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Is Finkle
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Chapter One
Glen Callaway was unconscious for six weeks.
The EMTs had gotten him from Marfa to Big Bend Regional Hospital in Alpine in fifteen minutes, sirens wailing the whole way down 90, but it took the ER doc there even less time than that to realize he was overmatched, that this kid needed specialized treatment. Before dawn, Glen was in San Antonio, choppered in to the burn center at Fort Sam Houston, where doctors performed the first of what would eventually be a half dozen skin grafts, harvesting flesh from the back of his legs, his buttocks, even the bottoms of his feet to replace what the fire had burned away. Glen knew nothing of his travels, the operations, his surroundings, or the attention he drew nationwide for his miraculous recovery. He was drugged the whole time, while his body healed. Drugged, unconscious.
Dreaming.
He opened his eyes to the sight of his dad, leaning over him, brushing the hair back from his eyes.
"Hey, buddy. How you doing?"
Glen shrugged. "Okay, I guess."
He was four years old again, lying in bed, in Big Bend Regional, where he'd just spent the night after having a day full of tests, of doctors drawing blood and poking him with needles and shaking their heads. At least it was over now.
Not that his parents looked any less worried. Especially his mom, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, clasping her hands together, rocking slowly back and forth. She looked real upset. Glen had told her that no matter what the doctors said he felt fine, but that hadn't seemed to calm her any.
"You understand what the doctors were telling you?" his dad asked. "What they were talking about?"
Glen nodded. "Yes, sir. I do understand."
"They call it HSAN. That stands for Hereditary Sensory and Autonomic Neuropathy. It means you can't feel any pain."
"I know, Dad."
"Which means you have to be very, very careful about what you do. Pain is -- "
"I remember," he interrupted. "Pain is the body's warning mechanism. I have to watch what I'm doing all the time, I have to be careful not to get into fights or play sports or do any of those kinds of things because since I can't feel pain I'll never notice things like cuts or bruises or broken bones."
His dad managed a smile. "That's right, son. That's right exactly."
Glen nodded, wondering how he'd known all that. All those big words. He was only four years old.
It was almost as if he'd had this conversation before.
"You can bet I'll be careful, sir. I surely will."
"This is all my fault," his mom said.
"Now don't start in with your crazy talk, Susanna."
"It's not crazy," she said. "Not crazy at all. My father. His father before him. My cousins. My aunt, my uncle, all the way back to -- "
"Susanna Kane," his dad said sharply. "How many times have I asked you not to talk like that in front of the boys? Those ideas -- "
"They got a right to know," his mom said firmly.
"Susanna Kane -- "
"She's right, Dad."
Glen looked up and saw his brother, Mark, standing at the door.
"We got a right to know, me and Glen. We got the blood in us too, after all. Maybe we got the curse too. Just like all the people in here."
Mark held up a book before him then, a big brown scrapbook that Glen recognized instantly. The Kane family scrapbook. Kane was his mom's maiden name (that was even what everyone still called her most of the time, not just Susanna, but Susanna Kane), and the book traced her family's history all the way back to Pilgrim times. She'd been putting it together over the last few years, it had become -- what was that word Dad had used? -- an obsession of hers ever since...
Ever since he was born, Glen realized.
Now how did he know that?
"There's no such thing as a curse," his dad said. "And now I don't want to hear any more about it."
"But, Glen," his mom began. "What about this with Glen?"
"What about it?" his dad asked. "It's genetics, that's all."
"Kane family genetics," Mark said. Dad glared at him. Lately, Mark seemed just about as interested in the Kane family as his mom. He spent a lot of time looking at the scrapbook, at all the pictures and the papers Mom kept with it. He spent more time with that book than his schoolwork, in fact, that's what Dad was always saying. Too much time. Wasn't even getting outside enough to play. He was getting pale. In fact...
Glen looked up at his parents and his brother then, suddenly noticing how pale they all looked, how white their skin was, almost waxy-looking, like they weren't real, like --
A terrible feeling ran through him then, and he shivered.
"Please," Glen said in a small voice. "Let's not talk about the curse."
"That's right. That's my boy." His dad put a hand on Glen's shoulder. "There ain't nothin' magical about this condition you have, this HSAN. Long as you're careful, you'll be fine."
Glen nodded.
"No fightin'," his dad said.
"I got that."
"No sports."
"Yes, sir."
"And stay out of the sun. You don't want to burn. That could be dangerous. Very, very dangerous. Burning. You hear me?"
"Yes, Dad," Glen said. "I hear you."
