The Redemption of Marvin Fuster by Patrick Sean Lee (classic books for 13 year olds TXT) 📕

the chart fixed to the foot rail. “We don’t have a name for you. How are we feeling this...” she went on as he tried to bring her face into focus. A young woman with indistinctly colored eyes, slightly squinting as though she couldn’t see the chart or her patient very well. Her lips were thin, and barely moved as she spoke.
His head hurt.
“Why am I here? How long? What happened?” he interrupted her.
The nurse laid the chart she carried onto the sheet and then walked to the bottle, touching it with her stubby fingers as if to assure herself that the clear liquid hadn’t frozen or congealed into a solid form.
“Good.” She looked down at Marvin with that thin smile. “We’re so glad you’re finally awake.”
Who is we?

He saw no one else. Why did she continually refer to herself as we?
“Why am I here?”
“You were injured.”
She gently rolled his arm over and looked at the IV, then seemingly satisfied, left it and brought her fingers to his eyelids and lifted them. Marvin watched her eyes dart left, then right. They were pale brown.
“Good. Good,” she said releasing her grasp.
“Good? Good? I feel like someone hit me with a goddam’ hammer! What happened? How did I get here?”
“We don’t know for certain what happened…”
We again.
“You had a nasty accident somewhere,” she said. “You split your head open, two…” she glanced at his chart again, and then continued. “Two nights ago. It was very serious. You lost a considerable amount of blood. We put you back together, and here you are. Do you remember anything? Can you tell us your name?”
“You. Well that’s better at least. It’s Fuster. Marvin Q. Born May sixth, nineteen thirty-two…or thirty-three. Thirty-two, I think. Whatd’ya mean I split my head open? How? I don’t remember nuthin’.”
She jotted the name down. “I’m not surprised. Basilar skull fracture, Mister Fuster. A considerable amount of bleeding in addition. Some brain swelling. The doctor will explain it better when she arrives.”
“I know what a basilar fracture is.” I do?

“That’s nice,” she said in a patronizing tone. “We were unsure whether a man of your age would even survive, as you can imagine—we’re sure you can understand.” She winked at him. “But, we’re glad you’ve awakened. That’s a positive sign.”
“We’re glad we’re awake, too. When do we get outta’ here?”
She laughed. “When you pay your bill. Otherwise, you’re our prisoner.” She posed the next question more seriously. “Do you have a home address?”
“’Course I do. 1830 Wazee. Central Packing Company. South end of the loading dock. An’ in case you’re wonderin’, I don’t have no money.”
She scribbled on her chart again as he spoke.
“Hmm. I’m sorry. When the time comes, we’ll see about releasing you to a shelter.”
“I ain’t homeless. That’s my home, and I’m comfterble and happy there.”
“We’re sure you are. It isn’t our place to say anything about that, but we’re sure you’ll want to arrange to go someplace less exposed…social services can help you there. You’ll need someplace clean to recuperate. We’re just happy you’re finally awake.”
With that she turned and began walking out of the curtained-off area of the room.
“It’s clean enough there! YOU go to a goddam’ shelter—all of ya’—just for one night! You’ll see…” He heard the door swish open and the squeak of her shoes on the polished tile.
“You’ll see,” he mumbled. “You’ll see.”
The morning light flooding through the windows across the room rippled, darkened slightly, quickly, and then grew bright once again. Marvin brought his eyes to bear on it and thought he saw the hazy outline of a figure moving, and the distinct shimmer of what looked like wings before the vision dissipated. He continued to stare for several moments, waiting for something further, listening for any sound. Nothing, only the occasional clattering and squeaking of heels in the hall outside the room.

*

“How much you want for it?”
The squat, balding man with a full butcher’s apron covering his gray suit eyed Marvin, not warily exactly, but carefully. They stood at the edge of the dock behind the meat packing plant, near to the spot where several boards covering its face had been roughly removed.
“I won’t let it out for less than two thousand a month,” he said at length.
“Hah! You’re nuts! I can lease a goddam’ penthouse for that.”
“I can see you haven’t been in the market for quite a while, Mr…Mr…”
“Fuster. With an F, as in Fuck you.” He instantly regretted having spit that out. It could only be a deal breaker. “Tell you what I’m gonna’ do. I’ll give you a hundred-fifty a month for this rat hole. That’s my best and only offer.”
“There are no rats here. Look. Look for yourself.” He bent down, a glint of afternoon sunlight catching hold of his scalp making it look like an oversized cue ball aproned with black fuzz. “Clean as a hospital operating room. No rats.”
Marvin bent down and peered in.

*

“How are you this afternoon, Mister Fuster?” The voice was softer than the one he’d just heard. The one belonging to the nurse who wanted to stick him in a homeless shelter a moment ago, and it belonged to only one person. Marvin opened his eyes. She was short, with a stunning figure disguised poorly beneath her white lab coat. The doctor stood at the side of his bed, stethoscope at the ready.
“Okay, I guess.”
After blinding him with her tiny flashlight for several seconds, she pulled the sheet down to his waist and then undid his hospital gown. “All right then, take a deep breath. Hold it, and then exhale slowly,” she said firmly.
He did as he was instructed. The faint odor of her perfumed hair falling close to his nose, jumbled up though it was with the antiseptic smell of her hands, caused him to relax and try as best he could to expand his chest to the size of an Olympic swimming pool. Marvin was able to fill his lungs to the size of a water glass. A sharp pain struck his head as he inhaled, making him wince, and the doctor noticed immediately.
“Okay?”
“No. Yes.” His lungs deflated when he spoke, garbling the indecisive answer.
The flashlight reappeared. He closed his eyes, weary of being blinded.
“Open.”
“Do ya’ have to keep doin’ that?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I need to look. Open, please.” She laid a hand on his temple, and her fragrant hair brushed his cheek. He opened his eyes and took another deep, painful breath.
“Take yer time, doc.” The light flashed back and forth.
“Count to ten for me, please.”
“What for?”
“Just count.”
“Okay. One. Two…four, five, six, seven…nine, ten.”
She snapped the flashlight off and left him without a word to scribble something onto the chart she’d brought with her.
“I never was any good at numbers. Lemme’ try again. I’ll betcha’ I can get all the way to a hundred this time.”
The doctor didn’t bother to answer as she scribbled away, her back to him. He watched her, wondering whether or not she was married—wondering why he would wonder that. Suddenly he saw the dimming and then brightening once again at the far end of the room, a few feet beyond her, and the faint outline of wingtips.
“Holy smoke! Ya’ se that?”
She wheeled around at his exclamation. “See what?”
“Somebody else is in here! Somebody with wings! Dintja’ see it? The light an’ them wings? Ya’ musta’! It was right in front of ya’!”