Chapter Four:
He didn't sleep much that night. It was hard to fall asleep to the sound of traffic rushing outside instead of the screaming of his fellow patients. The soft yellow moonlight that streamed in through his window lit the room too much; it was brighter at night than it ever was in his hospital room. But he couldn't bare to close the curtains, couldn't be plunged back into the darkness. With the darkness came the monsters.
Instead he laid in his bed waiting for Saturday to come, lounging in the softness and warmth of the tiny bed. It had been too long since he'd watched the sunrise, and he did so in awe, eyes fixed on the pale golden-red rays filtering into his room through the gray screen, spilling light onto the stained carpet. He ignored the stains, and focused on the dancing brightness as it washed over everything, transforming terrifying night into golden day.
Tuesdays and Saturdays had been the best days at the hospital. In the morning, he would get his shot and then be wheeled in for the therapy. He didn't know if it hurt; he never remembered the pain. He'd wake up later that day, disoriented, but okay, and he'd feel good. Completely normal, relaxed. He wouldn't remember why he was at the hospital or what he'd done wrong. Those were the days he'd play checkers with the nurses or read People, before eating dinner and sometimes, if he was good, the night nurse might let him watch an hour of TV in the lounge with her. He never remembered what they watched, or even if he'd liked it. But the huge yellow couch was comforting, the smell of flowers and muffins a welcome change from the sterile putrescence of the rest of the hospital.
The other days were worse. There were no checkers, no old People magazines with faded pictures of Elvis and the Beach Boys. The pictures he saw then he wished he could forget. But they were burned into his brain.
He felt sick just thinking about it. A naked torso, a bare back… The thought of them brought back the memory of retching, gagging, his own fetid stench surrounding him as he threw up again and again, as they force-fed him the drugs and shoved the pictures under his nose, all the while blasting a tape about the sin of homosexuality, the disgusting evilness of it. He'd burn in hell if he continued with his crimes. What they hadn't figured out was that he was already there.
Curt pushed the thoughts from his head when he heard his mother's footsteps to the kitchen. Quickly, he hopped out of bed and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, then headed to the tiny kitchen where he knew she'd be.
He was right. He smiled as he watched her, her hands gripping the spoon, whipping pancake batter until it was smooth. Her face looked so lovely in the morning, worries washed out by the light.
She turned, somehow aware of his presence. "Good morning."
He nodded and entered the kitchen fully. "Morning. Need any help?"
"No, Curt. But thank you," she said, finally deciding that the mix was smooth enough. He watched her silently as she poured the batter into perfect circles on the skillet, smelling the grease and batter as if for the first time. She flipped the pancakes, then turned to him. "I was thinking we could go shopping today. You need new clothes desperately," she said, glancing down at his jeans. They hung loosely at his hips, cinched around the waist with a old leather belt. The bottoms barely reached his ankles, though; he'd grown in the year and half he'd been gone. "Unless you wanted to stay and play with your friends…"
"No, shopping's fine," he said in a hurry.
His mother smiled. "Alright then. We'll head into the city after breakfast."
"Sounds good," Curt said, and smiled.
*
Detroit was exhilarating, terrifying, altogether new and completely familiar. The streets had barely changed, but he had, so drastically that he barely recognized things that had been so familiar before. Half the time he was petrified, seeing something that he didn't remember or something that he did, recalling an ugly memory of imagined sin. The other half, he was amazed at it all, little things that had escaped him before, slamming into his consciousness full force. Like the mouthwatering smell of pizza, the crisp taste of Pepsi, the rough feel of denim against his skin. It all seemed new and different.
They returned from the shopping mall loaded down with parcels, Christmas gifts for the family and new clothes for him. For a while, it was as if nothing had happened; the past disappeared and he was just Curt, helping his mother peel potatoes for dinner and arguing with Judy over who got to lick the spoon after making cake batter.
Then Alex and his father came home.
Dinner was silent. Utterly silent, only broken by Alex's loud, "Pass the salt." Curt excused himself as soon as he could, and retreated to the safety of the kitchen, busying himself with dishes. The hot water felt good running against his hands, burning and cleansing.
When the dishes were done, he settled on the floor next to Judy, eyes focused on the cartoon shimmying across the tiny screen. Curt smiled. It was a simple pleasure, but one he never forgot, even through the blinding agony and blissful amnesia of the hospital. 'I Dream of Jeannie', on Saturday nights. He flashed a smile at his older sister, who winked at him before turning back to the screen.
The show was nearly half over before his father walked in, took one look at the screen and then at Curt, his eyes on Major Nelson instead of Jeannie, and flipped the switch ruthlessly. "Not on my television."
"Dad…" Curt trailed off as his father turned to him. He quieted and merely said, "I like that show."
"Yeah," Alex said, flopping onto the couch. "Jeannie's a babe."
"I just think it's funny," Curt said with a shrug, getting to his feet.
Alex's leg darted out as he tried to pass, blocking his retreat. "Where you going?"
"Bed," Curt replied, swallowing hard.
"It's early yet."
"Leave your brother be, Alex," Dorothy said, looking up from her sewing with worried doe eyes.
Alex obediently moved his leg, clearing the way. "Be my guest." Curt passed him quickly, but as he was walking away, Alex's leg shot out again, kicking him lightly on the butt. Curt barely paused before continuing to his room. Alex called out behind him, "Sweet dreams!"
Curt shut his door behind him, and slid to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest, face buried in his arms.
Sweet dreams didn't exist anymore.
