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When I was a kid, not a little girl anymore, but only like eight years old, my older brother would spend hours in the kitchen, listening to a crappy little transistor radio. The kitchen was the only room in the house where he could get any kind of reception. We’d come home from school and he’d park himself in there at the table, just staring at the speaker, waiting for a Led Zeppelin song to come on. I’d go to our room and do my homework, but eventually I’d get thirsty, and I’d want a glass of water, but I knew as soon as I passed by he’d sock me on the arm. So I’d wait it out. But eventually I couldn’t take it anymore, and the dread would start to build. I knew I had to go in there to get that water, and I knew he was going to hit me, and I knew the more I tried to avoid it, the harder he’d hit. One time I tried to just run past him, and he just hopped off the stool, pushed me down, and socked me hard enough to make my arm numb. If I was dumb enough to go in when a Led Zeppelin song was actually playing, he’d holler for me to get the Eff out, and pound me in the back of my head until I left. But if I was lucky, really lucky, a Led Zepplin song would come on earlier, and then he’d go to the bathroom, and I could dash in and get my water. But I had to be fast, since there was no way to tell when he’d be done—he rarely flushed and never washed his hands. It never once occurred to me that I could drink from the bathroom sink. I’m driving to the hospital to see him, and Led Zeppelin comes on the radio, so I shut it off. I really don’t want to be doing this, but I promised my husband. He and Kevin are best friends, which is how I met my husband in the first place. He can’t make it because he’s pulling a double, which I am pretty sure he volunteered for, the wimp. Hospitals make him queasy. When I had the miscarriage, he never showed up until I was ready to be discharged, bringing me grocery store flowers. On the ride home, he asked me if I wanted to try again, and I socked him in the arm. I get to the hospital and park about three miles away and start walking. The sky’s gray but the day is warm, almost muggy. Heart attack. A mild one, they said. Dad had a few before he passed. Mom never had any, so I’ve got my fingers crossed. I’m playing the distraction game, the one dad taught us on long car rides. Look at the numbers on a license plate, see if you can make a math sentence that goes to ten. Like A57642 would be 5 from 7 is 2, times 6 is 12 subtract 4 is 8, add 2 is ten. Kevin was good at it, would make dad laugh when he ripped through the numbers faster than I could sometimes read them. One time, though, I got it faster, and Kev socked me on the arm for it. Dad’s reaction was lighting fast, whipping around and slapping Kevin so hard I had a week of getting water in the kitchen after school with no worries. Of course, nowadays the distraction game is pretty much a bust because license plates are three letters and only three numbers. Now it’s more like a lottery. RPZ 124, nope. AKJ 332, nope. FTK, 262, there’s one. Blue Toyota Camry, Phish and Grateful Dead stickers, probably purchased second hand, the car I mean, not the stickers. The hospitals looms, reminding me of Vegas. Me, my husband and Kevin. Kev had a system, a way to win at roulette. While they played I wandered the strip, trudging between casinos, buildings so large they were always further away than they seemed. People make fun of Vegas but I kind of liked it. The sky was blue, and the air was hot, but dry. In Vegas you’re allowed to smoke inside, and drink outside, so I drank cheap daiquiris and sweated-out the alcohol, watching the other tourists. All of the people you’d hate to be around were inside, so outside was kind of nice. When I finally got back to the roulette table, Kev’s system was working. After 5 hours they were up 25 bucks. Less than minimum wage I mentioned. My husband frowned. Kev socked me in the arm. My husband laughed. We went to a buffet. That night Kev took a cab to one of the ranches, and my husband took me to Cirque de Soleil. I think that’s the night I got pregnant. I get to the doors of the hospital and they whoosh open automatically, cool air blowing my hair back. I walk inside, glance at the reception desk, a long line. There’s a cop sitting near a doorway but he’s fat and reading a newspaper so I just walk past him. He doesn’t even look up, not even to glance at my ass, although I’m not surprised. I am familiar with this hospital enough to know where to go, more or less: take a right here, walk another three miles or so, past signs that offer no help whatsoever, to the elevator. I follow a kid in starch-clean scrubs, ask him to press three for me, watch him try to find it on the panel. Good luck taking out gall bladders if you can’t find a number on an elevator panel, junior. On three the hallway has windows on one side and it might even be cheery if the sky wasn’t gray. View of the parking lot. I stop for a minute to see if I can find my car. But I have to squint, since my visions not too good and I left my glasses at home. Kev says they make me look like a teacher. I am a teacher. But you don’t have to look like one all the time, he says. I find a nurse’s desk and ask for Kevin’s room and they tell me 317 and I chuckle: 3 times 1 is three plus 7 is 10. I head down the hall but I’m going the wrong way so I turn around and Kev’s room is pretty close to the elevator. Inside the room, the lump of shit is sleeping. The other bed is empty: slow week for cardiac arrests I guess. There’s machinery everywhere, a TV the size of a microwave bolted to the ceiling, landscapes in pastels framed on two walls. I’m staring at the sheets on the bed, disheveled, wrinkled, like there’s way too much sheet for just this one bed so they scrunched it up and twirled and twisted it so that no matter what, the patient’s always covered from toes to chin. I nudge Kev’s bed. I don’t want to touch him, don’t want to come into contact with the tubes running under the sheets and into his arm. He opens his eyes, blinks at me. Glances around the room, like he’s looking for someone else. Finally settles his eyes on my face again. I know that look. Oh, just you? Whatever. He closes his eyes again. One thanksgiving, before dad and mom passed away, right after I got married, I was standing in the kitchen, washing dishes while mom took a nap and dad watched the game with my husband, bonding. Kev walked in to get a glass of water. I was feeling pretty good about things. New husband, job going well. Surrounded by family. I playfully socked Kev on the arm, lightly, nothing. He took a step back, just looking at me, like he was appraising me. I reminded him of how he used to sock me when we were kids, how I’d go for a glass of water while he listened to Led Zeppelin on that shitty transistor radio. He didn’t say anything. I smiled. Then his face settled into that look. That whatever look. I did you a favor, he said. Made you tougher. Then he walked away. That same look on his face just now. I grab up handfuls of tubes. My turn to make him tougher.
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