1
If I were to ask you “Where is the worst place to run into an ex?” you might say “the supermarket” or “on a date with somebody else” or maybe even “at a family reunion.” To which I would reply, (1) “wrong,” (2) “wrong,” and (3) “for the love of God, man, stop hooking up with your cousin.”
There is a right answer, by the way.
I can tell you—with absolute certainty—the worst place to run into an ex is inside your own home, while you are splayed across the bathroom floor, neck-deep in porcelain, your stomach hollowed out like the inside of a snare drum.
Should I elaborate?
Say you’re me. (Hi, I’m Cam.) You’re a senior in high school, just two weeks from graduating. Best time of your life, or so you’ve been told. Results may vary.
Say you’re head over heels in love with a girl—let’s call her, oh, I don’t know, Ally. You and this Ally had been dating for over a year. Everything with you guys was good—no, better than good. Phenomenal. Stupendous. Second to none.
Say that very same girl blindsided you, ending things abruptly and without explanation. Shredding your heart in the process. Real hatchet job. I’ve been thinking about this for a while . . . It’s not you, it’s me . . . I still want us to be friends. She played all the hits.
That was in January. Now it’s late May. The two of you haven’t spoken since. Not even a text.
Say a couple months after the split, you found out she was seeing someone else. But not just any someone else. The very someone else who you’d always known had a thing for her. Who she swore to you was “just a friend.”
Here’s where it gets fun.
Say that ex (you know, the one with the hatchet) was driving home from school one afternoon in late March when suddenly—inexplicably—she lost track of the road. Wrapped the hood of her car around an oak tree at the bottom of the Shermer Ravines. The skid marks are still there, branded on the pavement. So is the puncture her sedan left in the guardrail.
Say she’s been in a coma ever since, confined to a hospital bed just a few miles up the road. Unable to walk, talk, or breathe without the assistance of a ventilator. Unable to—hypothetically—materialize out of thin air. Inside your bathroom. At three in the morning.
So I’ll ask again: Where is the worst place to run into an ex? The answer? Anywhere.
2
The sun isn’t up yet and my mom is trying to kill me.
The dash clock reads just before six, so we’re the only ones on the road, thank God. The good folks of Shermer, Illinois, must be sleeping in, staving off their Monday mornings for as long as their snooze buttons allow.
I’m not so fortunate.
Attempting to doze with Dr. Cindy Garrity behind the wheel is an exercise in futility. Mom isn’t a fan of posted speed limits. Or stop signs. Or the Rules of the Road generally. As we speak, she’s driving with her knees, one hand on the stereo, the other fussing with the elastic holding back her sandy blond hair.
“Shit, my turn!”
Suddenly we’re Tokyo Drifting through an intersection, my forehead bouncing off the passenger window. (Note to self: Ask Dr. Vernon to check for a concussion.)
“Jesus, Mom!”
“Language, Cameron!”
“Why you have to drive like someone on bath salts?”
“How would you know how someone on bath salts drives?”
Things are extra tense this morning since this little trip overlaps with her breakfast spin class. She looks the part at least, dressed head to toe in black athleisure, save for her clean white trainers. The official uniform of North Shore moms. They hand them out at PTA meetings.
“I spoke with your father last night,” she says, pausing to sip from her travel mug. “He’s looking forward to seeing you walk the stage at graduation. He’s making a special effort to fly in, so I expect you to spend time with him. Okay, Cameron? Will you make sure to spend time with him?”
Mom has this aggravating-as-all-hell habit of telling me something, then immediately following up with a question about the thing she’s just said. She does this, apparently, because I don’t listen (her words). Mom prefers people listen to her. Probably why she became a pediatrician; people are extra attentive when it comes to their kid’s health.
“Cameron?”
“Yes, I’ll spend time with him.”
“Don’t take that tone with me.”
“What tone?”
“That tone.”
“No tones were taken!” I turn my attention to a battle I can win. “Do you really need to have your window open and the AC on? It’s, like, sixty degrees out.”
“How can you say that?” Mom switches her mug from one hand to the other. “You know my hands get sweaty when I drive. What if I lost my grip and we ended up—” She cuts herself short, but we both know where she was headed. The eight-hundred-thousand-pound elephant hanging over all of Shermer.
“Wanna finish that thought?”
