Oh, God. Not another nightmare. Greg surfaced from sleep to awake.
His eyes blinked open to the dim, gray morning light. The half-light reminded him of the twilight at the time of the accident that t-boned his mother’s car. That killed his mother.
Greg’s memory—his mother’s blood seeping out onto her blouse and the car seat, combined with the remembered sight of the other driver’s bloody head smashed against the old Lincoln’s windshield. He could not help but see the deep red when he closed his eyes.
“Good morning to you, young man,” came the rat-a-tat-tat voice of his nurse Celia. She knocked as she came in, heading towards Greg’s bed by the window. The middle-aged nurse observed his strained face and wide gray eyes.
“Hmm. Another nightmare?” Her severe face warmed slightly with concern. She took his vitals with more gentleness than she had in the last three days.
Later that morning, someone must have told the physical therapist Tony about the repeated nightmares. “You’re ready to go home. Tomorrow is what I’ll recommend.” Greg appreciated the unexpected clap on the shoulder he got from Tony.
After dinner, Greg stretched out both his arms using as full of a range of motion as he could, just like his physical therapist urged him to do. Practice, practice! The sunset reddened the sky. The jarring image of deep blood-stained car interior came to his mind. Again. He buried his head in his hands and started to rock back and forth on the hospital bed.
* * *
The next day flew by, with all the final discharge and check out procedures. Last physical therapy. Two social workers, the chaplain, and a resident came by his room. Some nurses and CNAs stopped to say good-bye. He had been in the hospital seven days—two on the neurological unit, and five in rehab. Greg guessed the extra attention was because of the accident.
His downstairs neighbor Mrs. Nowicki couldn’t get out of work early to come and pick him up. The hospital staff kindly allowed the eighteen year old to remain until dinner. Mona Nowicki and her daughter Holly hesitated before knocking. Greg turned and saw them framed in the doorway.
“Hi.” He gave a strained smile.
Mrs. Nowicki came forward, hugging Greg without a word. Greg felt the tears trickle down her face. Without warning, tears came to his eyes, too. Holly joined the group hug.
The evening nurse and the social worker went over the discharge papers with Mrs. Nowicki, even though Greg had been through it all earlier. “I appreciate this,” said the motherly woman. “I couldn’t get off from the nursing home any earlier,” she apologized.
Greg overheard the shop talk between the hospital employees and the nursing home nutritionist. He tried to slip on his gym shoes for the first time since the accident. “Let me,” said Holly, watching him struggle, stiff in his shoulders and upper body. Greg blushed as his friend helped him tie his shoes.
One of the transporters wheeled Greg down while Mrs. Nowicki brought the car around.
“You take good care, y’hear?” Greg got a clap on the shoulder from the transporter who rolled him to the circular drive. Mrs. Nowicki pulled up in her small Chevrolet. Greg stood by the open door, and hesitated for a long minute. Then, sat in the front seat, gathering his stiff, long legs into the car.
Holly noticed Greg hesitate. “Everything okay?” she asked quietly, from the back seat.
Greg swallowed before he responded. “Yes. Sure.” He didn’t want to talk, yet. He answered in monosyllables on the way home. An orphan’s home.
He pulled himself up to the third floor, stopping for a rest outside the Nowicki’s apartment. Everyone in the vintage condo building was very kind. Some of his neighbors made small casseroles or dropped off gift cards for local restaurants.
At least Sparky was there. Greg petted the orange tiger, who purred like a lawnmower, rubbing the teen’s ankles and legs.
As he sat in the stuffed armchair, he looked straight at the enclosed front porch. North light, an important reason why his mother had loved that space, that apartment. On the easel was her rough draft of an outdoor scene. Greg saw the photograph taped to the easel. Not his mother’s preferred way, but she would use a photo, sometimes. Correction: she used to use a photo.
* * *
The second week of August came to a close. Greg put off the memorial service. He couldn’t handle that just then. Maybe in a month or so.
A week later, Mrs. Garza from across the courtyard pulled some strings at the police station, and got Greg a copy of the police report. The other car had hit at a speed of fifty miles an hour. Reporting his mother as DOA, and himself as severely concussed. Oh, and an open, empty bottle of Jack Daniels in the back seat of the older Lincoln.
The university’s admission office made a special call. The Director of Admissions called herself. “We all would like to express our condolences, Greg. Especially the Art Department.” Melinda Hoffman had been a tenured professor of art, at the school four blocks from their condo.
“Yes. Thank you.” Greg’s throat closed up.
“We would like to let you know that you will still receive the reduced tuition price. We all feel so badly, Greg,” said Director Weinstein.
* * *
Emailing with a counselor, Greg decided on two classes. Computer Information Systems, and Advanced Drawing.
He dragged himself down the two flights, and back up, two days a week. The rest of the time he stayed in the apartment. He got hold of an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Contemplated it as he drew at his mother’s easel. Pen and ink was what he preferred. Line drawings, realism, although he complied when the assignment called for something else, like charcoal or pastels.
Yes, Greg did well in his computer class. He always did well with computers. Science. Math. But he felt consumed by the drawing.
Holly came up to the apartment with her homework most evenings. She was a senior at the magnet high school just a few blocks east of their building. The same school Greg had graduated from in June. She got increasingly worried about Greg.
Greg started including the empty whiskey bottle as an element in his drawing. He did not necessarily turn in everything he produced. He filled several sketchbooks with quite detailed smaller work, as well as the larger pieces for class.
* * *
As October progressed, Holly noticed Greg’s stack of drawings—separate from Mrs. Hoffman’s—growing in thickness. She quickly riffled through them when Greg went to the bathroom. She was troubled to see the whiskey bottle in most of the recent ones.
Greg padded out into the dining room. Holly didn’t hear him approach, and startled. It was a good thing Sparky was nearby, so she had something to blame it on. Going through Greg’s sketches, that is. “That darn cat,” Holly commented, glancing up at Greg. She pushed her brown hair over her ears as she neatened up the larger sketches.
* * *
Blustery November blew in, along with course selections for spring. Another computer course, an art history course, U.S. history, and more drawing. Also, he executed more drawings of the whiskey bottle, now in dark pastels more often than not.
November 20th. Melinda Hoffman’s birthday. Mona Nowicki could only guess how much Greg was hurting. She and Holly had Greg down to their apartment for dinner. He brought flowers. Carnations, in all colors. “Oh, Greg. How lovely.”
“Mom loved flowers. She used to buy them for herself.” He thrust the bouquet into Holly’s hands. “For the table.”
At least he was talking about his mother now, Mrs. Nowicki thought. At least that.
* * *
Mona Nowicki had several neighbors over for Thanksgiving dinner. Greg brought down pumpkin pie. He had made it from scratch; it was delicious.
Final projects in drawing and in computer consumed Greg’s thinking during the first two weeks of December. He received two A’s, of course.
He still drew, but fewer whiskey bottles now. The rest of the time, Greg binge-watched Netflix until Christmas Eve.
Holly knocked and opened the door. Hesitant, “Greg, someone’s here.”
A large, suntanned hand pushed the door open the rest of the way. A tall man with a weather-beaten jacket came in to the living room. His features were almost the exact duplicate of Greg’s, except ten years older.
“Gene.” Greg’s face blanched as he got up.
“I didn’t know. Greg, I’m so sorry. I’ve been in South America for almost a year. I just found out…about Mom.”
“We—I couldn’t get in touch with you.”
The two brothers hesitated, and then hugged. Desperately.
Greg sounded desperately young: “Where were you? I was so alone.”
Gene sighed, choking back tears. “I’m back. Back to stay.”
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