"Because you could crisp right up, and never know it. Never feel a thing."
Randall raised his hand then, and took a drag off his cigarette.
All at once -- like magic, Glen thought -- a nurse appeared behind him.
"Sir, there's no smoking in here."
"No smoking?" His dad frowned. "Oh. Right. Sorry."
He dropped the cigarette on the floor. Glen watched it land, and then, as if in slow motion, bounce once, and then again before finally coming to rest next to the trailing edge of his blanket.
The edge of the cloth glowed red and began to smoke.
"Oh, no," Glen whispered. He looked up at his mom and dad. "The bed -- "
"Oh, my. Look at that." The nurse put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your bed's on fire, I'm afraid."
His mom's eyes widened. "I knew it. You see, Randall? You see what I mean? Come on." She stood and grabbed hold of Glen's hand. "We'd better get going."
"Well, shoot." His dad put his hands on his hips and frowned. "I guess you're right, Susanna Kane. We better get going. We better run, in fact."
Glen started to get out of bed. The nurse pushed him back down.
"No, you don't. We got some more tests to do."
"Please let me go," Glen said. "Please."
The nurse shook her head. "I'm sorry, son."
"Glen, come on!" Mark stood at the door to the hall, holding it open. As Glen watched, his dad walked through that door and disappeared.
"Dad!"
"Come on, Glen," Mark yelled. "I can't hold this door open forever!"
Glen tried again to get up. The nurse, again, pushed him back down.
His hand slipped free from his mom's.
"Oh, Glen." His mom was crying. "I wish you would come with us."
Glen started crying too.
"I'm coming, Mom! Don't leave without me."
But she was going. She was gone, out the door after his dad. With a last look back at Glen, Mark followed.
"Wait!"
Glen climbed out of bed.
The nurse stood in front of him, blocking his way.
He made a fist at her. She shook her head.
"You heard your dad, Glen. No fighting."
"But -- "
"No fighting."
He shoved past her. Except now the room was so filled with smoke, he couldn't see the door. He couldn't even see past his own hand now. He stumbled, first in one direction, then the other, and then all of a sudden...
He looked up, and saw he was standing at the foot of a stairway -- the stairway at his house, back in Marfa. It wasn't the hospital room on fire, he realized then. It was his house.
And with that, he remembered it all, and began to scream.
At the nurse's station, in the burn unit at Fort Sam Houston, a machine started beeping. A nurse set down her Vogue magazine, and frowned. The boy in room 41 was moving again.
She hurried down the long hall into his room. Quickly, she adjusted the sedative drip so the boy would remain unconscious -- so that his body could concentrate on healing. The doctors had scheduled him for another skin graft tomorrow as well -- he'd need all his strength for that.
She moved closer to the bed, and saw the boy's hair had fallen into his eyes. She brushed it back. Thank God for small favors -- at least the burns on his face were relatively minor. With any luck, they'd fade after time. He'd be able to live a relatively normal life -- assuming he survived the next few weeks here. Assuming anyone could live a relatively normal life after their whole family had been killed.
"Poor kid," she whispered.
Glen rolled over in his sleep, and reached out toward the sound of her voice.
His mom was talking.
Glen could hear her speak, hear her voice coming through the door to the funeral parlor office, which he was standing right in front of. The question was, though, was she with a client? Because if she was with a client, he wasn't supposed to interrupt her. Talking with clients was serious business. Funerals (and dead people, for that matter) were very serious business indeed. But Glen wanted to tell her what had happened today at school, his first day of second grade; he had made a friend, a boy named Brian Erben, who lived just five minutes down the road and had already invited him over to play with his racing set. If his mom wasn't with a client, she could call Brian's folks and set it up, right now. This afternoon.
Glen took a step closer to the door and pressed his ear up against it.
His mom was laughing. His mom did not laugh when she was with clients. It sounded more like she was talking to a friend. Maybe Mrs. Keith, or Mrs. Larrabee, or...
No. It was a man, Glen heard his voice now. Dad. It had to be Dad. Glen smiled. Dad would be glad to hear about Brian too. Dad was always worried about Glen being able to make friends because he couldn't do sports or run around outside. And here it was, first day of school, and he'd made a friend already. Dad would probably drive him right over.
His mom laughed again. More of a giggle than a laugh.
Boy. Everyone was in a good mood. This was going to be great.
Glen turned the knob and pushed the door open without knocking.
The laughter stopped.
His mom was sitting on the couch opposite the desk. The...
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11-04-2006, 01:40 AM
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