Mom wrestles a tickle from her throat. Suddenly it occurs to me. “Wait, are we going to the hospital or to Dr. Vernon’s?” My pre-op visits took place at his satellite office. I’d just assumed that’s where he’d perform my surgery.
“Rich”—my mom calls Dr. Vernon Rich—“only operates out of the hospital. It’s standard procedure. Where did you think we were going?”
The truth is, I hadn’t. Thought, that is. (I try avoiding it, as a general rule.) Not about where the surgery would be, how long it would take, what my life will look like once it’s over. No, I’m allowed exactly one thought, played on a loop.
I am over Allison Tandy.
My mantra for the last five months. They say if you repeat something enough times you start to believe it. Jury’s still out. Just don’t ask me to say it out loud.
“Why should it matter?” Mom asks. “It’s not like you haven’t been to visit her in the hospital yet, right?”
I turn and face my window.
“Cameron? You have gone to visit her, haven’t you?”
“It’s on my to-do list.”
Look
, I know we just met, but if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I have never written a to-do list. Things sort of just . . . happen with me. I’m like a substitute teacher; just trying to run out the clock until the end of the day. Compared to my mom, who writes to-do lists in her sleep. Seriously, if I croak before her, you can bet your sweet ass she’s sending me up to Saint Peter’s Gate with a list of shit she wants done by the time she arrives.
“You’re kidding.”
I can sense Mom’s eyes on the back of my neck. Knowing Mom, I’m sure she’ll process this new information with the patience and love any parent would grant a child struggling to cope.
“That is totally unacceptable, Cameron!”
Just kidding.
“I didn’t realize I had to go, okay? I must’ve missed that day of ex-boyfriend school when they went over what to do if your ex winds up in a coma. How do we even know I’m wanted there? It’s not like anyone invited me.”
“It’s a hospital room, not a Fourth of July party! You don’t wait for an invitation! I realize the two of you had a falling-out, but that’s no excuse.”
A falling-out? Is that what we’re calling it?
“You need to stop letting your pride and self-pity get in the way. If the roles were reversed, I’m sure Ally would’ve been at your bedside on day one.”
I’m not so sure about that.
“Alright, sorry! The minute she wakes up, I’m there.”
Mom’s still fuming, but she knows better than to touch that one. It’s been sixty-two days since Ally’s bumper met the wrong end of a tree trunk. Sixty-two days without an update beyond the standard “she’s stable” and “we don’t have a timetable.”
At first, Ally’s accident was all anyone could talk about. But once her forecast became less-than-fatal, people felt justified shifting their attention to more important matters, like their summer plans, or the latest couple inflicting their continued bloodline on the rest of the world.
Ally’s being in a coma became just another fact of life, like traffic on the Kennedy, or the impending climate apocalypse. People still donated to the Save Ally Fund, established to help her mom with the rising medical bills, but that was it.
For the record, I never thought for a second this would be the end for Allison Tandy. Not when she still had so much left to accomplish. Namely, ruining my life.
By some small miracle, we pull into the hospital’s parking lot. Mom whips into the roundabout and brakes in front of a sign marked AMBULANCE ONLY.
“I’ll pick you up in a couple of hours,” she says like I’m here for a playdate.
“You’re not coming in?”
“I have to run to the office; we have some of the equipment you’re gonna need. You have to be careful, though, especially with our ice machine. It was very expensive and we only have one, so if you break it, the money’s coming out of your college account.”
Fiscal threats are Mom’s go-to.
“Since you won’t be able to climb stairs while the cast is locked, I’ll set things up for you in the family room. You can sleep in there for a few days, but only if you agree to keep things neat. Can you keep things neat, Cameron?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“You weren’t supposed to eat or drink anything this morning. Did you?”
“No, Mom.”
“Meds, what about meds?”
“Haven’t taken any of those either.”
“Are you sure? When was the last time you took your Lexapro?”
“Last week.”
“Adderall?”
“Last month.”
“Ativan?”
“I stopped taking Ativan in March.”
“Who told you to do that?”
“My doctor.”
“Which one?”
“You!”
Mom stills. Probably trying to recall why she made the switch. Hell if I know. She prescribes, I consume. Simple as that. I think for a moment she’s about to release me, but then she’s like, “Oh, Cameron. Before you go, there is something I need to have a talk with you about.”
“Oh my God,” I groan. “Can it please wait until after they rip my knee apart?”
I brace myself for a lecture, but it never comes.