He didn't sleep much that night. It was hard to fall asleep to the sound of traffic rushing outside instead of the screaming of his fellow patients. The soft yellow moonlight that streamed in through his window lit the room too much; it was brighter at night than it ever was in his hospital room. But he couldn't bare to close the curtains, couldn't be plunged back into the darkness. With the darkness came the monsters.
Instead he laid in his bed waiting for Saturday to come, lounging in the softness and warmth of the tiny bed. It had been too long since he'd watched the sunrise, and he did so in awe, eyes fixed on the pale golden-red rays filtering into his room through the gray screen, spilling light onto the stained carpet. He ignored the stains, and focused on the dancing brightness as it washed over everything, transforming terrifying night into golden day.
Tuesdays and Saturdays had been the best days at the hospital. In the morning, he would get his shot and then be wheeled in for the therapy. He didn't know if it hurt; he never remembered the pain. He'd wake up later that day, disoriented, but okay, and he'd feel good. Completely normal, relaxed. He wouldn't remember why he was at the hospital or what he'd done wrong. Those were the days he'd play checkers with the nurses or read People, before eating dinner and sometimes, if he was good, the night nurse might let him watch an hour of TV in the lounge with her. He never remembered what they watched, or even if he'd liked it. But the huge yellow couch was comforting, the smell of flowers and muffins a welcome change from the sterile putrescence of the rest of the hospital.
The other days were worse. There were no checkers, no old People magazines with faded pictures of Elvis and the Beach Boys. The pictures he saw then he wished he could forget. But they were burned into his brain.
He felt sick just thinking about it. A naked torso, a bare back… The thought of them brought back the memory of retching, gagging, his own fetid stench surrounding him as he threw up again and again, as they force-fed him the drugs and shoved the pictures under his nose, all the while blasting a tape about the sin of homosexuality, the disgusting evilness of it. He'd burn in hell if he continued with his crimes. What they hadn't figured out was that he was already there.
Curt pushed the thoughts from his head when he heard his mother's footsteps to the kitchen. Quickly, he hopped out of bed and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, then headed to the tiny kitchen where he knew she'd be.
He was right. He smiled as he watched her, her hands gripping the spoon, whipping pancake batter until it was smooth. Her face looked so lovely in the morning, worries washed out by the light.
She turned, somehow aware of his presence. "Good morning."
He nodded and entered the kitchen fully. "Morning. Need any help?"
"No, Curt. But thank you," she said, finally deciding that the mix was smooth enough. He watched her silently as she poured the batter into perfect circles on the skillet, smelling the grease and batter as if for the first time. She flipped the pancakes, then turned to him. "I was thinking we could go shopping today. You need new clothes desperately," she said, glancing down at his jeans. They hung loosely at his hips, cinched around the waist with a old leather belt. The bottoms barely reached his ankles, though; he'd grown in the year and half he'd been gone. "Unless you wanted to stay and play with your friends…"
"No, shopping's fine," he said in a hurry.
His mother smiled. "Alright then. We'll head into the city after breakfast."
"Sounds good," Curt said, and smiled.
*
Detroit was exhilarating, terrifying, altogether new and completely familiar. The streets had barely changed, but he had, so drastically that he barely recognized things that had been so familiar before. Half the time he was petrified, seeing something that he didn't remember or something that he did, recalling an ugly memory of imagined sin. The other half, he was amazed at it all, little things that had escaped him before, slamming into his consciousness full force. Like the mouthwatering smell of pizza, the crisp taste of Pepsi, the rough feel of denim against his skin. It all seemed new and different.
They returned from the shopping mall loaded down with parcels, Christmas gifts for the family and new clothes for him. For a while, it was as if nothing had happened; the past disappeared and he was just Curt, helping his mother peel potatoes for dinner and arguing with Judy over who got to lick the spoon after making cake batter.
Then Alex and his father came home.
Dinner was silent. Utterly silent, only broken by Alex's loud, "Pass the salt." Curt excused himself as soon as he could, and retreated to the safety of the kitchen, busying himself with dishes. The hot water felt good running against his hands, burning and cleansing.
When the dishes were done, he settled on the floor next to Judy, eyes focused on the cartoon shimmying across the tiny screen. Curt smiled. It was a simple pleasure, but one he never forgot, even through the blinding agony and blissful amnesia of the hospital. 'I Dream of Jeannie', on Saturday nights. He flashed a smile at his older sister, who winked at him before turning back to the screen.
The show was nearly half over before his father walked in, took one look at the screen and then at Curt, his eyes on Major Nelson instead of Jeannie, and flipped the switch ruthlessly. "Not on my television."
"Dad…" Curt trailed off as his father turned to him. He quieted and merely said, "I like that show."
"Yeah," Alex said, flopping onto the couch. "Jeannie's a babe."
"I just think it's funny," Curt said with a shrug, getting to his feet.
Alex's leg darted out as he tried to pass, blocking his retreat. "Where you going?"
"Bed," Curt replied, swallowing hard.
"It's early yet."
"Leave your brother be, Alex," Dorothy said, looking up from her sewing with worried doe eyes.
Alex obediently moved his leg, clearing the way. "Be my guest." Curt passed him quickly, but as he was walking away, Alex's leg shot out again, kicking him lightly on the butt. Curt barely paused before continuing to his room. Alex called out behind him, "Sweet dreams!"
Curt shut his door behind him, and slid to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest, face buried in his arms.
Sweet dreams didn't exist anymore.