Mind Over Matter - 6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Although we primarily stocked books – romance, science fiction, mystery and that sort of thing – we also sold comic books, newspapers, magazines and textbooks to keep people coming into the store. I’d been there, like I said, for about a year and things were going along pretty good. Mr. D left me to run the store while he took care of the book auctions, something of a personal hobby for him. Life was good.

I should have known it wouldn’t last.

I was sitting behind the counter, reading the daily paper, when this guy walked in. Something about him didn’t sit right with me, but since he wasn’t trying to do anything suspicious – like duck out of sight – I really didn’t pay that much attention to him. He went to one of the magazine racks and started looking through them. I knew he was looking at the hot rod magazines (I was the one who stocked them, after all). I didn’t pay him much attention, save for taking note of where he was. I had another guy come in and grab a paper, and when he left I saw this other one watching.

A couple of minutes later, I looked up to find him standing in front of me. He looked me right in the eye and said “Give me the money.” I didn’t think he was serious at first – this wasn’t a big city, like I said. I just stared at him for a second. That’s when he pulled out the gun.

We didn’t have a lot of money in the till, so I wasn’t real worried about that. My problem was Mr. D. He’s getting on in years, and I was worried that something like this might give him a heart attack or something. So far the guy was talking quiet and I wanted to keep it that way. “Alright,” I said and reached for the till.

You know how cash registers make a kind of dinging noise when they’re opened? Well, this one did, too, and next thing I know Mr. D’s hollering from the back room. “Joe?” he called. “What’re you doing?” I don’t know what made him ask that. I’d been opening and closing the register all morning without comment. Bad timing, I guess.

I looked up at the robber. He was looking at the office door. I knew any minute Mr. D would be coming through that doorway wanting to see what’s going on, so I grabbed the bills in the register and held them out to the guy. “Here,” I whispered. “Just take it and go.”

He took it, alright. Then he started backing away from the counter. Just when I thought this was going to go down without any trouble, Mr. D did exactly what I thought he’d do. The robber’s eyes widened and I turned around to see my boss standing in the doorway. When I looked back, the guy was lifting the gun up to point it at Mr. D and I… panicked.

In movies and on TV when someone points a gun at someone else, and another someone grabs their arm, they always push it up and out of the way. I’m not that smart. When I saw that guy draw a bead on Mr. D, I reached across the counter and pushed down so he wasn’t aiming at Mr. D anymore. He was, however, lined up on me.

I pushed and he reacted. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. D duck back into his office. At the same time I heard the gun go off and felt something slam into me. I let go of him and he made as if to go after Mr. D, but I said, “Run.” He looked at me for a second. I could tell he was scared shitless. I said it again and he took off. Then I leaned against the counter and tried to breathe.

Mr. D came back at that point, swearing and cursing. I could hear sirens, so I knew he’d called the cops. He hustled over to me, calling me everything under the sun and telling me I was an idiot. I couldn’t argue with him, so I just nodded my head. I was still having trouble getting enough air.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he shouted at me. I shook my head. My legs were starting to shake and it was all I could do to stay standing. “Some asshole pulls a gun and you grab him? What are you, stupid? You got a death wish or something?” He was standing next to me now, yelling in my ear. I knew I’d scared the shit out of him, so I forgave him. I kind of wished he wasn’t so loud, though. “Any moron knows if you’re being robbed, just hand over the goddamn money and let him go!”

“…Did.” That was all I could manage. Now I had to work on restocking my air supply. The sirens quit suddenly and then the door opened.

“He’s gone, Robert,” Mr. D said. “Took the money and hightailed it out of here. He’s got a gun.”

The sheriff, Robert Stone, said something to a couple of deputies standing outside. They left – presumably to find the robber – and then walked up to the counter. “What happened?” he asked.

“Asshole walked in, waved a gun around and robbed us, is what happened,” Mr. D snapped. “He just took off down the street.”

“He had a gun?” Sheriff Stone was apparently about as intelligent as his name implied. “Did he shoot anything?”

Mr. D shook his head but I nodded. “He missed,” Mr. D said. I shook my head.

The sheriff looked at me. Probably thought I couldn’t make up my mind. He seemed to reconsider, though, and asked, “You okay, son?”

I looked up at him. It wasn’t easy, since my neck had turned to rubber and my vision was starting to blur. “No,” I whispered.

“Joe?” Sheriff Stone came around the counter.

Mr. D said again, “He missed.” His voice sounded like he was insisting I agree with him. I didn’t want to get into another argument – I was already feeling pretty cold.

The sheriff caught me as my legs finally gave out.

*** 

I opened my eyes slowly. From the smell, I’d already guessed I was in the hospital. The question was – which one? The walls in here weren’t a disgusting green color, so I knew right away it wasn’t the one in town – I’d had to go in for stitches once when I cut my finger opening a can of soup, so I knew what the inside looked like. This one had white walls and pastel-colored curtains drawn around my bed.

I tried moving a bit, but it felt like someone had put a boulder on my stomach – complete with spikes. It only took a second to decide not to try it again. I looked around as best I could without moving but the curtain pretty much blocked off the rest of the room. Since that was out, I started a personal inventory. I had an IV in the back of one hand, a clip with a light on my index finger and a huge swath of bandages covering the lower ribs on my left side. For some reason, I poked at it. I damn near passed out.