“Okay” is all she says. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Huh. Mom never lets me get the last word in. Weird.
“
Thank you.” I unlock my door and spill out into the crisp morning air. Just as I slam the door closed, Mom summons me back.
“But sass me like that again, and I will not hesitate to write you out of my will.”
There she is.
—
“Name?”
“Cameron Garrity.”
“Birthday?”
“November seventh.”
“Height?”
“Six three.”
“Weight?”
“. . . ”
“Body weight?”
“Oh, I thought you meant wait, like hold on.”
“Body weight.”
Instinctively, I suck in. “Two hundred.” Nurse Molly could just as easily glean my info from any one of the half-dozen forms I filled out in the waiting room. I don’t point this out to her; she doesn’t strike me as the type that appreciates it when teenagers tell her how to do her job.
“How many drinks do you have in a week?”
“Who can count, amirite?” Her expression assures me that I am not, in fact, right. “None,” I lie.
“Drugs?”
“Only ones with needles.”
Again with the scowl. The faded whites of her eyes match the yellowish stains on her scrubs. “Please answer the question, Mr. Garrity. I have other patients to attend to.”
“My bad, Molly. Can I call you Molly?”
“No.” Nurse Molly finishes jotting something down on the side of her form, then gets to her feet. “Everything off except your underwear. Dr. Vernon will be with you in a minute.”
I start to apologize, to explain that hospitals make me nervous, and when I get nervous my brain goes into overdrive, and when my brain goes into overdrive I start to ramble, and when I
start to ramble I usually end up saying something I regret or pissing someone off. But Nurse Molly’s already gone.
I really do hate hospitals, comatose ex-girlfriend notwithstanding. I can’t help but imagine all the dead and dying people being visited by other soon-to-be dead and dying people.
Mom’s had her own private practice for a few years now, but she used to be in pediatrics here at Shermer General. Sometimes, when her appointments ran late, I’d roam the endless taupe hallways. The geriatric wing freaked me out the most. Walk through it and you’ll hear Family Feud in almost every room. Forget loved ones; Steve Harvey is the last face most people see before they meet their maker.
I wonder what’s playing on the TV in Ally’s hospital room. Her mom—Mrs. Tandy—is too classy for the Game Show Network. Probably something highbrow, like C-SPAN or Real Housewives.
Per Nurse Molly’s directive, I start to strip. As I’m reaching for the hospital gown, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging from the back of the door.
Two hundred pounds—that’s what I told Nurse Molly. My listed weight in the Shermer Wasps basketball program last season. The same weight I reported to my new coaches at the University of Chicago (Go Maroons) when I signed my National Letter of Intent to continue my basketball career a few months ago. Right before my knee turned to Jell-O. I’ve all but given up since then. What point is there in exercising, eating healthy, bathing, or general personal upkeep if the only person whose opinion I value isn’t there to see it?
At least the surgery’ll give me an excuse to avoid the beach and any other clothing-optional summer activities. I pile my stuff in the corner of the room, grabbing my phone from my shorts in the process. It’s compulsive at this point, opening my Messages app, scrolling to her name. Nothing’s changed, of course—we hadn’t even texted since January. And still I find myself doing the same ritual a few times a day.
There’s a knock at the door. In walks the executioner: Dr. Richard Vernon.
“Cameron! How are we feeling this morning?”
I force a smile. “Every day’s a dream.”
My mom’s known Dr. Vernon forever—they went to medical school together. She handpicked him to do my operation. I might’ve found him forgettable—balding, vertically challenged white dudes are a dime a dozen in Shermer—if not for the bizarre handlebar mustache tacked to his upper lip. The sort of mustache you’d expect to see on a guy being handcuffed and loaded into the back of a squad car, his hard drive in tow.
“Today we’re going to take care of your left knee, correct?” Vernon strolls over to the sink and runs the water. “The procedure is fairly standard. We should be in and out in about forty-five minutes. You’ll be under a general anesthetic, so it will be over before you know it.”
Two months is a long time to wait between injury and surgery, but for a while there my knee was the size of a grapefruit, far too swollen to operate on.
“I’ve never seen one this bad,” Vernon told me during my intake appointment. Stop it, Doc, I’m blushing.
It happened during a routine warm-up, not five minutes into practice. Someone took a shot from outside, missing long. I tracked the ball off the back iron. Leapt after it. Then—pop!
