,” said the doctor who came into my room.

“He’s my patient,” Dr. Tinsdale said calmly with his hand still on my face.

“Get him away from me!” I screamed as I shook my head and body to get away from him.

“He is a poor unfortunate sinner that needs my intervention,” Dr. Tinsdale said.

“If you don’t get away from this boy, I’m calling security,” my doctor said.

“You’re just an intern, you have no right to say that,” Dr. Tinsdale said as he took away his hand, “but, to maintain peace in this facility I will refrain from directly touching the boy while I pray for his broken soul.”

I watched Dr. Tinsdale walk over to the wall beside the door to my room and kneel down. I couldn’t hear what he was saying and, quite frankly, didn’t give a rat’s ass what he was saying. I’d had enough of his kind of Christianity at Mr. Arnold’s church. I knew he was just doing it for show. There wasn’t a compassionate bone in his body.

They took me down to x-ray first, but after taking pictures of my arm and wrist, they took me down into the basement where they kept the MRI machine. They scanned my back and right leg. Then it was up to an operating room where I was put to sleep.

* * * *

I don’t know how long they kept me drugged up, but when I awoke I saw Dad looking at me. I looked around the room and saw Mrs. Campbell sitting over in the corner.

I wanted to talk, but they had a breathing tube in my mouth. I figured whatever I’d done to myself falling out of bed must have been pretty bad. Dad was standing close enough that I could reach over with my hand and nudge his leg.

“Well, look at you, you’re awake,” Dad said. “I guess you might want to come home soon.”

I tried to talk through the tube, but it just wouldn’t work.

“Don’t you be worrying yourself; everything is okay and you’ll be staying with me. Now, I want you to relax. I’ll go tell the nurse you’re awake. Maybe, they’ll take out the breathing tube.”

I shut my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. I heard the door open and someone said, “Erik, are you awake?”

I opened my eyes and looked up into the face of a man. He returned my gaze and said, “Want to get rid of that tube in your mouth?”

I nodded my head and he went about removing the tape that was holding it in my mouth. Then he stuck a tube down inside the breathing tube. Finally, he pulled out the smaller tube, the breathing tube, and then using the smaller tube sucked the crud out of my mouth and throat.

“There, how’s that?” he asked.

I tried to talk, but it was mostly just a gurgle, which caused me to cough a couple times to clear my throat. Finally, I cleared my throat, again, and said, “That was something I don’t want to do ever again.”

“Then stay out of hospitals,” he said.

“What day is it?” I asked.

“Saturday.”

“Saturday? Do you mean I’ve been out for over a week?”

“Two weeks, to be exact.”

I didn’t know what to say and was saved that trouble when Jerry stuck his head in the door; and, said, “Hey, champ, looks like they’re getting you unplugged. How you doing?”

“Okay,” I rasped; but he wasn’t okay. Jerry’s head was in a big bandage. He looked worse than I felt.

“Yeah, it’s kind of hard talking after having that tube down your throat. Geoff is out in the hall talking to your doctor. He’ll be in in a minute.”

“What happened to you? You look awful.”

“I went down to New York with Geoff and got shot by a hoodlum. I’m sort of okay, now. They’ve got me in a room here.”

Jerry wheeled his wheelchair over to the corner and opened the book he had in his lap. I looked over at the chair next to the bed, but didn’t see the guitar.

“Jerry, where’s my guitar?” I asked.

“Oh, Geoff, took it home after he was recertified as your temporary foster parent. I guess that Tinsdale dude raised one heck of the stink, but then when he had to show up and put his name on the papers, he didn’t. They’re saying it’s as if he vanished from the face of the earth.”

“Are we still living with the Campbells?”

“No, and Geoff is having the contractor make up a temporary bedroom for you and me in the exercise room on the first floor until we’re able to get up and down the stairs safely.”

That’s when Dad and a doctor came into the room. Dad came over to the bed, bent down, kissed my forehead, and said, “How’s my boy?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“If you get yourself together they might be willing to release you on Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. Would you like to come home?”

“It’d be nice to be out of here. Dad, what about Dr. Tinsdale?”

“He’s gone and no one seems to know where he went. It’s like he just gathered up all his belongings, put them in his car, and drove away. I don’t want you to worry about him ruining your life ever again.”

“Oh, okay. When can I get out of this bed?”

“Doctor?” Dad asked.

“Well, young man, it depends on whether you’re going to try and fall out of the bed, again,” the doctor said.

“I won’t to that, promise,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Dr. Bev Dillard, I’m your pediatrician. You can call me Dr. Bev, everyone does. We’ll be seeing each other in the weeks and months ahead.”

“Okay, I was just wondering.”

I lay back against the pillow and heard Jerry say, “Geoff, watch out I think he’s going back to sleep.”

“That’s okay, he’s probably still got a lot of drugs in his system and he’s not much more than a mere wisp of a boy.”

I thought of that and let sleep take me away, again.