Something must have let the staff know I was awake, because in a couple of minutes the door opened (I could just see the hinges past the curtain) and then a nurse came around to the side of my bed. She smiled at me, told me the doctor would be in shortly and then left again. I’d just about fallen back to sleep when this other woman came in, followed by the same nurse. “Mr. Sinclair?” she said. “Or would you prefer Joseph?”

“Joe.” My voice was pretty scratchy, but I managed to get it out.

“Joe.” She nodded. “I’m Doctor Wingate. This is Mrs. Leroy,” she added, indicating the nurse. “We just want to check out a few things and then you can go back to sleep, alright?” She didn’t wait for an answer, though. Just nodded at Mrs. Leroy and then flipped back the blanket.

Well, I won’t go into details, but I was poked, prodded, undressed, dressed – you name it. Not high on my list of ‘things I’ve tried that I want to do again’, that’s for sure.

When they were done, Doctor Wingate pulled the blanket back up, patted me on the shoulder and said, “You can rest now. We’re all finished.” They left the room then, but I was too wound up from the jabbing and prodding to be able to go back to sleep.

I looked around for a bit, tried flipping through the channels on the TV and then hit the call button again. When Mrs. Leroy showed up, I asked her if anyone had been in to visit me.

“I’m afraid not, dear,” she said. She looked sorry. “Is there someone you’d like me to call?”

I shook my head. Another thought had occurred to me. “Mr. D – I mean, Mr. Dawson hasn’t been brought into the hospital, has he?” I asked.

She frowned. “I could check. Why?”

“It’s just… he’s my boss, and…” I didn’t know how else to say it. “Well, he’s kinda old, and I’m afraid the shock of what happened might’ve…”

Mrs. Leroy patted me on the arm. “I’ll go see,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” In fact, she’d been gone about ten when I heard some kind of commotion out in the hall. I muted the television in an attempt to hear better, but I needn’t have bothered. The door to my room flew open suddenly and I jumped. Not a good idea, all things considered.

I stared at the woman in the doorway for a second and then whispered, “Hey, Mom.”

***

She stood by the door for a few minutes, glanced around the room (she didn’t want to look at me, I could tell) and said, “The hospital called us.”

“Sorry. I didn’t tell them to.”

“They said you had us listed as ‘next-of-kin’,” she went on as though I hadn’t said anything. “I decided to see for myself how you were doing.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t know where this was going. Hope began forming in my chest but I squashed it down firmly. I think it wound up somewhere underneath the bandages. “How’s things?”

She still wasn’t looking at me. “You have a job?” she asked. Stupid, when you think about it. I was working when I got shot.

“Yeah.”

“Someone said you’re living in an apartment over a bookstore.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Yes,” I replied slowly. “My boss owns the building – he rented it to me.”

She nodded. “So you’re self-sufficient.” It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t bother answering. “You finished high school as well.”

What the hell? “What is it that you want?” I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t owe her any favors, either.

Stepping forward, she rummaged in her purse for a moment and then held out an envelope. “You aren’t under our insurance policy,” she said tightly. “You’ll have to pay for your own expenses.” I took the envelope from her and she turned toward the door. “Good bye,” she added.

“Wait!” I sat up, trying to stop her from leaving. White-hot agony lanced through my gut and I cried out, falling back on the bed. Through the dark haze creeping in on my vision I could see the door swing closed behind her.

***

The envelope, it turned out, contained a letter from my parents’ lawyer. In short, it said that I was no longer their responsibility either financially or ‘morally’ and that for all intents and purposes I was no longer related to them.

I guess it was because of the shooting, but reading those words seemed to throw a switch in my brain. When I was done, I laid the papers down on the bed beside me, curled up on my good side and stared out the window. It was like I’d been attached to the world by a very thin string and someone had cut it. I felt numb inside. I know people had been in and out of my room, but my brain didn’t register them. Probably a nurse or two and a doctor, maybe. I didn’t care. By the time I came out of my… trance, I guess… it was dark outside and the hospital had a feel to it, like everyone and everything was sleeping.

I tossed the blankets off, ignoring the pain in my side. I pulled out the IV needle and let it drop, followed by the catheter tube, then tossed the finger clip thing onto the bed. It took a couple of tries, but I managed to get to my feet and into the bathroom. I locked the door, sat down on the toilet and lifted my gown.

There was blood on my bandages. I had a sort of detached curiosity about what was underneath and began picking at the tape that held it in place. When I got it off, I leaned back and stretched the skin around my stitches, watching in fascination as blood welled between them. The more I poked and prodded, the more blood appeared. I twisted around a bit and managed to get a grip on the bandage taped to my back. A few sharp tugs were all it took to pull that off as well, and then I got to my feet.

The bathroom had a tub complete with shower. I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it and then climbed under the spray. There was a small bar of soap and something else in a bottle sitting on the edge of the tub. I didn’t know what was in the bottle, but I took the soap and began scrubbing myself down. Not all of the wetness on my face was from the shower, however, and I began scrubbing my face as well. I couldn’t help thinking I didn’t have the right to cry about what was happening – what had happened – and that I’d somehow brought all of this down on myself.

Mr. D’s words about how stupid I’d been when the robber pulled that gun out echoed in my head. I scrubbed harder. Memories of what my mother had said – how things were before I left and how I’d had to live since – curled my fingers and I began clawing the soap onto my skin. I still didn’t feel clean. I backed off on the cold water and steam began filling up the bathroom. Strength began to leech out of me and I put my head against the cool tile. I realized suddenly that I hadn’t washed my hair. I reached for the bottle and the world went black.