It felt like my leg had snapped clean in half. I fully expected to look down and see my femur bursting through its fleshy cocoon, emerging into the world like a skeletal butterfly.
I did the smart thing after that and passed out. Woke up in the hospital a few hours later. My best friend Chevy Wyatt was there, which didn’t strike me as odd. At first.
“Cam, there’s been an accident.”
I thought he was doing a bit. “Yeah, dude, I know. It was my goddamn leg.”
I grinned. Chevy didn’t. Single-car wreck, he explained. Only the driver had been hurt. Ally’s ambulance arrived at the emergency room just two minutes ahead of mine. I’m not sure I buy the whole “we live in a simulation” theory, but as far as coincidences go, that one felt too cute by half.
The first few days were awful. That old cliché, the one about being in a bad dream you can’t wake up from? Turns out, not bullshit. I left welts up and down my arms from pinching myself so many times. Nothing worked. It was the real deal. Eventually Ally’s condition stabilized, but ever since, we’ve all collectively been playing the waiting game.
My injury turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Finally I had an excuse to bum around the house all day, feeling sorry for myself. Visible pain is much easier to understand than emotional, and anyone looking at me could tell you I was broken. Finally my outsides matched my insides.
Shit, I think Dr. Vernon’s been talking this whole time. I start nodding like I’ve been paying attention.
“One last thing. In the coming days you will likely feel some . . . discomfort in your knee. For a tough guy like you, it shouldn’t be a problem. But don’t go overextending yourself. I need you taking it easy for a while. Be sure to get lots of bed rest.”
You read my mind, Doc.
“
To make life easier on you, I’m writing you a script for painkillers. Two-week supply. Once we’ve cleared that hurdle, we’ll start weaning you onto a standard anti-inflammatory. Sound good?”
“You had me at ‘Oxy,’ Doc.”
Dr. Vernon stuffs his pen in the front pocket of his lab coat. “Actually, we aren’t prescribing oxycodone anymore.”
“What then? Percocet? Morphine? Horse tranqs?”
Vernon kicks his stool to the cabinet and sifts through the drawers. “It’s called Delatrix.” He hands me the sampler pack. “Just approved by the FDA. Treats pain just as effectively as those other options without causing the same habit-forming afflictions. Incredible stuff—it’s even safe to drive while taking it. So long as you haven’t had anything to drink. But since you’re underage that shouldn’t be an issue.”
Vernon shoots me a look. I pretend not to notice.
“The only downside is a higher likelihood of certain less severe side effects. So there’s a greater chance you’ll experience some nausea, bloating, headaches, vomiting, involuntary metaphysical phantasmal visitations, constipation—”
“Wait, what?” I really need to start paying attention. “Can you repeat that last one?”
“Constipation. Just take a laxative and you’ll be squared away.”
Weird. I could’ve sworn he said . . .
Eh, whatever. Let’s just get this over with.
“Those are side effects? But they sound like so much fun,” I deadpan.
Dr. Vernon chuckles to himself. “I get it, you’re ready to go. But this is important. Just because we haven’t seen the same level of abuse with Delatrix that we have with opiates doesn’t mean it can’t pose a risk if abused. Which is why we recommend you dispose of any excess capsules at the end of treatment. Did you see our drug take-back bin in the lobby?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll have Nurse Molly point it out to you before you leave. Looks like a mailbox. Once you can comfortably go twenty-four hours without taking Delatrix, just swing by and drop any leftovers in there.” He slaps me on the back. “Use your best judgment.”
I compose a convincing smile. Lying to doctors is second nature.
“I always do.”
—
Nurse Molly moseys back in a few minutes later. She coaxes a vein out of hiding, snares it with an IV, and slips something in my drink. Next thing I know, Dr. Vernon’s jostling me awake, his tire fire of a mustache inches from my face. Mom’s there—I think? I don’t know, man, everyone’s just blobs to me. One way or another I make it home. That should be the end of it—the details from that hour the casualties of the powerful sedatives.
Unfortunately, no one thinks to confiscate my phone, so there exists textual evidence of what occurred from the hospital to my house.
To my best friend, Chevy.
CAM
the mustache man took my coloring book
CHEVY
Someone’s having fun. How’re you feeling bud?
I count get to waffle before Mary had a little lamb
Hahahaha sounds about right
I’m fine
Hahahaha sounds about right
Can I ask you a question? ...
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